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Not Nikola, shockingly. Heh. *grins sheepishly* I've no idea where this one comes from. Just ... something fairly screwy that floated up:
Title: Painting Shadows
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nigel/James, past James/Other (it'll be obvious who)
Summary: Set sometime in the 1890s, I think. Nigel gives James something no-one else can
Wordcount: 911
Notes/Warnings: Screwy. Also, complicated, in that way the Five always are -_-;
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Painting Shadows
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nigel/James, past James/Other (it'll be obvious who)
Summary: Set sometime in the 1890s, I think. Nigel gives James something no-one else can
Wordcount: 911
Notes/Warnings: Screwy. Also, complicated, in that way the Five always are -_-;
Disclaimer: Not mine
Painting Shadows
It's never really about the sex. Nigel knows that. Damned if he knows for sure what it is about, mind, beyond ... beyond notions, beyond what he suspects, has suspected for long years, beyond what he knows, but can't quite catch the nuances of. But whatever else, it's not about the sex.
By rights, then, he ought to put a stop to it. By rights, he ought to politely (or not so politely) tell James to bugger off. Literally, as the case may be. Nigel doesn't hold with that sort of thing, not really, not for any length of time, not unless ... not unless it's not about the sex. Hah. And that's the bloody rub, ain't it? That the only time he might do it, is when it's not the doing it's about. Still, he ought to stop James, nonetheless. Tell him he's not interested, tell him he doesn't appreciate being used that way, tell him he doesn't bloody swing that way, for a bloody start. Ought to. He ought to.
He doesn't. Won't. Probably not ever. Because ... Because it's not about the sex. Because it's James, and there are things they can ask, they Five, favours they can give, favours they do give, that no-one else has a right to ask for. Because he knows, he knows, the hows and the whys, and the brittle space in James' heart that tries not to ask this thing, and can't quite help itself. Because one day, one day, James will heal, heal enough that Nigel can say no without shattering him, but not yet. Not yet. Because this is something only he can give.
It shouldn't work. It bloody doesn't work, not the way James wants it to work, and it never will. They both know that. James is too bloody perceptive, has too many keys, caught up in that ever-spinning mind of his, to ever make the mistake he so desperately wants to make, to ever deny the facts his senses throw at him in favour of what he so desperately wants to believe. Nigel can do better than anyone else can, can steal away so many of those clues James doesn't want to notice, but even still. Even still, it can never fully work. Even still, he can never fully be what James wants him to be, and they both know it.
But he can come close. Closer than any of them. He can let James pretend in a way no-one else can. Because Nigel ... Nigel can be no-one. Nigel can be not there, and there at the same time. Nigel can be ... anonymous. He can be empty, a patch of warmth and weight and empty air, and let James paint the features he desires over the void. He can stand, in the shadows and the light, and let James peel him gently free of his clothes, let James lay him back, let James do anything he pleases, and there won't ever be a foreign face to catch the light at the wrong moment, and shock the poor, sorry bastard out of the lie he's clinging to. There won't be eyes watching him that don't understand, there won't be the heavy lines of a face that doesn't match the one behind James' eyes to trip him up. Just the air, and the warmth, and the weight, and the false dream that James only barely lets himself have.
Nigel ought to say no. He knows, he knows. This is a lie they're spinning, and Nigel's not averse to lies, in the right context, but ... But he's never really liked lying to yourself. He's never liked fooling yourself, or helping someone else fool themselves, and this ...
Except James isn't fooled. James isn't ever fooled. There's always that part of him, the sharp, dizzy spin of his mind, that never, ever lets him forget the truth of things. James knows, always knows, can't not know, what he's doing, who he's with. James must always know it's Nigel he's touching, Nigel he's holding, Nigel whose invisible hands skate lightly over his back in return. James knows. He knows. The lies he tells himself, the little fantasies he lets himself have ... they're just that. And he knows it. And when they're done, there's always this little smile in his eyes, this little shadow, how he knows it.
James doesn't ask for much. Bloody bastard never asks for much of anything, never has, never will. Too proud, too stubborn, too fierce in his own way. James never asks. Never lets himself ask. And it's only here or there. Only once in a while. And Nigel doesn't go for that sort of thing, Nigel doesn't believe in that sort of thing, doesn't think it right, but ... But it's James. But it's them. And it's not about the sex. And Nigel's the only one who can give this, for now, and ...
And he's not saying no. Not just yet. Not just now. Because it's not what they're doing that counts. It's the hows and the whys, and the fact that there's no-one else, and because it's them. They Five, and all that that means. All the little things they can ask that no-one else can, the little things they can give, the little things they can do.
James doesn't let himself ask often. And every time, just one more time, Nigel says yes.
Because he's a bloody fool, and a friend, and it's not about the sex.
It's never really about the sex. Nigel knows that. Damned if he knows for sure what it is about, mind, beyond ... beyond notions, beyond what he suspects, has suspected for long years, beyond what he knows, but can't quite catch the nuances of. But whatever else, it's not about the sex.
By rights, then, he ought to put a stop to it. By rights, he ought to politely (or not so politely) tell James to bugger off. Literally, as the case may be. Nigel doesn't hold with that sort of thing, not really, not for any length of time, not unless ... not unless it's not about the sex. Hah. And that's the bloody rub, ain't it? That the only time he might do it, is when it's not the doing it's about. Still, he ought to stop James, nonetheless. Tell him he's not interested, tell him he doesn't appreciate being used that way, tell him he doesn't bloody swing that way, for a bloody start. Ought to. He ought to.
He doesn't. Won't. Probably not ever. Because ... Because it's not about the sex. Because it's James, and there are things they can ask, they Five, favours they can give, favours they do give, that no-one else has a right to ask for. Because he knows, he knows, the hows and the whys, and the brittle space in James' heart that tries not to ask this thing, and can't quite help itself. Because one day, one day, James will heal, heal enough that Nigel can say no without shattering him, but not yet. Not yet. Because this is something only he can give.
It shouldn't work. It bloody doesn't work, not the way James wants it to work, and it never will. They both know that. James is too bloody perceptive, has too many keys, caught up in that ever-spinning mind of his, to ever make the mistake he so desperately wants to make, to ever deny the facts his senses throw at him in favour of what he so desperately wants to believe. Nigel can do better than anyone else can, can steal away so many of those clues James doesn't want to notice, but even still. Even still, it can never fully work. Even still, he can never fully be what James wants him to be, and they both know it.
But he can come close. Closer than any of them. He can let James pretend in a way no-one else can. Because Nigel ... Nigel can be no-one. Nigel can be not there, and there at the same time. Nigel can be ... anonymous. He can be empty, a patch of warmth and weight and empty air, and let James paint the features he desires over the void. He can stand, in the shadows and the light, and let James peel him gently free of his clothes, let James lay him back, let James do anything he pleases, and there won't ever be a foreign face to catch the light at the wrong moment, and shock the poor, sorry bastard out of the lie he's clinging to. There won't be eyes watching him that don't understand, there won't be the heavy lines of a face that doesn't match the one behind James' eyes to trip him up. Just the air, and the warmth, and the weight, and the false dream that James only barely lets himself have.
Nigel ought to say no. He knows, he knows. This is a lie they're spinning, and Nigel's not averse to lies, in the right context, but ... But he's never really liked lying to yourself. He's never liked fooling yourself, or helping someone else fool themselves, and this ...
Except James isn't fooled. James isn't ever fooled. There's always that part of him, the sharp, dizzy spin of his mind, that never, ever lets him forget the truth of things. James knows, always knows, can't not know, what he's doing, who he's with. James must always know it's Nigel he's touching, Nigel he's holding, Nigel whose invisible hands skate lightly over his back in return. James knows. He knows. The lies he tells himself, the little fantasies he lets himself have ... they're just that. And he knows it. And when they're done, there's always this little smile in his eyes, this little shadow, how he knows it.
James doesn't ask for much. Bloody bastard never asks for much of anything, never has, never will. Too proud, too stubborn, too fierce in his own way. James never asks. Never lets himself ask. And it's only here or there. Only once in a while. And Nigel doesn't go for that sort of thing, Nigel doesn't believe in that sort of thing, doesn't think it right, but ... But it's James. But it's them. And it's not about the sex. And Nigel's the only one who can give this, for now, and ...
And he's not saying no. Not just yet. Not just now. Because it's not what they're doing that counts. It's the hows and the whys, and the fact that there's no-one else, and because it's them. They Five, and all that that means. All the little things they can ask that no-one else can, the little things they can give, the little things they can do.
James doesn't let himself ask often. And every time, just one more time, Nigel says yes.
Because he's a bloody fool, and a friend, and it's not about the sex.
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