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Yes, another one, and not a very good one at that. *grins sheepishly* But regardless ...
Title: Blind, Leaping
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Helen, Nikola, mention of Afina and the Five. Helen/Nikola ish?
Summary: Afina had no right to him. Helen Magnus can be selfish too
Wordcount: 1008
Warnings/Notes: Tag for 3x16, Awakenings
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Blind, Leaping
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Helen, Nikola, mention of Afina and the Five. Helen/Nikola ish?
Summary: Afina had no right to him. Helen Magnus can be selfish too
Wordcount: 1008
Warnings/Notes: Tag for 3x16, Awakenings
Disclaimer: Not mine
Blind, Leaping
She watches Nikola, struck through by a sense of deja vu, watches him as he lies on a sofa and stares in delighted fascination at the flexing of new claws. A different sofa, a different room, a different country, a different century. Perhaps, in some ways, a different him, a different her. But for a moment, for one stretched, fascinated moment, he is the same. Nikola Tesla, new vampire, utterly enchanted.
Helen watches him, her chair oblique to him, hidden in his blindspot. He knows she's there. Maybe, hopefully, takes some reassurance from it. Although he, of all of them, never needed reassurance. He can't see her. Only sense she's there.
She's glad, of that. Glad he can't see. Because she knows the expression he'd see in her eyes if he could, if he turned. She knows what she'd see if she looked in the mirror. Possessiveness, rich and virulent. Desire. A long, slow well of anger. She's always had it. Always worn it, always felt it, when she looked at them.
Nigel had rejected it, once and for always, a long time ago. James had courted it, with a vaguely bitter self-amusement. John, after the breaking, she had been careful never to show it. And Nikola ... Nikola had never seen it. Had never dared hope for it, and had cheerfully and with every daring blinded himself to it.
She's not sure why she's glad he can't see it now. Not sure why she's so relieved she doesn't have to explain.
She has made him. All over again, this curious creature sketching shapes in the air with black claws, deadly and delighted, entranced with what he has become. She made him the first time, and she made him again, to keep him alive, to keep him safe, to hold his hand as they leapt off the cliff. She's made him. She has made him.
I'm sorry your glorious legacy didn't turn out to be all you were hoping for.
And she is. She truly is. It's what's set the burn of anger in her gut, what's pulled the threads of her possession to the surface. No time for it then, only time to act, as always, to fight and run and plot together, and smile at him as he finds a way to match her, with that confident toss of his head, that smarmy little grin. No time for anything save the moment, then, but she remembers now. She feels the anger, now.
Afina had no right to refuse him. No right to lure him, and certainly, certainly, no right to refuse him. Not to call him what she did, not to use him like she did, not to betray him like she did. Nikola is no schoolboy. No warrior either. Nikola is something else altogether, always was, always will be. Nikola is something special, in the way all her men were special. Nikola took her hand in his, and ran right off the cliff with her, laughing in delight at everything he became in the process. Nikola took being a vampire, and made it his. And yes, so many times, she's wished he'd made something different, wished he'd taken something else, but she knows he has always, always been proud of what he is, in that desperate way of his that flies in the face of every cruelty.
Read to me. He'd said. Dying. Dying, and turning away even from her, and asking for them. For the past he'd dreamed of, the future he'd hoped for. For his people. With literally his dying breath, he'd asked for his people.
And Afina had refused him. She had belittled him. She had cast him aside. And in the end, selfishly, Helen's glad for it, because it meant she got to keep him, because it meant he stood by her side, and fought for her cause, and lay beneath Afina's claws in her name, but still. But still.
Helen had chosen him. All those years ago. She had chosen him again, as he lay dying. She's chosen him, again and again, because Nikola is not a mongrel. He is not a schoolboy. He is nothing worthy of contempt. She chose him, of all the world, to stand among the Five, to stand with her. Nikola Tesla. Arrogant, insufferable, charming, delighted, mad, and a true genius. Her Nikola. And now, when the danger has faded and there's only the two of them, only him, laughing softly to himself as he remembers what he is, and her, watching him play in the lamplight ... Now she feels the anger. Now she feels the vindictiveness. Now she feels the possession.
Afina had no right, not to him. Never to him. Nikola is hers, has been, always will be. Laughing as he puts his hand in hers, and together they run before the blast. Afina had no right to him. But she'd no right to hurt him, either. No right to betray him. And never, never, the right to belittle him.
For a moment, Helen thinks the explosion was too good for her. For a moment, she wishes she could at least have seen Afina's face as she realised what was happening. For a moment.
Then she stands, pulls herself up out of her chair and into his line of sight. Watching him turn his head, watching those black, curious eyes turn her way. Helen feels a grin slip out, feels the smile, watches him warily echo it as she walks forward, watching the daring delight as she looms over him on the sofa. As she reaches down, and threads her fingers through his hair, and feels him curve into her hand.
Hers. Always, ever hers. Helen Magnus can be selfish too.
"Hi," she whispers, with a little grin, catching that clawed hand in hers, holding tight. Ready to jump off the cliff together. He blinks up at her, bewildered, daring, never seeing, always too blind to see. Ready to leap anyway. Nikola curls his claws carefully around her hand, and grins, just softly, back.
"Hi," he answers, and laughs with her as they run to the edge.
She watches Nikola, struck through by a sense of deja vu, watches him as he lies on a sofa and stares in delighted fascination at the flexing of new claws. A different sofa, a different room, a different country, a different century. Perhaps, in some ways, a different him, a different her. But for a moment, for one stretched, fascinated moment, he is the same. Nikola Tesla, new vampire, utterly enchanted.
Helen watches him, her chair oblique to him, hidden in his blindspot. He knows she's there. Maybe, hopefully, takes some reassurance from it. Although he, of all of them, never needed reassurance. He can't see her. Only sense she's there.
She's glad, of that. Glad he can't see. Because she knows the expression he'd see in her eyes if he could, if he turned. She knows what she'd see if she looked in the mirror. Possessiveness, rich and virulent. Desire. A long, slow well of anger. She's always had it. Always worn it, always felt it, when she looked at them.
Nigel had rejected it, once and for always, a long time ago. James had courted it, with a vaguely bitter self-amusement. John, after the breaking, she had been careful never to show it. And Nikola ... Nikola had never seen it. Had never dared hope for it, and had cheerfully and with every daring blinded himself to it.
She's not sure why she's glad he can't see it now. Not sure why she's so relieved she doesn't have to explain.
She has made him. All over again, this curious creature sketching shapes in the air with black claws, deadly and delighted, entranced with what he has become. She made him the first time, and she made him again, to keep him alive, to keep him safe, to hold his hand as they leapt off the cliff. She's made him. She has made him.
I'm sorry your glorious legacy didn't turn out to be all you were hoping for.
And she is. She truly is. It's what's set the burn of anger in her gut, what's pulled the threads of her possession to the surface. No time for it then, only time to act, as always, to fight and run and plot together, and smile at him as he finds a way to match her, with that confident toss of his head, that smarmy little grin. No time for anything save the moment, then, but she remembers now. She feels the anger, now.
Afina had no right to refuse him. No right to lure him, and certainly, certainly, no right to refuse him. Not to call him what she did, not to use him like she did, not to betray him like she did. Nikola is no schoolboy. No warrior either. Nikola is something else altogether, always was, always will be. Nikola is something special, in the way all her men were special. Nikola took her hand in his, and ran right off the cliff with her, laughing in delight at everything he became in the process. Nikola took being a vampire, and made it his. And yes, so many times, she's wished he'd made something different, wished he'd taken something else, but she knows he has always, always been proud of what he is, in that desperate way of his that flies in the face of every cruelty.
Read to me. He'd said. Dying. Dying, and turning away even from her, and asking for them. For the past he'd dreamed of, the future he'd hoped for. For his people. With literally his dying breath, he'd asked for his people.
And Afina had refused him. She had belittled him. She had cast him aside. And in the end, selfishly, Helen's glad for it, because it meant she got to keep him, because it meant he stood by her side, and fought for her cause, and lay beneath Afina's claws in her name, but still. But still.
Helen had chosen him. All those years ago. She had chosen him again, as he lay dying. She's chosen him, again and again, because Nikola is not a mongrel. He is not a schoolboy. He is nothing worthy of contempt. She chose him, of all the world, to stand among the Five, to stand with her. Nikola Tesla. Arrogant, insufferable, charming, delighted, mad, and a true genius. Her Nikola. And now, when the danger has faded and there's only the two of them, only him, laughing softly to himself as he remembers what he is, and her, watching him play in the lamplight ... Now she feels the anger. Now she feels the vindictiveness. Now she feels the possession.
Afina had no right, not to him. Never to him. Nikola is hers, has been, always will be. Laughing as he puts his hand in hers, and together they run before the blast. Afina had no right to him. But she'd no right to hurt him, either. No right to betray him. And never, never, the right to belittle him.
For a moment, Helen thinks the explosion was too good for her. For a moment, she wishes she could at least have seen Afina's face as she realised what was happening. For a moment.
Then she stands, pulls herself up out of her chair and into his line of sight. Watching him turn his head, watching those black, curious eyes turn her way. Helen feels a grin slip out, feels the smile, watches him warily echo it as she walks forward, watching the daring delight as she looms over him on the sofa. As she reaches down, and threads her fingers through his hair, and feels him curve into her hand.
Hers. Always, ever hers. Helen Magnus can be selfish too.
"Hi," she whispers, with a little grin, catching that clawed hand in hers, holding tight. Ready to jump off the cliff together. He blinks up at her, bewildered, daring, never seeing, always too blind to see. Ready to leap anyway. Nikola curls his claws carefully around her hand, and grins, just softly, back.
"Hi," he answers, and laughs with her as they run to the edge.
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