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Strange, strange thing. Based off ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
grav_ity's idea that Nikola came back from Jasenovac for the events of Normandy, and as such takes much inspiration from her fic Three Reasons Nikola Didn't Come Back To England (And One Reason He Did). I probably must ask her to forgive me.
grav_ity, forgive me? *smiles faintly*
Title: Surcease
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nikola, John, touch of Nikola/John
Summary: Set after the events of Normandy. A strange solace
Wordcount: 1708
Warnings/Notes: SPOILERS 3x17 Normandy. Warnings for ... John, and Nikola, and monsters
Disclaimer: Not mine
grav_ity's idea that Nikola came back from Jasenovac for the events of Normandy, and as such takes much inspiration from her fic Three Reasons Nikola Didn't Come Back To England (And One Reason He Did). I probably must ask her to forgive me.grav_ity, forgive me? *smiles faintly*Title: Surcease
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: Nikola, John, touch of Nikola/John
Summary: Set after the events of Normandy. A strange solace
Wordcount: 1708
Warnings/Notes: SPOILERS 3x17 Normandy. Warnings for ... John, and Nikola, and monsters
Disclaimer: Not mine
Surcease
There are eyes on him. Eye after eye after eye, ripe with paranoia, the legacy of a war so nearly lost, all hinged on his, his failure. His trust, and failure to see a betrayal until almost too late. His liking of one man, and all that had nearly tumbled down as a result. There are eyes on him, now, wherever he goes, but all he needs is a moment, all he needs is one space, a blind spot opened for a half second. There are eyes, and there are eyes, and all he needs is one second alone, for the watcher to take him. Just one.
He finds it in the shadow of a doorway, the rain a cloak, the shadow a shield, out of sight for just long enough, the space just wide enough. A whumpf of misplaced air beside him, behind him. Familiar hands seizing his shoulders.
"Take me," he snarls, and there is nothing human in his voice. "Take me," he growls, and it's both command and plea and hard, bitter offering.
The rain disappears, stolen in a flash of light, and where they land it's dry. Drier, driest, a desert for them both, sand and wind and sun that does not forgive. Away from Europe. Away from the rain and all it means, all the history behind it. Empty land, a drowning-bowl of dust, that will drink dry all the blood that falls.
And blood will fall. Here for the blood, the both of them. Here for the longing for it.
He drops to his knees, the transformation clawing to the surface of him as he falls, the claws already on his hands as he turns in a low sweep, a vicious strike from below. The dark figure ranged above him falls back with a harsh laugh, stumbling. Exhausted, greyed. He sees that in a moment, as he rolls to the side and onto his feet. He sees the lines of pain sketched white across the man's face by this sun that hides nothing, sees the age graven not by time but by pain. He sees it, and offers it the only solace he can. He strikes.
They dance together, him and his enemy, him and his friend. Beneath the desert sun, so far from everything they love, in the dust that drinks them down. They dance, the white gleam of a knife-blade against the glittering black of claws, the swirl of a black coat and the flash of light against the pale flash of a white shirt, worn to fraying by nervous hands. By desperate hands. They dance.
Put your teeth away, someone had said to him, not so long ago. Put your teeth away. As if he can. As if it's so simple. As if the monster had not flashed into his eyes from sheer impatience, from panic, from loss. As if he had not torn apart a room in futile fury. As if he had not laid black claws against a slender, treacherous throat, and yearned. As if the monster is so easily banished, as if the blood is so easily willed away.
Not here. Never here. Not with this graven man, whose knives flash in the place of claws, who fell, and fell, and never stops, and only the blood to mark his passage. The blood is always there, with this man. The blood always between them. The blood, always, to keep them safe, and grant them some strange surcease.
He is failing, now. Of course he is. He is a monster, calls it as he wills, but his enemy, his companion, is so much more. The monster against him runs so much deeper, than some frail and vengeful scientist gifted claws. There is grace in the monster that moves against him. There is clean, precise savagery, and a gift that means no blow ever falls, save that the enemy lets it. A flash, there and gone, and no claw scores a wound, save by merest chance. He loses, he is losing, he must always lose.
But there, there, lies the beauty of what they do. There, lies the tenderness, the solace. Therein lies the rub.
He falls. On his back, clawed hands pinned, though his strength means only just, bared teeth in a snarl, and a knife, a knife in his shoulder. His blood in the sand, lying pinned beneath the tall, exhausted form. Drinking into the dust, and this man, this friend, this beloved enemy, smiling down at him with eyes that have seen so much pain.
"You can't beat me," John reminds him, almost gently, voice rasped and soft.
"You can't kill me," Nikola answers, as softly, in a voice more human than before, in a voice almost returned to what it was.
Put away your teeth, they tell him. But he can't. He can't. And they mustn't know, they must never know, but he did not come back from this war the same. He did not come back from his war human. What he saw, what he did, what secrets lie in Serbian and German forests waiting for the war to end to show the bones, they must never know. And how close, how close, he came to never coming back. They cannot know. They must not know.
So close, with this betrayal, with the knowledge that his trust had almost cost Helen, James, Nigel their lives. The knowledge that this worm had almost cost this war. Had almost laid open the world to what horrors had passed in those distant forests. He had laid his claws along a treacherous throat, looked into the eyes of a man he had liked. And almost, almost, he had not put his teeth away.
"You know," John murmurs quietly. Curling down across him, lying bloodied over Nikola's chest, watching blood fade into the dust. "They told you."
"Yes," Nikola says softly. Lifting a arm, a vampire's strength prying it carefully from his enemy's grasp, and wraps it gently about the man's waist. Lets his hand lie in the wound in John's side. A bullet, Helen tells him. Neither knife nor claw. A bullet, from an evil that neither of them has managed to touch, and remain unscathed. "And you. You've heard."
"Oh yes," John agrees, a whisper of breath into Nikola's ear, letting himself be held. Letting himself fall limp and exhausted across a man who, but for gifts given years ago, would have died beneath his knife. "The monster in the forests was much spoken of. You struck true fear into many hearts. Even those who thought to know better."
He's silent, for a moment. Silent, holding John, feeling the blood seep beneath his hand, stitches torn open, and from his shoulder, vampire flesh parted before a blade. Silent, wondering if he dares say it, wondering if he dares explain. John is, even still, an enemy. John is, even still, a friend.
And who else, in all the world, will understand this? Who else, but the man who offers him blood, when he cannot put his teeth away, the man he cannot beat? Who else, but the man who takes his blood in turn, from a man he cannot kill?
"I don't know that I can come back," Nikola whispers, into the waiting desert, into the sun that hides nothing. Into the Ripper's ear, who knows, and knew, as no-one else. "I don't know if I can come back from this." Put away your teeth, they say, but what if he cannot. What if the darkness beneath the trees in distant forests has seeped inside him, as once so long ago the darkness of London streets seeped inside his friend. What if evil, once touched, will truly never let him go.
John lifts his head. Looks down at him with a face made grey by pain, white lines spread from exhausted eyes, and there is madness there, there is madness waiting, but, too, there is ... compassion. Some wry, hollow thing, born in blood, that knows so well his fears, that passed them by so long ago, and fell beneath their hand.
"Come to me, then," John says, his hand reaching out to stroke the blade still buried in Nikola's shoulder. "Come to me, if you can't go back."
"You can't kill me," Nikola reminds him, a bare whisper. "You won't be able to." And I did not come for you, he doesn't say. His claws had never found a heart broken under blood.
"And you can't beat me," John agrees, so very gently, the answer, to what is said and what is not. "But we can try. When the time comes. We can try." A strange, fey smile, a flicker of some mad, cruel thing, and he pulls free the knife, a flash in the sun, red with blood. "And even if we fail ..."
"Yes," Nikola says. Yes. Even if they fail. There is always this stained solace, always this strange surcease. This place where the blood runs free, and they are neither of them human, and they are neither of them every fully lost.
John smiles at him, tired, this graven man, and leans down. Presses his lips to Nikola's, mouths laughingly at teeth that are not put away, smiles the mad, dazzled smile of a monster against a vampire's mouth. Drinks of him, just a little bit, a red-stained flash of kinship, and gnaws at the savage, desperate snarl that bubbles free. Laughs, with a black hitch of breath as clawed hands find a half-healed wound, lets his head fall to the side as those hands caress instead of tear, pressure and pain and soft, soft exultation.
"Time to go," John whispers, sliding free to lie in the sand beside him, watching Nikola with tired, easy eyes. "Time to go back, and pretend, no?"
Nikola sighs, and closes his eyes, letting his hand find the other man's, letting himself hold, a little longer, to a fragile, red-stained freedom. And then, he nods, sand in his hair, and puts his teeth away. Lets the monster slide back into the shadows, the distant forests, lets go his hold on a traitor's throat, and remembers who he is. Remembers he is human, as much as he can.
And when he opens eyes that are no longer black, and looks at John, the smile has grown strained between them, and red-stained solace slips away.
There are eyes on him. Eye after eye after eye, ripe with paranoia, the legacy of a war so nearly lost, all hinged on his, his failure. His trust, and failure to see a betrayal until almost too late. His liking of one man, and all that had nearly tumbled down as a result. There are eyes on him, now, wherever he goes, but all he needs is a moment, all he needs is one space, a blind spot opened for a half second. There are eyes, and there are eyes, and all he needs is one second alone, for the watcher to take him. Just one.
He finds it in the shadow of a doorway, the rain a cloak, the shadow a shield, out of sight for just long enough, the space just wide enough. A whumpf of misplaced air beside him, behind him. Familiar hands seizing his shoulders.
"Take me," he snarls, and there is nothing human in his voice. "Take me," he growls, and it's both command and plea and hard, bitter offering.
The rain disappears, stolen in a flash of light, and where they land it's dry. Drier, driest, a desert for them both, sand and wind and sun that does not forgive. Away from Europe. Away from the rain and all it means, all the history behind it. Empty land, a drowning-bowl of dust, that will drink dry all the blood that falls.
And blood will fall. Here for the blood, the both of them. Here for the longing for it.
He drops to his knees, the transformation clawing to the surface of him as he falls, the claws already on his hands as he turns in a low sweep, a vicious strike from below. The dark figure ranged above him falls back with a harsh laugh, stumbling. Exhausted, greyed. He sees that in a moment, as he rolls to the side and onto his feet. He sees the lines of pain sketched white across the man's face by this sun that hides nothing, sees the age graven not by time but by pain. He sees it, and offers it the only solace he can. He strikes.
They dance together, him and his enemy, him and his friend. Beneath the desert sun, so far from everything they love, in the dust that drinks them down. They dance, the white gleam of a knife-blade against the glittering black of claws, the swirl of a black coat and the flash of light against the pale flash of a white shirt, worn to fraying by nervous hands. By desperate hands. They dance.
Put your teeth away, someone had said to him, not so long ago. Put your teeth away. As if he can. As if it's so simple. As if the monster had not flashed into his eyes from sheer impatience, from panic, from loss. As if he had not torn apart a room in futile fury. As if he had not laid black claws against a slender, treacherous throat, and yearned. As if the monster is so easily banished, as if the blood is so easily willed away.
Not here. Never here. Not with this graven man, whose knives flash in the place of claws, who fell, and fell, and never stops, and only the blood to mark his passage. The blood is always there, with this man. The blood always between them. The blood, always, to keep them safe, and grant them some strange surcease.
He is failing, now. Of course he is. He is a monster, calls it as he wills, but his enemy, his companion, is so much more. The monster against him runs so much deeper, than some frail and vengeful scientist gifted claws. There is grace in the monster that moves against him. There is clean, precise savagery, and a gift that means no blow ever falls, save that the enemy lets it. A flash, there and gone, and no claw scores a wound, save by merest chance. He loses, he is losing, he must always lose.
But there, there, lies the beauty of what they do. There, lies the tenderness, the solace. Therein lies the rub.
He falls. On his back, clawed hands pinned, though his strength means only just, bared teeth in a snarl, and a knife, a knife in his shoulder. His blood in the sand, lying pinned beneath the tall, exhausted form. Drinking into the dust, and this man, this friend, this beloved enemy, smiling down at him with eyes that have seen so much pain.
"You can't beat me," John reminds him, almost gently, voice rasped and soft.
"You can't kill me," Nikola answers, as softly, in a voice more human than before, in a voice almost returned to what it was.
Put away your teeth, they tell him. But he can't. He can't. And they mustn't know, they must never know, but he did not come back from this war the same. He did not come back from his war human. What he saw, what he did, what secrets lie in Serbian and German forests waiting for the war to end to show the bones, they must never know. And how close, how close, he came to never coming back. They cannot know. They must not know.
So close, with this betrayal, with the knowledge that his trust had almost cost Helen, James, Nigel their lives. The knowledge that this worm had almost cost this war. Had almost laid open the world to what horrors had passed in those distant forests. He had laid his claws along a treacherous throat, looked into the eyes of a man he had liked. And almost, almost, he had not put his teeth away.
"You know," John murmurs quietly. Curling down across him, lying bloodied over Nikola's chest, watching blood fade into the dust. "They told you."
"Yes," Nikola says softly. Lifting a arm, a vampire's strength prying it carefully from his enemy's grasp, and wraps it gently about the man's waist. Lets his hand lie in the wound in John's side. A bullet, Helen tells him. Neither knife nor claw. A bullet, from an evil that neither of them has managed to touch, and remain unscathed. "And you. You've heard."
"Oh yes," John agrees, a whisper of breath into Nikola's ear, letting himself be held. Letting himself fall limp and exhausted across a man who, but for gifts given years ago, would have died beneath his knife. "The monster in the forests was much spoken of. You struck true fear into many hearts. Even those who thought to know better."
He's silent, for a moment. Silent, holding John, feeling the blood seep beneath his hand, stitches torn open, and from his shoulder, vampire flesh parted before a blade. Silent, wondering if he dares say it, wondering if he dares explain. John is, even still, an enemy. John is, even still, a friend.
And who else, in all the world, will understand this? Who else, but the man who offers him blood, when he cannot put his teeth away, the man he cannot beat? Who else, but the man who takes his blood in turn, from a man he cannot kill?
"I don't know that I can come back," Nikola whispers, into the waiting desert, into the sun that hides nothing. Into the Ripper's ear, who knows, and knew, as no-one else. "I don't know if I can come back from this." Put away your teeth, they say, but what if he cannot. What if the darkness beneath the trees in distant forests has seeped inside him, as once so long ago the darkness of London streets seeped inside his friend. What if evil, once touched, will truly never let him go.
John lifts his head. Looks down at him with a face made grey by pain, white lines spread from exhausted eyes, and there is madness there, there is madness waiting, but, too, there is ... compassion. Some wry, hollow thing, born in blood, that knows so well his fears, that passed them by so long ago, and fell beneath their hand.
"Come to me, then," John says, his hand reaching out to stroke the blade still buried in Nikola's shoulder. "Come to me, if you can't go back."
"You can't kill me," Nikola reminds him, a bare whisper. "You won't be able to." And I did not come for you, he doesn't say. His claws had never found a heart broken under blood.
"And you can't beat me," John agrees, so very gently, the answer, to what is said and what is not. "But we can try. When the time comes. We can try." A strange, fey smile, a flicker of some mad, cruel thing, and he pulls free the knife, a flash in the sun, red with blood. "And even if we fail ..."
"Yes," Nikola says. Yes. Even if they fail. There is always this stained solace, always this strange surcease. This place where the blood runs free, and they are neither of them human, and they are neither of them every fully lost.
John smiles at him, tired, this graven man, and leans down. Presses his lips to Nikola's, mouths laughingly at teeth that are not put away, smiles the mad, dazzled smile of a monster against a vampire's mouth. Drinks of him, just a little bit, a red-stained flash of kinship, and gnaws at the savage, desperate snarl that bubbles free. Laughs, with a black hitch of breath as clawed hands find a half-healed wound, lets his head fall to the side as those hands caress instead of tear, pressure and pain and soft, soft exultation.
"Time to go," John whispers, sliding free to lie in the sand beside him, watching Nikola with tired, easy eyes. "Time to go back, and pretend, no?"
Nikola sighs, and closes his eyes, letting his hand find the other man's, letting himself hold, a little longer, to a fragile, red-stained freedom. And then, he nods, sand in his hair, and puts his teeth away. Lets the monster slide back into the shadows, the distant forests, lets go his hold on a traitor's throat, and remembers who he is. Remembers he is human, as much as he can.
And when he opens eyes that are no longer black, and looks at John, the smile has grown strained between them, and red-stained solace slips away.
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