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Short, rough thing. I'm working in short bursts between essays, so it's probably clumsily done -_-; Let me know if you notice mistakes, yes?
Title: Gestures
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John, Helen, Gregory, the Five. John/Helen
Summary: After finding out about the Source Blood, Gregory invites Helen's friends for a little tete-a-tete. John ... disapproves
Wordcount: 1291
Warnings/Notes: Set in 1886, possibly early 1887. More a character study than anything. Also? I'm not particularly fond of Gregory
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Gestures
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John, Helen, Gregory, the Five. John/Helen
Summary: After finding out about the Source Blood, Gregory invites Helen's friends for a little tete-a-tete. John ... disapproves
Wordcount: 1291
Warnings/Notes: Set in 1886, possibly early 1887. More a character study than anything. Also? I'm not particularly fond of Gregory
Disclaimer: Not mine
Gestures
Helen did not approve of brandy and cigars in the study. Did not approve of the boundaries, the barriers implicit in her father's invitation for her friends to join him, very specifically, for such. John knew that full well, saw the flash of hard challenge in her eyes at the mere suggestion, the invitation to something that she, though never openly denied, was nonetheless not permitted to join. Helen did not approve, he saw that. They all did, save perhaps James, who could be surprisingly blind about that sort of thing. And her father, except that John suspected, strongly suspected, that Gregory Magnus knew exactly what he was doing, and how she would take it, and did it anyway.
He had not taken the news of the Source Blood experiment at all well, Magnus. Not at all. And it twisted something in John, to see the edge of his anger turned against Helen, even if only in little ways, little jabs. Like asking -commanding- her friends, her friends, to join him in an activity where all the weight of tradition decreed women could not partake. Like casually and brusquely cutting her out, where he never had before, not from his work, not from his life. Like reminding her, just once, so subtly, that she was not what they were, and had not the same privileges, however much she chose to forget it sometimes.
Just for that, John would refuse. Just for that, for the flare of anger and hurt in her eyes, for the stiffness with which she made herself accept Gregory's apologies, John would have refused to set foot in the bloody room, refused to speak with the bloody man. He would have refused.
But there was an edge to Gregory's voice as he asked them, so very politely, to join him. A hard edge of command beneath the good humour, beneath the soft look of genuine apology that he sent his daughter. An edge, and a look in his eye as he watched the four of them, that let John know it was not only a small punishment for Helen that Gregory was seeking here. It was not only Helen he was angry at, and not only her he sought to have words with. And John would have refused that, too, refused that interference for what was none of Gregory's business, except ... Except that Gregory was still Helen's father, much as they were currently at odds, and John very much wished to earn ... his tolerance, if not his respect. For all that John did not, particularly, like the man, he did not at any point wish to alienate him either.
But even more than that, more fundamentally. There was challenge in Gregory's eyes, the invitation offered like the first blow in a match, and John could not find it in himself to back down from that. John could not find it in him to back away. And looking at steady, deliberate way Nigel straightened his jacket, at the faint rise of James' chin, at the proud smirk Nikola deliberately fixed upon his face ... he rather thought he was not alone in that.
They were not ashamed of what they'd done. Not any of them. They were not ashamed of having taken Helen Magnus' hand, and followed her into the unknown. And they would not be made ashamed. Not by Gregory Magnus. Not by anyone.
James was the first into the study, following a pace back at Gregory's side. An attempt at diplomacy, John thought, an attempt to have the first, and calmest word, to set an even tone if possible. And also, perhaps, that strange sort of courage he sometimes saw in James, not to fight, but to be the first struck. It clenched something in John's chest, something hard and tight that only eased at the thought that it was also, quite probably, James being first because James believed he had the right to be first. James was, in his own way, quite arrogant, and the knowledge of it eased the vague flinch in John's chest for courage of him.
Nigel and Nikola, by contrast, were not nearly so quick in the door, not nearly so smooth or so casual in their movements. Nikola's head was already high, the colour already brushed across his cheeks, and John could taste the defensive anger of him before anyone ever said a word, could see him bristling just from the vague contempt, the wariness in Gregory's face as he looked at the Serb. Oh yes. Nikola knew full well what was thought of him, in this house. Knew, and braced himself proudly to defy it. Nigel at his side, with the calm, steady readiness of a man who was perfectly willing to tell her Majesty herself to stuff it, should the occasion call for it. Nigel, a hand brushing gently at Nikola's hip, calming, reassuring, and a wry look back at John, watching the watcher, smiling faintly. Nigel, who had no need for Gregory's respect, and no tolerance for his contempt, and no shyness whatsoever about saying so, if pushed.
And John himself. Last in the door, last into Gregory's little enclave, the last to step up for the blow. Unusual, perhaps. Strange, when John was the first into the fray should any other threaten them, any other question them. John was the shield and sword first among them, the one always ready for the fight, and it should have been him, not James, who was the first to step up for Gregory's disapproval towards their ... indiscretions with the Source Blood.
It was not fear that stayed his feet those few minutes longer, nor need for the man's respect, that John would falter before facing him. Not any of that. John let them go ahead, let them have a minute to face Gregory alone, and it was not from fear or prudence or need.
It was so he could have a moment, as they filed out, to walk over to Helen's chair. It was so he could have a minute, letting James cover for him, to smile ruefully down at her, angry and tight-lipped in her chair at her father's heavy-handed displeasure, sitting stiffly and furiously upright, not letting her hurt show, letting her anger and her respect overmaster it. It was so John could stand there, and look at her, and when the door closed behind the other four, kneel suddenly at her side. Reach out a hand to take hers, to uncurl the stiff, white fingers, and bring them gently to his lips. To smile at her, and bow his head, kneeling at her feet, and remind her, first and foremost, that they were hers. That they may leap this once at her father's word, only out of care for her, but that it was her, in the end, that they returned to. That it was her, in the end, for whom they had leapt into the dark, and her for whom they faced her father now. That they were, ever and always, hers, and hers alone.
And more than that, more than they, more than the Blood, more than the Five ... that he was hers. That it was her needs he answered first, her side at which he knelt. That he could step back from the fight, from pride, could let the others bear the blow first, when it was her who needed him. That Gregory, in his stiff displeasure, could damn well bloody wait, while John had something more important, someone more important, to see to.
And that someone, always, always, was her. Helen Magnus. His Helen.
And for her faint smile, for the softening of her lips away from pain and into joy, he counted the gesture well worth his time to make.
Helen did not approve of brandy and cigars in the study. Did not approve of the boundaries, the barriers implicit in her father's invitation for her friends to join him, very specifically, for such. John knew that full well, saw the flash of hard challenge in her eyes at the mere suggestion, the invitation to something that she, though never openly denied, was nonetheless not permitted to join. Helen did not approve, he saw that. They all did, save perhaps James, who could be surprisingly blind about that sort of thing. And her father, except that John suspected, strongly suspected, that Gregory Magnus knew exactly what he was doing, and how she would take it, and did it anyway.
He had not taken the news of the Source Blood experiment at all well, Magnus. Not at all. And it twisted something in John, to see the edge of his anger turned against Helen, even if only in little ways, little jabs. Like asking -commanding- her friends, her friends, to join him in an activity where all the weight of tradition decreed women could not partake. Like casually and brusquely cutting her out, where he never had before, not from his work, not from his life. Like reminding her, just once, so subtly, that she was not what they were, and had not the same privileges, however much she chose to forget it sometimes.
Just for that, John would refuse. Just for that, for the flare of anger and hurt in her eyes, for the stiffness with which she made herself accept Gregory's apologies, John would have refused to set foot in the bloody room, refused to speak with the bloody man. He would have refused.
But there was an edge to Gregory's voice as he asked them, so very politely, to join him. A hard edge of command beneath the good humour, beneath the soft look of genuine apology that he sent his daughter. An edge, and a look in his eye as he watched the four of them, that let John know it was not only a small punishment for Helen that Gregory was seeking here. It was not only Helen he was angry at, and not only her he sought to have words with. And John would have refused that, too, refused that interference for what was none of Gregory's business, except ... Except that Gregory was still Helen's father, much as they were currently at odds, and John very much wished to earn ... his tolerance, if not his respect. For all that John did not, particularly, like the man, he did not at any point wish to alienate him either.
But even more than that, more fundamentally. There was challenge in Gregory's eyes, the invitation offered like the first blow in a match, and John could not find it in himself to back down from that. John could not find it in him to back away. And looking at steady, deliberate way Nigel straightened his jacket, at the faint rise of James' chin, at the proud smirk Nikola deliberately fixed upon his face ... he rather thought he was not alone in that.
They were not ashamed of what they'd done. Not any of them. They were not ashamed of having taken Helen Magnus' hand, and followed her into the unknown. And they would not be made ashamed. Not by Gregory Magnus. Not by anyone.
James was the first into the study, following a pace back at Gregory's side. An attempt at diplomacy, John thought, an attempt to have the first, and calmest word, to set an even tone if possible. And also, perhaps, that strange sort of courage he sometimes saw in James, not to fight, but to be the first struck. It clenched something in John's chest, something hard and tight that only eased at the thought that it was also, quite probably, James being first because James believed he had the right to be first. James was, in his own way, quite arrogant, and the knowledge of it eased the vague flinch in John's chest for courage of him.
Nigel and Nikola, by contrast, were not nearly so quick in the door, not nearly so smooth or so casual in their movements. Nikola's head was already high, the colour already brushed across his cheeks, and John could taste the defensive anger of him before anyone ever said a word, could see him bristling just from the vague contempt, the wariness in Gregory's face as he looked at the Serb. Oh yes. Nikola knew full well what was thought of him, in this house. Knew, and braced himself proudly to defy it. Nigel at his side, with the calm, steady readiness of a man who was perfectly willing to tell her Majesty herself to stuff it, should the occasion call for it. Nigel, a hand brushing gently at Nikola's hip, calming, reassuring, and a wry look back at John, watching the watcher, smiling faintly. Nigel, who had no need for Gregory's respect, and no tolerance for his contempt, and no shyness whatsoever about saying so, if pushed.
And John himself. Last in the door, last into Gregory's little enclave, the last to step up for the blow. Unusual, perhaps. Strange, when John was the first into the fray should any other threaten them, any other question them. John was the shield and sword first among them, the one always ready for the fight, and it should have been him, not James, who was the first to step up for Gregory's disapproval towards their ... indiscretions with the Source Blood.
It was not fear that stayed his feet those few minutes longer, nor need for the man's respect, that John would falter before facing him. Not any of that. John let them go ahead, let them have a minute to face Gregory alone, and it was not from fear or prudence or need.
It was so he could have a moment, as they filed out, to walk over to Helen's chair. It was so he could have a minute, letting James cover for him, to smile ruefully down at her, angry and tight-lipped in her chair at her father's heavy-handed displeasure, sitting stiffly and furiously upright, not letting her hurt show, letting her anger and her respect overmaster it. It was so John could stand there, and look at her, and when the door closed behind the other four, kneel suddenly at her side. Reach out a hand to take hers, to uncurl the stiff, white fingers, and bring them gently to his lips. To smile at her, and bow his head, kneeling at her feet, and remind her, first and foremost, that they were hers. That they may leap this once at her father's word, only out of care for her, but that it was her, in the end, that they returned to. That it was her, in the end, for whom they had leapt into the dark, and her for whom they faced her father now. That they were, ever and always, hers, and hers alone.
And more than that, more than they, more than the Blood, more than the Five ... that he was hers. That it was her needs he answered first, her side at which he knelt. That he could step back from the fight, from pride, could let the others bear the blow first, when it was her who needed him. That Gregory, in his stiff displeasure, could damn well bloody wait, while John had something more important, someone more important, to see to.
And that someone, always, always, was her. Helen Magnus. His Helen.
And for her faint smile, for the softening of her lips away from pain and into joy, he counted the gesture well worth his time to make.
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