Title: Dreamt the Dark Angel
Author: NoCleverSig
Summary: As a rule, Helen Magnus didn't drink to excess. But hers was a world founded upon exceptions.
Categorization: Angst, Romance, Hurt/comfort, Helen/John
Season: 2, Spoilers through Eulogy.
Warnings: Definitely for mature audiences given some of the words, deeds, and subject matter.
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sanctuary or its characters and am making no profit from my playtime with them.
Author's Note: Massive angst alert ahead! But hopefully in a sexy, good way. Let me know. ;)
Dreamt the Dark Angel
The bottle of Talisker had been a gift. A token from an old friend from Edinburgh on Helen's departure from the London Sanctuary so many years ago. "Save it for a special occasion, Helen," Ian had whispered to her when he slipped the bottle into her hands after the farewell party that night. Then he'd stolen a quick kiss on her cheek goodbye. She'd done what he'd asked and brought it with her to her new home. Saved it. Waiting for that one, special moment of joy and celebration to arrive that Ian McDonald had so clearly wished for her.
She'd come close to opening it once. Twenty three years ago. The day Ashley was born. Helen smiled in remembrance. Of the many, many days that made up her unnaturally long life, that had been her most joyous.
She had lay in the Sanctuary infirmary, drenched in sweat, legs still shaking from the aftermath. Her dear friend, Dr. Aishwrya Ramaan, had helped with the delivery. But it was Bigfoot and James Watson who'd held her hands, wiped her brow, and encouraged her during the painful process of birth. And now, still sweaty and shaking, aching from the pain and the exhaustion of it all, she held her small miracle in her arms. And she had never, never felt such utter joy.
James smiled down at the two of them then, watching silently as mother and daughter gazed at each other, lost in amazement at one another's existence, and said quietly, "This calls for a celebration." And for a fleeting moment Helen thought of Ian's gift. But Scotch Whisky, no matter how fine the vintage, was neither a fitting way to welcome a new life into the world nor proper drink for a nursing mother. So James returned later that night with roses. Dozens of them. And the room overflowed with the incongruous odor of flowers, sweat, and newborn child. And it was the most beautiful perfume Helen had ever known.
But tonight, twenty-three years later, the only smell in Helen's nostrils was the memory of the electric spark of Nikola's weapon designed to kill the very life she had conceived and the blinding flash of bodies, her daughter's body, as it slammed into an electric field and shattered into a trillion pieces.
Ashley was dead. Helen's furtive efforts to find her, bring her back, wish her back, abandoned. The memorial service concluded. Her friends dispersed, lost in their own hazes of grief. Helen was alone. Had insisted upon it. Neither Big Foot nor Will had liked the idea, protested vehemently in fact, but had finally acquiesced. Helen Magnus knew what she wanted and almost always got it.
And now, still dressed in her black, mourning dress, she sat quietly in her chamber on her reading chaise, heels and hose scattered to the floor, hair free and unbound, feet tucked beneath her, and mascara all but gone from crying. A bottle of fine Scotch Whisky rested on the table beside her. A crystal tumbler in one hand.
As a rule, Helen Magnus didn't drink to excess. But hers was a world founded upon exceptions.
Instead of cheering some future jubilation, Ian's gift of Talisker would do the one thing Helen couldn't do for herself tonight—numb her. Drown out, quite literally, the deafening quiet that rocked her.
She could have taken pills. Knocked herself out for one night. Sent her body into a deep sedation. But those methods of release seemed too quick, too easy for Helen. At least with the whisky, she'd have one hell of a bloody headache in the morning, and the thought of such self-inflicted pain seemed preferable to the lack of consequences her other choices presented.
Helen poured a generous amount of the amber malt liquor in her tumbler. It stared back at her gold with green splashes, smelling of smoke, and peat, and flowers, and the freshness of the Isle of Skye itself. She took a sip and let the smooth, rich liquid rest on her tongue and slide down her throat slowly, burning in its intensity. It tasted of spice and smoke and citrus and sea salt. Pungent and strong. Yes, Ian had been right about this one. It was special.
More than an hour later and half a bottle gone, Helen sat with her legs outstretched, dress crumpled, one arm draped behind her head, a single lamp dimly lighting her room, and floated in a hazy, golden oblivion. The crystal tumbler rested on her stomach, cradled loosely in her right hand, rising and falling with every breath that she took. She'd had little if anything to eat the past few weeks, as the slackness of her dress testified. She turned, bleary eyed, to the bottle of whisky beside her and considered pouring herself another. But she knew that if she drank anymore she would stop floating and start vomiting (a very real prospect already). And if she failed to throw up, well, the alcohol would simply continue to poison her system. And despite her irrevocable loss, death by whisky was not how she wanted her cursed life to end.
The sudden smell of heat, a spark of electricity, and a tinge of sandalwood hit her nostrils and jarred her sluggish senses awake. It took a moment for Helen to register what could have caused the sudden change in atmosphere. Raising her head carefully to keep the spinning room at bay, she saw him. In a flash, he moved like some dark, seductive predator. Her stomach lurched at the sight of him, simultaneously frightened and aroused. And she mentally chided herself for the way her body consistently and instinctively betrayed her.
John Druitt dragged a chair from across Helen's room, pulled it beside the end table so that he could place himself next to her, and sat down. Helen held his gaze knowing full well what he must see: a disheveled, devastated, and drunken woman. Not at all the smart, strong, capable and impeccably groomed Dr. Magnus she fancied herself to be. But she didn't care at the moment. No, she thought, she did care. He wasn't supposed to be here. He had abandoned her, abandoned Ashley's memorial in search of his own brand of peace. A peace that involved Cabal blood. This was her time. Her private wake and John Druitt was not invited.
"Get out of here, John," she snapped, working hard not to slur her words.
Druitt looked at her with an indecipherable expression, started to speak, but thought better of it. He turned away, picked up the bottle of Talisker, mentally noting just how much of it was empty.
"Talisker?" he said, not really expecting a response. She didn't provide him one. "Didn't Stevenson tell us this was the king of all drinks?"
It was a random comment. Not at all what Helen was expecting from him. It took a moment for her mind to register who or what John was talking about. Finally, her synapses snapped.
"Robert Louis Stevenson? Yes," she answered hazily, trying to remember. "I think he did."
"Then again, I don't think there was a bottle of whisky Robert didn't like," he said with more than a hint of sarcasm and returned his gaze to Helen.
"No, I suppose not," Helen said, putting an arm over her eyes and closed them. Everything seemed too loud, too bright, and she had no will to fight.
"And did you find it to your liking tonight, Helen?" John asked quietly, setting the bottle down as gently as he could.
"Up until now I found it quite satisfying," she said, slipping a bit on her "S's."
Part of John wanted to laugh. He'd seen Helen imbibe before although it had been long ago when they were young and in love. At the time, everything was new to them, everything an experiment, including their passion for one another. He remembered very specifically the effect a certain bottle of cabernet had had upon them one night after exams. They barely made it to his quarters before nearly stripping naked in front of St. Mary the Virgin's church, an irony that had made Helen giggle outrageously for hours after. Quite simply, Helen was a happy drunk. Giddy, smiling, flirtatious. And the lovemaking they shared that night….They had always sparked like moth to flame. But that evening, both heady with wine, they dropped all reserve, all pretense of modesty.
If he'd been another man, John Druitt might have blushed at the recollection of it.
But the Helen he saw now didn't drink to experiment, to see if wine would enhance her sensual pleasure. No, this Helen, this dark and beautiful Helen, drank to dull the pain of an unspeakable loss. And the look in her eyes when he first saw her tonight told him half a bottle to the wind and it hadn't worked a tick.
Watching her laying there in pain, his dark angel, he realized that he would do anything to comfort her. To take the hurt, the loss away. It angered him to his very core that this should have happened to her, to them. Ashley was their daughter! And there would be restitution. He would demand it. Oh yes, by God, restitution indeed!
Perhaps if he told her? It's what he'd come here to do. To tell Helen what he'd done. How he'd found her, Dana Whitcomb, leader of Cabal operations, hiding in plain sight. Oh she thought she could get away with it. He saw it in her eyes when he cut her. The smugness. The arrogance. Cunt.
In the end, it had been so easy. He laughed to himself at how easy it was. A shadowy alley, the smell of coffee and beignets and cigarette smoke. He breathed deep and remembered it all anew, and it washed over him like rain. Cold, spring rain on an April day in Oxford when he and his golden haired angel made love in front of an ebbing fire. Nothing but flesh and embers and a thin rug and their own heat to keep them warm.
Druitt shook himself. He was drifting. Losing focus. Too much had happened these past few weeks. He was tired, that was all. It was taking its toll. He needed rest.
But Helen, Helen was what mattered now. What in bloody hell had her staff been thinking leaving her alone like this? Tonight of all nights? He looked again at the half empty bottle. My God, she could have drunk herself to death. Idiots.
"Helen," he whispered softly, leaning into her. She could feel his warm breath, the tremor of his voice softly against her ear. She shivered.
"You need to sleep. You need to rest. Let me help you to your bed."
Ashley. Whisky. Sleep. Bed. John. Helen's mind became a blur of images and emotions.
The alcohol still soaring through her blood stream, fatigue overtaking her, Helen fell in and out of consciousness, losing track of time and place.
"John?"
"Yes, Helen," he answered sweetly.
"Take me to bed," she said hazily, seductively.
Druitt froze. This wasn't the Helen that pushed him away at every turn now. The Helen that withdrew from his touch on a moonlit night not so long ago as they searched the world over desperate for their daughter. This was his golden haired angel, returned to him. And now he was the one whose stomach lurched. He hadn't heard those words from her since…so long. It had been so long. His hand reached out to stroke her hair. Dark, now, but as soft and silky as the golden locks she'd worn so many years ago. He closed his eyes and swallowed, steadying himself. How much of this was Helen and how much of this was the whisky, he didn't know. Didn't want to think about.
"As you wish, my dear." He said shakily, surprised at how easily she could still unnerve him. He would not take advantage of her. Not in this state. It was a mantra he kept repeating to himself, hoping he would come to believe it.
Druitt reached down and picked her up from the chaise couch without protest. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck for balance and settled her head into his chest. She didn't speak. And he wondered how deeply she would regret this night in the morning.
He placed her gently on the edge of her bed, kneeling in front of her so that she could keep her arms around his neck and he could look into her eyes as he spoke. He noticed her dress. The one she wore for Ashley's memorial. It took only for a moment for him to decide.
Helen mustn't sleep in Ashley's funeral dress. She mustn't wake up in it.
"You need to change for bed now, Helen." He was talking slowly and simply to her, like a child "You need to get undressed. I'm going to help you. Is that all right?" He desperately needed her permission.
She nodded, head swimming, arms still wrapped tightly around his neck. She had neither the strength nor the sobriety to let go. Still, she liked how her arms felt there. The muscles in his shoulders. The suppleness of his neck. In a deep corner of her mind she realized she wasn't suppose to like this. That something about this was wrong. But through the golden haze of alcohol all she saw and felt was John. Her John. He had his hands on her waist steadying her. She felt one arm leave it and move up to find her zipper. Slowly he drew it downward, and the sensation of his feather light touches on her back made her shiver and smile.
"All right Helen, now I need you to stand up. Can you do that for me?" he was talking quietly, secretively, like when they were young and he would whisper sweet obscenities in her ear so quietly, so softly so that Nikola and Nigel couldn't hear them.
"Of course, John," she said lazily, pliant in his arms.
He put his hands back on her waist to steady her again. "Keep your arms around my neck, love. We're going to stand up." Then he lifted her off the bed until they were both standing chest to chest. Without her heels on, she was much smaller than him. Smaller than he remembered. Her eyes, swimming with whisky, were still a piercing blue. And she was smiling at him. A full out, joyous smile. God help him.
He swallowed. "Hold on to my neck, dear. I'm going to let go and help you take this…." he traced the shoulder of her dress with his finger, "Off of you now. All right?" He still needed permission.
She nodded, arms still curled about his neck, smiling just as broadly. He tugged the dress over her shoulders, she squirmed in his arms trying to help him, rubbing against his chest, his legs, his manhood. The action didn't make his pledge of not touching her tonight any easier.
When the dress finally fell, pooling at her feet, all he could feel was the warmth of her bare skin on his hands, his chest. She stood there, his dark angel, hair tousled, eyes cloudy with drink, black lace bra and panties, arms wrapped still so tightly around his neck. His chest pounded, his breathing shallowed, and he found himself suddenly harden at the sight of her.
He had to do something quickly.
He glanced frantically around the room for a robe, a gown, anything. Something to put between him and this vision of loveliness that was burning into his soul. But saw nothing. He didn't know this room. Wasn't sure where she would keep such a thing anymore. And the thought that he didn't know unexpectedly saddened him.
He felt a soft tug at his chin and turned forward.
Helen held one hand to his chin, staring at it, absently stroking the shadowy bristles that grew there. Then she looked up at him, her blue eyes smoky with whisky and desire and smiled that blinding smile once more that so completely disarmed him.
"What are you looking for, John?" she said almost giddy. "I'm right here."
She'd undone him. Damn the whisky, the Cabal, the appropriateness of it all. Damn it all to bloody hell, he thought. And he plunged her mouth, drinking in the sweet, spicy sent of her, his tongue dueling with hers. And she tasted of smoke and citrus and sea salt and April rains and winter nights and laughter and joy and so very much that he had lost.
When they finally broke apart, they were breathless, shaken with passion.
Helen dropped her head to John's chest, clinging now to the ends of the dark duster he wore, needing something, anything, to hang on to. Her head spun. And the kiss she and John had shared made it spin even faster. Not right, she told herself. Must stop, she said in her mind. But she knew her body had made up its own mind and was hellbent on disobeying her. God help her if she didn't need this though. God help her (if there was a god) through this night. Through all of it.
John stood perfectly still, chin resting on Helen's forehead, arms wrapped around her. Her skin was so soft, so warm. He wanted her. All of her. But he wouldn't move. Wouldn't touch her again until she invited him to do so. Until she told him she wanted him too. It had to be her decision and hers alone. He wanted nothing that she could hold over him later. He hated the almost constant look of disapproval she gave him in these latter days and he'd have no more of it.
Finally, she raised her head, eyes mixed with passion and fear, and let go of his coat. She fell back onto the soft down of her mahogany bed. She reached over and pulled the covers back slowly, to ease the pounding in her head, slipping into them. She laid there, dark angel on a white cloud of silk and linen, and beckoned him to join her with a simple look.
John dropped his duster to the floor. His shoes, his shirt, his pants, and fell with her, finally cradling her in his arms, his chest against her back, holding her possessively. Trailing long, lingering kisses up her arm, her neck, her cheek.
She caught his hand and pulled it across her breasts, holding tight. She wanted to lose her whole body, her whole soul to this man. This man she loved and hated so much. But consciousness, she knew, was leaving her. Lying in her bed, under her covers, floating in whisky, his warm breath at her ear, she felt suddenly loved and protected, and sleep started to come. Fading away from him, she whispered the words he had so long to hear.
"Love me John," she said drowsily.
He could fight it no longer The hardness in him swelled against her back. He rose to kiss her, to plunge her mouth again, her breast, her center. All of her. But just as he turned, he felt the grip of her hand loosen on his. Her eyelids close. Her breathing deepen.
She slept. Finally, his angel slept.
John Druitt sighed, released his hold on her slowly and rolled onto his back, eyes heavenward, his breathing heavy, and worked to regain his composure.
He could take her now. In her sleep. They'd done it before, and she had found it erotic the sensation of waking to find him inside her. But this, this was different. Different times. A different Helen. A drunken, Helen, he reminded himself. And instead of making love to her, which he desperately wanted to do, it would feel like rape. And no matter how much, how deeply he had hurt her in the past, that he would never do.
Finally, he rose. Put on his pants, his shirt, his coat, and leaned down to look at her once more. "Love me, John." He heard her say again in his mind. He closed his eyes. That simple request he would carry with him now and always to the ends of the earth. He knelt down next to the bed, to her, and whispered in her ear.
"I do, Helen. Always."
He kissed her cheek, lingering longer than he ought to, taking in the very scent of her again, his golden, dark angel.
The early morning light streamed into Helen Magnus's bedroom, piercing her with its cheery brightness. She shaded her eyes for relief, started to sit up to pull the curtains closed, and then fell back down, head pounding. The images came flooding back to her…Ashley's memorial, the argument with Big Guy and Will about being alone, Ian's bottle of Talisker.
She peaked out over her cloudy white comforter and looked at the table on the other side of her room near her chaise lounge. A bottle of Talisker, three-fourths empty, stared mockingly back at her. Her stomach churned.
How in bloody hell had she thought that was a good idea? Water and pain reliever (lots of it). That's what she needed.
She dug deep, gathered all the stamina she could muster, and swung herself upwards to a sitting position. She had wanted the pain, she remembered that, and had gotten it. Her head was ready to explode. Too bad it wouldn't.
Water. Pills. Ah, yes. She was about to make her way to the toilet. She started to rise again, but caught herself. Sitting on the bed table beside her was a glass, a pitcher of water, a bottle of pills, and a single red rose.
Big Guy, she thought, with a fractured smile. No doubt he had been worried sick. And she suddenly felt bad for their fight earlier. She'd apologize to him later. Assure him she was all right.
She picked up the rose and smelled it. It instantly reminded her, like everything else in this place, of Ashley, and she wondered again how long she could go on. But even in the wondering, she knew she had no choice. Too many depended on her. And in reality, there was no one else to take her place. Not yet.
She had planned to start her day early. Despite everything that had happened, all her losses, there was work to be done. The Cabal, although devastated, was still a potential threat. Sanctuaries must be repaired. Patients needed to be moved and cared for. And work, blessed work, would at least take her mind off of …Ashley.
In the midst of her jumbled thoughts she looked down and noticed her black dress, the dress from the memorial, lying on the floor. She blinked and looked down at herself, noticing for the first time that she wore only her bra and panties, not her gown. Suddenly, sensations began to bombard her…the scent of earth and spice, blood and passion, sweat and sweet lingering kisses.
A whisky laden hazy mix of memories and emotions and secret desires flooded her, and she wondered how much, if any of it, might have been real?
Magnus ventured a look at her bedroom door. It was locked. From the inside. And only she kept a key to her private quarters. Big Guy couldn't have brought the water and the pills and the rose this morning, could he?
Pushing that puzzle aside for the moment, she popped open the pills, swallowed four, and drank as much water as she could stomach. Made her toilet, head still pounding, and decided that the Cabal, the Sanctuaries, all of it could wait an hour longer. She was going to sleep and not think about this—any of this—until later.
And as Helen Magnus slept, she dreamt. A dark angel, holding her, protecting her through the night.
END