Her Secret
It was her secret, one she would never speak, never let anyone know and one she worked very hard to ensure no one even suspected. Sometimes she kept the secret so well she would deceive herself. But the deception never lasted, she would always be reminded of her secret. There was no one to tell, well no one that would understand. If she told, she would be looked upon as a freak, as damaged, as a woman who enjoyed suffering. And she didn't, she didn't enjoy suffering. She wanted the suffering to stop; to release the secret into the world would end her suffering – if only to start another. Helen Magnus could handle pretty much anything that was thrown at her but what she couldn't handle - didn't want to handle – was being looked at as a 'desperate' woman. Helen Magnus was never desperate and even if she was, she would never let it show.
Like right now, she was a desperate woman. She was desperate for a day's rest, to overthrow the Kabal, for a steaming cup of hot tea and for basic human contact. She had friends of course and she tried to be affectionate with hugs, certainly with Ashley and Henry. BigGuy wasn't too comfortable with touching and her and Will's relationship hadn't evolved to that level yet. She valued the intimacy they gave her, the contentment and love she felt, but she still needed something more.
She had taken lovers before when the need arose and in fact had several around the world she could call upon if she desired. It wasn't that Helen Magnus wanted sex, that surely wasn't a secret. She may behave as a purely rational being but she too had needs that were the result of being human and her friends knew that. That was not her secret. Her secret was the whom. And the whom was currently sitting on the chaise in her study, drinking a glass of wine.
That was her secret. Helen Magnus desired John Druitt more than any other and in ways that frightened her. She was sure his path of murder and destruction would stamp out all the passion she felt....it didn't. She was sure that decades without seeing him would cure her reaction to him...it didn't. Time and time again her body, and if she were honest, her mind, betrayed her, tempting her with elicit memories and fantasies of him.
People would judge her if this secret was revealed. They would look upon her as a freak, for who lusts after the most infamous serial killer? Which is why most people would never suspect her secret, her passion. Helen Magnus, the queen of rationality and composure is not the type of woman who falls for the bad boy.
He wasn't always a bad boy though. Her John had been a philosopher – a brilliant mind that was open to new ideas and new ways of life. He had a passion for knowledge and discovery and for her. A passion she matched with equal fervour and delight in their early romance.
No one remembers that John though, they only remember the killer, the monster he evolved into. Even Watson failed to remember, truly remember, who John used to be. Nichola perhaps did, if only because he himself had become as deranged as John, if not as blood-thirsty, which was ironic.
Watching him now as she did, it was easy to forget the last one-hundred years and to picture him as the man she once knew. Even if she didn't, if she saw him the way he was now, the tempered killer, she still felt it. The gnawing inside her stomach, the throbbing of her heart, the quickening of her pulse.
His visits were becoming both a gift and a curse. He had proven helpful time and time again and seemed to have his demons at bay. But he was distracting. Helen caught herself more than a few times not paying attention to something Will was saying as her mind had drifted off to the man in her house.
Which was the case right now. They were discussing something important – something about the Kabal, but she wasn't paying attention. She was focused on him. He was lounging on the chaise, taking up space and acting as if he owned the room. There was nothing undignified about the stance, just relaxed and at ease. An ease which both irritated and aroused her. It was her house after all, he didn't live here, but the way he commanded the space, demanding to be looked at, was hard to resist. Her eyes scanned up and down his body, remembering what if felt like to touch with her hands, to feel it against her , skin against skin. She wondered if he's changed much, under the clothes, would there be new scars and marks.
She focused on his hands, one of which rested on his thigh absently while the other held the wine glass, his fingers caressing the glass so tenderly it was almost sensual. She remembered what he could do with those hands and how they felt on her and her ache increased at the memory. She watched as he brought the glass up to his lips and took a sip, licking his lips as he drew the glass away. Helen was convinced he was putting on a show for her "benefit" though in reality she knew he probably wasn't. He licked his lips again and then smirked at Watson and she nearly fell of her desk with the action. Like his hands, John was equally as talented with his lips and she wanted nothing more than to go over there, kneel over him and kiss those lips and taste him – a sensual mix of 'him' and the wine. She wondered if he would taste different after such a long absence, but somehow she doubted it. She knew he would still taste like a mix of tea, citrus, and cedar with wisps of wine, even if he wasn't drinking any.
She didn't know what it was about this man that did this to her, she'd never been able to pin that down. But she stood there, slightly sitting on her desk, just taking him in. He was truly beautiful and he had been hers at one point, and she his. But she had lost him to demons long ago. Watching him now talking with Watson, she let her mind flirt with an idea she had not let herself dwell to long on before. Had he changed? Was he the man she once knew? She promised to not think of this, to think of this put her secret at risk. Put her heart at risk because she would give it freely once more. Which is what scared her. She knew she had little control over the situation and if John pressed even the slightest, she would give up the fight and be with him. Perhaps that was the secret. Not that she still harboured lust for the man but that she loved him still and that he, more than any other in the world, had the power to upend her, to turn her world upside down.
But that was neither here nor there at the moment. For the moment she was safe in her bubble, watching him. He would never push her, she would have to make the first move, that she knew. And she wanted to. Right there and now. Or later in her bedroom. Or in the infirmary. Or on the main floor of the Sanctuary. She didn't care. As long as he was here, her rational was on the losing end of the battle with her desire. She couldn't focus if he was here and he wasn't hers. She reasoned with herself that she could focus if she had him, had him chained up to her bed for her carnal pleasure, or had him right now on the couch. Anything to release the pressure that had been building for the days he'd been there.
But no, that would not be Helen Magnus. Helen Magnus doesn't accost a serial killer whilst entertaining guests. She doesn't accost a serial killer when an even larger evil is threatening them. She doesn't accost a serial killer ever. John Druitt is off limits to her. He's dangerous and will break her heart again if she gives in. So she can't.
She tries to focus on the conversation again, not knowing how long she's been in her torturous fantasy land. No one seems to notice her mental absence, which is for the good. No one can know her secret. No one can know that she desires the one man that she should not.
And then he looks at her. Eyes meet eyes and she's sure it's written all over her face for him to read. Her desire, her readiness, her denial. As his eyes bore into her she's sure he knows, that he can feel the heat coming off of her. He looks at her with those eyes – the eyes meant only for her – eyes which used to promise things for later. But he wouldn't use them now would he? She breaks and glances at the floor, unable to maintain the challenge he offered. To take up the challenge would result in things, events. Things and events she wanted to happen, but she couldn't. She couldn't let her secret out.