"Look at you, Helen. You're a mess."
"Hmm," almost says more than the smirk; she's being coy about taking his summation to heart. "But I'm your mess."
"Are you?" he asks with half a chuckle, taking her hand and guiding her down to his lap.
She's seated sideways across his legs then, nestling down against his shoulder with her brow tucked in against his neck. "Of course, darling. To whom else could I possibly belong?"
She's purring again, and nothing upsets James' Victorian sensibilities like Helen crooning at him. He grumbles a half-hearted complaint, and she laughs, tilting her chin to place a kiss on the first space of skin she can reach. "Devil-woman," he growls, pressing his fingertips into her back. She tisks at him as she rights herself, easing out of his lap just enough to pivot, straddling him now. Both hands settle onto her waist as he appraises her, then raises a hand to brush his thumb down her cheek, tracing the shape of a long cut without touching the wound itself. "Really, Helen, you—"
"—Have already cleaned it," she interrupts, taking his hand away from her cheek and re-depositing it upon her waist. "Now be quiet." Her hands slip down his shirtfront, brush of fingertips past his inventions gliding to the flat of her palm when she reaches skin that's not covered in life-saving gadgets. It's an awkward position in such close quarters though—all the more reason to shift, backs of her fingers pressing against his stomach as her hands run along the waistband of his trousers. "I just want to be with you for a while."
"Said the woman who hasn't changed since 1886 to the mechanical man," he offers with a feigned blitheness, playing with a lock of hair that most definitely has changed since 1886, the other hand easing gently across her back. "Still thrusting yourself into all sorts of dangerous situations. Why come home to me?"
Her lips tilt fractionally upward as she watches his face; that and the flicker of concern in her eyes are all James needs, but she speaks anyway. "You may run on a machine, darling, but you are not a machine." He presses his fingers into her back again, more communication that needs no words, and she smiles a little more broadly before leaning forward to kiss him twice—briefly, and then lingering. He draws her in tenderly, and she leans against him, machine parts and all, arms looped around his neck.
He's only just dropped down to kiss her neck when he pulls away, easing back again and pushing her hair back. "Do you know… you've a bit of dirt right here. And there. Well, it's everywhere, actually—everywhere except that cheek."
She laughs at him, canting her head to press her lips to his again. "I'll clean up properly if you meet me in bed."
Within ten minutes she's crawling up his body, and his arms envelop her, taking her in. She's tired, but so very vital; strong, but supple under his searching hands; ever untamed, but smooth as silk. And he worships her, rolling her weight back to meet her, burying his face in a mass of raven hair.