Title: 'Til Morning Light
Author: Trialia
Fandom: Sanctuary
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla
Rating: M
Word Count: 435
Beta: Yarns (custardpringle)
Spoilers: 2x10 Sleepers
Summary: "If this is a pity fuck—"
x
He'd forgotten what getting drunk could be like. She'd warned him before they started the first bottle that having a hangover in the morning would make him feel even worse than he did knowing ... what he now knew. Always so smart, Helen. It's why he loves her.
That, and she's a lightweight, of sorts. He'd forgotten that, too, until she started flirting with him even more shamelessly than she'd been doing before (she thinks he doesn't notice, he's sure. He's always noticed).
Even affected by the wine, he still managed to be sober enough to perform - he found that out when her thigh wound up between his legs as she tangled around him on the couch. That skirt... He'd been watching her legs for an hour, close to, sitting there beside her talking about the new game plan.
He couldn't hold back the insecurity, though. Always wisecracking to hide it, but he had a feeling she wouldn't be doing this if he were still a vampire. He might be right. Still not sure he should stop, either way. So he said something about it, though he probably shouldn't have.
"If this is a pity fuck--"
She pulled him even closer until her lips were barely touching his ear. He held back a shiver with difficulty.
"Nikola?" she whispered.
He swallowed hard - she was so near she could probably feel it. "Yeah?"
Helen drew back to look him in the face, a sly little smile hovering about her mouth. He stared, momentarily robbed of speech - a rare event.
"Shut up."
The pressure of her mouth against his (he can't measure it, the science failing), the feeling of her teeth tugging at his lower lip (missing his fangs, he doesn't bite back), the heat of her (fever-burning skin under his hands, panting breaths against his collarbone), the fall with her (he's wanted this. oh, how he's wanted it). Natural electricity.
All just like this. He remembers everything, in the afterglow. Sleep forces him to forget the little details, the taste of the wine in her mouth (heavy, sweet, sharp), the exact sound that came from Helen's throat when his hand slipped up under her skirt (he remembers she wasn't wearing panties. So much the wild thing he'd expected), just what he'd tried to think during the event to hold back his orgasm (futility, with this woman).
But he'll remember, next time. He'll make sure of it. And that there will be a next time, now that he's mortal, he has no doubt.
They have only each other to truly hold onto, anymore.