Disclaimer: All belongs to Damien Kindler and Stage 3 Media and Ms. Tapping and all the usual suspects who aren't me. Just borrowing these beautiful people. Thanks for the favor.
Timeline: Just before "Veritas" (spoilers for "Veritas")
Many thanks to Teddy E, TaliaToEnnien, and annienau08 for the betas!:)
"Night Music"
By Rowan Darkstar
Copyright (c) 2009
"Like a freeze-dried rose, you will never be
What you were, what you were to me in memory
But if I listen to the dark You'll embrace me like a star
Envelope me, envelope me.
If things get real for me down here
Promise to take me to before you went away
If only for a day
If things get real for me down here
Promise to take me back to the tune
We played before you went away"
--'The Sound of White' by Missy Higgins
She had thought through every part of the plan in agonizing detail, planned for each contingency to the best of her formidable abilities, envisioned every uneven step and fork on the perilous path she had set before herself...and her friends.
Only one point remained unplanned.
She had deliberately slurred over this point, written it off in her head as a few solid hours of isolation in her quarters, scheduled the next phase, and ignored the rest.
Now she found herself face to face with the blurred out block of time in her mental chart.
Her dear friend had wanted to stay with her through the process. Hold her hand and keep the world from her door. But she knew herself well enough to recognize this wasn't something she wanted. She knew the potential, the way her mind and body might react. Might betray her. She didn't want her old friend present for the myriad of scenarios skittering through her mind. He would understand and forgive and protect at all costs. But she didn't want that.
There were limits to how far she would go, even now.
The plan was in place, and her friend would be waiting outside the gates at the appointed time. Of this she had no doubt.
All that was left was to take the Beetle. And ride out the high.
*****
She stood on the rooftop, arms holding her shawl close around her, and she shivered in the icy evening air. She had been spending more and more time here of late, more and more time hidden away from the world. Away from people. Watching and retreating.
She had stood on this very rooftop the night she decided to carry Ashley, decided it was time to bring her child to term and out into the world. Helen had felt more alone that night than any other she held in her memory. That frozen embryo had been her only tiny hope for the right kind of immortality, for genuine warmth and love. A link to a life she had loved...and lost.
She didn't know where he hid tonight, hadn't known for weeks, and she didn't really care, didn't worry for him hate him fear him miss him every moment. But tonight she was blindingly furious with John Druitt for vanishing, for not answering his phone, for leaving her no recourse through which to contact him (just like her father). She knew John had gone underground, gone off the radar for reasons she dared not flesh out, but she didn't care. All she knew was that he had wandered back into her life, hovered just long enough that she had started to...expect his warmth beside her, expect him a pace behind as she moved through her missions, expect his hand on her arm when she stepped toward danger. She had grown accustomed to the satin of his voice, her name on his tongue.
And then her world had fallen apart and days later he had gone.
"JOOHHHN!" She screamed the name up into the wind, into the night. She didn't like the raw threads in her own voice, but she washed the thought from her head. She was tired and it was dark and it was so fucking cold, "JOHN DRUITT! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU??"
The sound rang in her ears and spiraled into the surrounding darkness.
"Helen?"
She whirled at the sound, spun on the heel of her t-strap shoe, and her shawl slid from one shoulder. The wind burned like ice through her blouse. He was there. Standing a few steps back on the rooftop, a towering dark figure like another of her castle's turrets. But there were shadowy lines on his brow, a look of soft concern in deep set eyes. Her gaze traced the deeper darkness in the scar across his cheek.
The hair on her arms rose, a familiar aftereffect of his jump. She could smell the red heat.
Her breath came a little more rapidly than she would have liked as she said, "John. Dear God, how did you...you didn't...you couldn't hear..."
John frowned a moment, as though struggling to catch up with her words, then realization appeared to dawn and he offered a soft, sad smile. "Oh, I did hear you, but through no extraordinary means. I was just letting myself onto the grounds, coming back to check in. I heard you from the garden."
Helen digested this, weathered the momentary rush of embarrassment, then simply nodded. "Impeccable timing," she added, voice still thready.
John took a careful step nearer. The obvious progression would have been for her to ask where he had been, demand a report, an explanation for his silence. But she truly didn't want to know. Not tonight. And she didn't want to scream at him for not standing at her side at their own daughter's memorial. Not when she wasn't even sure she had wanted him there at all.
There was a complex mission staring her in the face, and sticking to forward motion was all Helen Magnus had, these days.
John was first to speak. "Did you...want something?" he asked, not a trace of mockery in his tone. She almost wished there had been. Easier to hate him.
Helen pulled in a slow breath, drawing the chill air into her nostrils and stinging her sinuses. The rush helped to clear her head. "I need a favor," she said simply.
"What is it?"
"Not here. I'll explain in my chambers." She took three steps toward the door to the stairs, but she knew already that as she passed through his space he would catch her arm and whisk them away.
She pretended it wasn't an excuse for both of them to touch.
*****
"You can't be serious...."
She stood in her bedroom, small container in her hand, the ozone beetle scratching at its glass walls with scaly pinchers.
"I assure you, I am quite serious, John. This woman knows nearly as much about the inner workings of our organization as I do. If she is indeed what I fear her to be, she could put the lives of hundreds, of thousands of abnormals at stake, not to mention the humans we're protecting from the more dangerous species. Security of the Sanctuary is something about which I never jest."
He took a step nearer, long-fingered hands open in placation. He was approaching her as one might approach a frightened bird and she had developed a keen hatred for such attitudes in recent weeks. "I'm not arguing the gravity with you, Helen. I do understand what's at stake. But I can't imagine that this is the only productive course of action. Surely, you--"
"I have considered my options carefully. And I believe this plan to be our best chance of a fair determination."
"My God, Helen. This is insane."
She shook her head dismissively. "All I'm asking is that you watch over me for the next few hours. Just until the initial effect has worn off. If you'd rather not, I'll do this on my own. I only ask that you keep your silence. Beyond this, I've taken every precaution. This is the best way to determine if my instincts are correct."
John stared at her for a long moment, and she felt again the gentle tapping of the beetle's legs through the glass. A brief image of those claws digging into her cerebral cortex caused her stomach to twist.
John was still watching her with something between horror and incredulity. "You seriously think that is so? You really don't see it?"
"See what?"
"Helen...," he let go a heavy sigh, dropped his hands numbly to his sides, looking more helpless than she had seen for a long time, "...even I noticed the subtle changes, but this is..."
"What? This is what?" Her words were sharper than she'd intended, but the cold was comfortably numbing.
"Reckless," he said more firmly. "Dangerous. Helen...you're grieving. My God, woman, you've lost your daughter, you should be near psychotic. And I'm sorry that I haven't been here with you. But you're making choices, taking risks that you would never ha---Helen!"
With one slick motion, she popped the top on the preservation container and slapped the beetle into her mouth. No more chance for discussion.
Her sense of defiant victory lasted a split second before the beetle hit the back of her throat and burrowed eagerly into the tender flesh.
She heard her own raw cry, and John was tight against her in a breath. There was a single flash of awareness, of the genuine pain and concern painted across his face, then all she could do was choke and gasp and fight to catch her air.
The pain was red hot.
Seconds felt like minutes, golden pincers ripping through her flesh, scrambling life strangling her at the back of her throat, and for a moment she was terrified this had all gone horribly wrong, that she might indeed die right here in her chambers. But then it was over. Her airway was clear, she could breathe, and the pain was receding to the sting of a harsh sore throat. She felt a last minor shift, like a tickle at the nape of her neck, and she knew the creature was nestling into its place . The revulsion and nausea were overwhelmed by the relief at her ability to freely inhale.
Gradually, she came aware of her surroundings. Her muscles softened with the slowing of her breath. She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples and the normally drafty room seemed uncomfortably warm. John pressed against her like a protective cape, an arm around her waist holding more than his share of her weight. She had gripped his hand until her knuckles had gone white, and now she forced the muscles in her hand to soften, slackening her hold and relaxing her fingers.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, then immediately wanted to withdraw the remark, lest her apology be misunderstood. She had lost no determination in her plan.
If her words fell out of context, John gave no sign. He simply exhaled heavily on hoarse words, "Christ, Helen," and let his face fall into the side her neck. His breath was hot, rushing gooseflesh along the line of her collarbone.
Her lips had only just formed the words, "I'm all right. It should only take a moment or two to start feeling the effec..." when the warm rush like honeyed tea began its spread from her stomach to the farthest reaches of her extremities.
*****
Oh, my God...
"Oh, my God..." she heard the words first in her head, then in her own liquid tones as the warmth spread through her body, down her belly and across her thighs, like the cool of silk sheets on skin.
Her back straightened, lengthening her spine, and she let her head fall back onto John's shoulder. He smelled like night wind and embers. Like firelight and memories. She murmured softly, eyes closed, turned and nuzzled her face into his throat. "Oh, God, John..." she breathed. Her muscles felt alive, strong. She wanted to sink into every minute sensation of being in her own skin.
John was touching so much of her flesh.
They fit together like hand in glove. Their movements, their touches, so natural. After more than a century apart. This fact had frightened her more than any other aspect of his return.
At this moment... she couldn't remember why this sensation should be frightening...
She hadn't felt this alive in more than a century.
*****
John felt her muscles shift from tension and fear, to vibrant ease. And then to pleasure.
And for a century gone, the sensory memory was painfully vivid.
He knew what it felt like to have Helen Magnus in his arms in the throes of pleasure. That, of all his experiences, he could never forget.
The sensation was no less exquisite tonight.
He wrapped his arms more firmly around her, sheltering and protecting. Her fingers tangled around his upper arms, caressing and clinging, and she sighed into his skin.
"Helen," he whispered, knowing he was in neck deep and there was nothing else to do but stay at her side, keep her safe tonight. If only from herself.
"Come. You should lie down," he said gently, and she was terrifyingly compliant as she allowed herself to be led to the antique chaise lounge beside the picture window.
*****
"I don't like this blouse much."
She peeled her body away from his, and he felt the cold sharply where her warmth had been. She had weathered the first part of the high largely in her own sensory realm, eyes closed as she nuzzled against him and whispered. And he had let her be close to him, given all the power he had to keeping his body quiet, keeping still and stoic. Tonight he had sworn to be nothing but her guardian. I promise to make you happy, Helen, for all eternity.
She strode across to her mahogany wardrobe, far steadier in her heeled shoes than he would have imagined, and pulled the doors wide. She unbuttoned her soft grey blouse and let it fall to the floor, standing before the wardrobe in her silver lace bra as she ran her hand over the row of hanging garments.
John's pulse pounded in his ears like a storm raging against rainsoaked windows. Her skin was so pale, so flawlessly smooth, powerful shoulder muscles rippling gently as she moved. She was not a sliver less beautiful than the last time he had held her in his arms.
"Are you all right, Helen?"
"Yes. I'm all right."
"You're trembling...are you afraid?"
A shy smile that melts his soul and breaks his heart. "I trust you. I love you, John."
"And I love you. My beautiful, beautiful Helen. I am...your first?"
"Of course you are. It's always been you, John."
Gentle lips against the cream of her shoulder and the slightest sheen of tears in his own eyes. He cannot believe any creature so perfect could ever want him this way.
Candlelight and a canopy bed. Buttons and laces falling free beneath his fingers and the most perfect expanse of skin he has ever seen.
A single unfamiliar scar marred the white of her back. A thin, bright line that could have been a knife cut or a claw mark.
The urge to cross to her and run his finger along the line of her past hurt was almost irresistible. A century and a quarter had melted away.
Helen pulled a flowing and darkly floral translucent blouse from her wardrobe and let it glide down over her skin, overtly enjoying the sensation far more than she normally would have allowed.
"Would you mind some music?" she asked, turning toward him with not a trace of inhibition as she nimbly worked the buttons on the delicate cloth.
He shook his head, nearly lost his voice. "Whatever you like," he said, hardly aware of his own words.
"I want to play something for you," she said with a playful smile that captured what was left of his heart.
*****
"This is the best part coming up here," she said near his ear, tapping her finger lightly on the top of his thigh.
She had settled back beside John on the chaise as the soft tones of the music moved through her rooms. Her heeled shoes had been kicked off on the floor, and she lay comfortably in her floral blouse and fitted skirt, legs bare to just above the knee, one arm propping her head. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she had felt this relaxed in her own world.
"The best part, is it?" John asked, his tone affectionately indulgent. She felt him watch her watch the ceiling, as though he thought she were seeing the lines of music playing out before them and he could only see them through her eyes.
"No, listen, listen, listen...," she insisted, wanting his full attention on this essential point, "this note here...on the end of this vocal line." She paused a moment, eyes half closed, and let the music flow over them, and she knew John must have felt the shiver that ran through her body with the chord change. "Isn't it breathtaking?"
"Still the music lover after all these years?" he asked, and she remembered an afternoon in a concert hall, nudging John to keep his eyes open as she sat at the edge of her chair, enraptured by the chamber group playing before them.
"Always." Helen pushed her hair free of her neck, letting the tail ends fall across John's chest. She drew a deep breath, feeling the path of the air down through her lungs, into her midriff, the oxygen traveling to her limbs. She gazed out the window for a long moment, drifting away on the wings of a memory. "There was this one night..," she began, "in nineteen-six--sixty...something, I can't recall. I had spent the night at this party, mingling with all the proper contacts, playing the scene as you're supposed to. Drugs were plentiful, of course, but I hadn't partaken. But the atmosphere itself was intoxicating. The beads, the lights, the melding of minds. And I remember, it was near dawn, and I had paired off with this man...a man I ended up dating for quite some time afterward, actually, and we were lying on our backs on the these cushions tossed on the floor of an upstairs bedroom. We were gazing out the window waiting for the sun to come up, and I hadn't slept in...far too long. And he put this song on, on the record player. Something with lots of acoustic guitar, harmonic vocals. I can't even remember what song it was...but I just...I closed my eyes, lay back on those cushions, and the music just felt as though it were gliding across my skin, surrounding me. I felt like I had drifted up into those stars outside the window. Like I could fly. And I remember feeling...almost painfully happy. As though for that moment...the universe all made sense, and everything was all right."
John's hand had begun a gentle, steady caress of her hair, smoothing the scattered locks back from her forehead. The gesture felt so warm, so natural. She didn't have the strength to push him away.
"And was that...such an exceptional moment for you?" His voice was low and sincere, close to her ear, and the gentleness nearly brought tears to her eyes. "Were you normally so far from contentment?"
She was silent a long time before replying. "Beneath the surface, yes. That's how it's been. All along."
"Even before? Even when I knew you before? Did you hide so much from me? Such pain?"
She shook her head. "No. I shared it all with you, then. Only you."
She felt the heavy sigh against her hair, and she felt like she was falling and she didn't know where.
*****
"What hurts the most? Please, tell me."
He was afraid of his own words, the vulnerability as he laid himself open before her. He had no idea how much of this night she would remember or in what light. The last thing on Earth he wanted was to take advantage of her in this state. But beetle or no beetle, truths were spilling across her lips that he had needed to hear with every fiber of his being for so long...he couldn't be silent.
"Tell me, Helen." He slid his body a whisper closer, breathed in the scent of memory in her hair.
To his utter devastation, instead of speaking a tender confidence, Helen Magnus started to cry.
Her dark lashes cast butterfly shadows on her skin, and he wanted to wrap himself around her and never let go.
*****
"I'm sorry..." she whispered.
She knew this was all wrong, knew in some fuzzy area at the edge of her thoughts that she was supposed to keep distant from John Druitt, supposed to hate him, fear him, keep all her best defenses out when he was near. But those thoughts were just nagging wisps of grey at the edges of her vision and he was a familiar warmth beside her as what had so recently been waves of pleasure curled through her body as visceral, soul-wrenching pain.
"Helen...." His hand cradled her cheek, his voice soothing like a warm touch. "Talk to me...tell me what hurts...please..."
"I didn't want it to be like this..."
"What...didn't want what like this?" he urged, an aching desperation in his voice.
She wanted to stop speaking, to stand up, walk away, but she had lost all will power and the tears were drowning her intent. Wasn't she...drugged?...or....something...
"You," she breathed, "Ashley, James. My father, my mother, Eric. Richard, Emily, David, Natasha. Samuel, Millicent, Heather...." She stopped as her throat closed on the words, pulled in a shuddering breath and whispered, "I didn't want to be alone. Where nobody touches me." Her tears were shaking her very core as she huddled to his chest, let him wrap her in his arms like he would never, never let go.
*****
"John, I want some tea. Could you get me some tea?"
She looked up at him with a childlike sincerity that forced him to look away.
"I don't think I should," he said as evenly as he could manage. He smoothed her hair again from her forehead. "I don't think even I could manage such a task without being seen by your staff. Or at the very least, your security cameras."
She looked confused for half a beat, then rational thought seemed to take hold again. "Oh...oh, yes, of course. Right. I can, um...," she shifted against him and moved to sit up, "I can send down for it."
He watched quietly as she pushed up from their nest, slipped back into her shoes, and made her way to the bedside phone. She punched in numbers with hardly a glance and spoke quietly.
When she had finished, she turned and sat down on the edge of her bed, posture neat and careful, and he wondered how much a semblance of control she had regained. He glanced at the bedside clock, gauging how much longer the beetle's effect might hold sway. Helen was notoriously resistant to drugs in the first place. But this wasn't just a drug...it was a living, adapting creature. She seemed little abashed by her earlier emotional display and he wondered how much if any of the confession she actually recalled. Hadn't she said the beetle would affect her memory?
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
She nodded with a small, polite smile. "I'm all right. A bit dizzy is all."
"The music's stopped. Would you like me to put something else on?"
But he didn't have the chance to reply before there was a knock at the door and he had to think The Big Guy had been hovering with a tray of tea, expecting her to want the comfort at any moment.
Helen glanced toward John as she moved to the door, and he dutifully rose and sank back into the shadows. He wanted to think he saw a flash of something between gratitude and apology in her eyes.
Helen answered the door with her best impression of sobriety. From his perspective John couldn't see the visitor in the hall, only Helen's back and a bit of her profile. He heard the soft tones of an exchanged greeting between friends, then watched her take a neatly laid silver tray and place it on a table by the door. She turned back to her friend, holding on perhaps a bit too firmly to the door and leaning a bit for support.
He flashed to a place still hidden but nearer to the door to listen to her words.
"...don't want you to do this," he heard from the throaty voice in the hall.
"I know. But it's done, and I'm all right."
"You shouldn't be alone. Should...let me stay with you."
"I'll be down in a few hours. We'll meet as planned."
John heard the soft grunts of frustration and disapproval.
"You shouldn't be alone," the voice repeated. But it was less of an admonishment this time, more of an expression of loving concern, and he caught the shift in Helen's posture, literally felt the emotion run through her that he knew she shied from. So soft within and so desperately afraid to feel...
"Stop worrying," she said softly, but he heard the thickness in her words.
"Drink your tea while it's warm."
"Stop doting."
"Stop crying." Her friend all but growled the words, but the meaning held nothing but care.
"I'm fine," Helen insisted. "It's just the toxin. The reactions should pass in a few more hours. I'll meet you at the appointed time. Hmmm?" She leaned into the door again, and the Big Guy finally took his leave with a grunt of resentment, and Helen closed the door and carried the tray near the chairs beside the fire.
John moved slowly to stand beside her, hovered in silence as she began to arrange and pour the tea, then he took a seat in one of the thickly cushioned arm chairs. "He cares very deeply for you."
She never looked up from the tray. Firelight flickered on her skin. "The sentiment is mutual. He's one of my dearest friends."
"He's Big Foot."
Helen lifted an eyebrow and cocked her head, "And you're Jack the Ripper."
She might just as well have hit him. He didn't reply, but he saw the reflection of his own reaction in her eyes.
Helen glanced down at the tea tray, arrogance mellowing into something like remorse. Her fingers fumbled over the sugar cube bowl. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that," she offered.
And he tried to remember she had an ozone beetle in her head. It wasn't truth serum, it was a psychogenic.
"It's all right." He forced the words across his lips, brushed the backs of his fingers ever so lightly against the side of her thigh, and they moved on.
****
"Take me somewhere!"
"Helen..."
She had been pacing the floor for a good ten minutes, their quiet time with tea by the fire long forgotten.
"John, take me somewhere. I can't just stay here, I can't...there's a whole world outside this fortress." She strode urgently to where he still sat by the fire and dropped to a crouch beside him. Her fingers settled on his knee. "Egypt, Australia, Paris, Rome. You could take me anywhere. John...my body is on fire, I can't sit here in these same four walls, please." The raw need in her voice made his guts ache.
"Helen," he closed a large hand over hers, "you asked me to keep watch over you. Keep you safe, here in your quarters. Besides, aren't your EM shields up?"
She shook her head, "I can turn them off." She reached for a portable control board on a nearby table and to his utter shock, sat down on his thigh as she pulled the board into her lap. She quickly and efficiently punched in a button code. "There, see? Shields are down, invisible to Henry for a short time at least."
"Helen..."
"You'll be with me," she said, face open and pleading, fingers mixing with his, and he was fighting so hard to detach, to hold tight to rational knowledge and not get tangled in her spell. He had never been able to deny her.
"Helen, you're not well. I don't think you should--"
"Not well? I'm fucking brilliant. I haven't felt this young in a century! John...." She had shifted her weight to face him, lifted her knee to settle her leg between his own, and now she took clumps of his shirt into her hands, "I trust you. I'm not asking you to let me drive a motorcycle or disarm a nuclear warhead, just...take me somewhere amazing. Somewhere beautiful. I want to see the stars, a million stars, the sky, city lights, a waterfall. Take us somewhere without people if you must. But take me somewhere, and stay with me. I'll be fine. I need to do something, be somewhere, I can't just waste this moment. Life is too precious. You of all people should understand this. Please, John. Please..." her final word was a mere whisper, and he loved her so much he found it hard to breathe. His beautiful broken angel. I trust you.
He couldn't find his voice to say 'yes', afraid he might be failing her one more time, but he wrapped his arms tight around her, and a moment later they were lying on a chilly plateau in the Andes mountains.
"Oh, my God, the stars," she breathed, soft puffs of white dancing her words into the night. "I forget just how many of them there are. How drowned from view they are in the glare of Old City."
"You remember what it looked like when we were young? Even in London. The sea of white above us every night?"
She turned, neck resting on his upper arm, and she gazed up at him with the starlight reflecting in her too blue eyes. In this place, where the stars weren't overwhelmed by the blackness. "Yes. I remember."
*****
She wanted to dance. In the moonlight, she said. And they were all alone, and he had never been able to deny her. They needed music, she said. So with a goad and a brilliant smile from his lifelong love, he began to sing to her. All alone on a plateau in the Andes.
"I've missed you, John. For so...so long..." she whispered as she let her head sink onto his shoulder. The warm wind ruffled her hair and danced it across his fingers where he held onto her.
"Helen..." His voice wandered on the wind, and he had no other words to give. Not true, he had a thousand words, a thousand confessions and questions and desires and regrets, but not one he could speak to her. Not like this, not tonight.
The moon was unnaturally bright, the stars watching over them like the angels in whom he had lost faith too long ago.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder. "Please..." she whispered. "Please don't disappear. When this is over, it will all be wrong again. Like it's been for so long. Just please... please don't disappear..."
He cradled her head, kissed her temple and tried to breathe.
"When Ashley raised her eyebrows, she could look so much like you."
*****
Helen pulled back, lifted a hand to touch her brow. "Mmmm...."
"Helen?" The concern ached in his bones. This was insane. He wanted to rip that god forsaken creature out of her brain.
"I'm really dizzy..." Her words were slurring. "John, I..."
She wilted in his arms like a limp flower and he caught her weight and whisked them back to her Sanctuary.
****
She jerked conscious with a start. Adrenaline burned her fingers and her heart was pounding against her ribs.
John. John sat nearby. With her movement, he pushed to his feet and stepped up beside the bed. "Hello, there," he said, fingers lightly catching her own.
Helen blinked at him, looked around her rooms, recognizing where she was but struggling for a firm grasp on time and order of events. Plan. Beetle. Tripping. John. Something...oh, God... "What happened?"
John's manner was almost painfully calm against her racing thoughts. "Nothing. You just fell asleep for a while. I think your...'high' was wearing down. Best to sleep it off, I imagine."
Helen sniffed, fighting to clear her head once and for all. She nodded a bit at John's words, absorbing all she could and struggling to sort her bearings. She pushed to sit up straighter in bed, noting there seemed to be more pillows behind her than she had left there. She ran her fingers through her hair, combing her wind-tangled locks behind her ears. Wait...wind? "Is there some water?" she asked, wincing as she cleared her sore throat.
John was instantly attentive. "Yes, of course, right here." He reached behind a vase of flowers and produced a crystal glass which he placed in her hands. She sipped at the cool water, trying to keep it slow, but she felt desperately thirsty and wanted to finish this glassful and three more. The cool liquid worked like a balm on her throat, and seemed to soothe and energize her wrung-out body.
"Thank you," she murmured at last, and she passed the glass back into John's hands.
"How are you feeling?"
She gave the question a moment's genuine assessment. "Better," she said softly. "Well, no, obviously, not better, but...sober." They exchanged an almost self-conscious smile. "Bit of a headache."
John watched her, tender concern washing off his skin.
"Were we...," she sighed, floundering among fragmented images, "were we in the Andes?" she asked, unable to hide an undertone of wonder.
John offered a sad little smile. "You were quite insistent, I'm afraid."
"The EM shield, is it--?"
"Up and running. All is well."
"Oh, god..." She swiped a hand over her face, tried again to smooth her hair.
"How's your throat?"
"Stiff, but all right. Headache's the worst of it."
"Helen...it's only going to get worse from here."
She shook her head. "I shouldn't begin to feel the ill effects for a least another day."
"And then what? Helen... I'm asking you one more time to reconsider. There's still time."
She kept her expression kind, but there was no give in her words. "I've come too far, John," she said simply. "My team is the best. It will work."
He looked pained for a long time. "I wish I could share your confidence."
She didn't reply.
"Tell me one thing. Just one thing, and then I'll go."
She lifted her eyebrows, asking.
"Would you have done this, this way, if Ashley were still alive?"
He couldn't have caught her more off guard if he'd tried. She stared at him like a misplaced child, moved her mouth as if to speak but the words remained out of her reach.
John lowered his eyes and merely nodded.
"John, that's hardly fair. I wouldn't have wanted to put her through the worry, watching her mother... And if I had asked her to play along, she would never--"
But he wasn't listening, he'd heard all he needed or wanted to hear. He stepped forward and leaned in, cradled his hand to the side of her jaw and pressed a strong kiss to her forehead. "Stay safe," he said, voice low against her skin.
"John, w--"
But before she could catch his fingers -- he was gone.
Helen sat catching her breath in the suddenly silent room.
"Thank you," she whispered helplessly to the empty air, voice sounding as small and broken as she felt. The room seemed horridly cold all of the sudden, and she thought maybe this was what the comedown was about. This was the opposite of the high.
She sat alone in the hollow chill.
She was due downstairs in half an hour. To kill one of her oldest friends.
*
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