Right, well, this is just a pointless little drabble that irritated me until I finally posted it. Enjoy! (:
Helen Druitt. The name haunted him, forever seared in his memory as so many other painful things seemed to be. Not Helen Magnus. Not Helen Tesla. Not even Helen bloody Watson. It had to be Helen Druitt. It couldn't have been him; oh no, it could never have been him. After all, if it had been him, her hatred would probably have driven her to suicide long before she was fully healed. No, it seemed Nikola Tesla wasn't good enough for her; not even in a screwed up dream world.
He wouldn't give up, though. He would keep trying. He would try to stave off his addiction, and prevent himself from thoroughly pillaging her cellars for the expensive wines he knew she was hiding. He would dampen down the sexual innuendo. He would spend more time with her, though only as a friend, not as a pushy Serbian who wished to court her. He would try to salvage the friendship they had back when they were both young and attending Oxford. He would go back to the times before John Druitt and James Watson and Nigel Griffin and every other person that had interfered with them. He would go back to that mindset, and he would gently woo her. He would try to be better than he was and hope and pray that it was enough.
In the back of his mind, however, a deep, twisted, self-loathing part of himself kept whispering that it would never be enough; Nikola Tesla was never, nor would ever be good enough for Helen Magnus.
Reviews are like a couch that continually puts you and Jonathon Young in compromising positions. ;)