Author's Note: This little ditty was generated by Amanda Tapping's Tweet regarding Helen's feelings for John after their time together in Season 3. "CONFLICTED!" Amanda said when asked how Helen felt about John. "She loves him more than she can logically understand. But when has love ever been truly logical?" This story, which takes place the night before they leave for Hollow Earth, was born from that Tweet. The title I borrowed from Pink Floyd. Sanctuary belongs to someone else. My words, however, are my own. Enjoy and PLEASE REVIEW!
A Momentary Lapse of Reason
Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig
John Druitt sat in shadow watching Helen Magnus draw comfort from the familiar, embracing her role as leader and preparing her team for their mission. Snippets of directives hung like snowflakes in the air, the sound of her voice melting into his mind as the words left her lips.
"Henry, make sure you bring the …Will, I need you to…Kate pack the…."
The act of preparation, of planning, was a necessary distraction from the war waging within her. Druitt understood that. He wondered, though, when the distraction was over, orders finalized, equipment packed, and her staff dismissed, how Helen would deal with the silence. Would she ignore the enemy as she had been doing, acknowledging her physical limitations only when forced? Would she confront it, challenge it to rise up and overpower her? Or would she give in, permitting herself a moment of weakness?
More importantly, Druitt wondered, when the silence finally came, would she turn to him for comfort? Did she trust him enough to do that for her? Did a part of her still love him enough to even try?
Helen knew John knew. She didn't have to look at him to tell. She could feel his concern radiating off of his skin, in the way he watched her move, tapped his fingers against his thigh, the compassion she caught in his eyes when she ventured a glance in his direction.
He sat in a dark corner of the room, silent, watching her work. Helen Magnus focused on the tangible, running down the list of equipment they would need on a mission of this kind in this location of the world. Dealing with what was known and preparing as best she could for the unknown grounded her. Any other time this adventure would be exhilarating, but given her current condition, Helen found herself only anxious and desperate to hide it.
She knew he knew that too.
A few years together, a hundred years apart, yet John recognized with telltale ease the signs of her stress, the crease on her brow, the hesitation in her step, the slightly elevated pitch of her voice. But did he know how his presence affected her? He'd told her, not so long ago, when his mind and body were clear that he loved her, "for all eternity."
Did he realize how much she still loved him in return?
She'd been too afraid, too well disciplined to acknowledge it. So she let the moment pass and lived with the regret of it. Yet when she found him just days ago, barely lucid in a Cambodian drug house, the physical need to be with him, to feel, just for a short time, a hint of the love they once shared, was so overwhelming that she had no will to fight it.
She prayed to God he hadn't noticed her momentary stumble and, if he had, that he was too high to care.
Magnus' staff rushed off, assignments in hand. The room fell silent except for the steady hum of Helen's computer and the ticking of the mantle clock she'd received as a gift long ago from her father, Gregory. A lone banker's lamp, green and brass, sat on her desk, dimly lighting the room while leaving John Druitt in shadow.
She wished he'd go, let her be, give her time to think.
So much had happened so quickly: Adam, the City, her illness, John's return. She barely had time to deal with it let alone process it all. She'd had no time to restore the mask she so stoically wore, to rebuild her defenses, to make herself less…vulnerable.
Helen sat down behind her desk, purposefully putting a physical barrier between them. Maybe if she gave him a directive, dismissed him, he'd take the hint and leave.
"John, you should go rest. You're still not entirely well, and you'll be teleporting all of us tomorrow. We leave early."
She heard him stand. The rustle of his clothes grew louder as he approached her, his face emerging in the dim light.
"Let me stay with you, Helen" he said softly. She assumed he meant on the mission.
She shook her head. "I need you to stay here with Nikola. Someone has to watch Adam. If anything should go wrong….Besides, only one of us can enter the city undetected, you know that."
He nodded in understanding but didn't leave. He simply stood there gazing at her, his eyes saying a million words she was afraid to hear. So she closed her own, trying to shut him out and wish him away. He was too close, and she was too tired.
Rather than go, John moved around the heavy, wooden table, pushed back the papers, journals, and notes, and sat on her desk, his hands draped lightly in his lap.
"Talk to me, Helen" he urged her gently.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and her heart caught in her throat.
She loved this man more than she could logically understand. But then again, when was love ever really logical?
She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn't seen, but he had… her momentary lapse of reason.
He reached down and laid his hands on top of hers, and she let him. They were warm and soft and comforting. She had always marveled at how large John's hands were compared to her own. She remembered a morning long ago, the rain lightly falling outside, John whispering sweet words in her ear, her holding the palm of her hand against his, comparing the two, his fingers an inch or longer than her own. She'd told him then that he had the hands of an artist, maybe a pianist or a surgeon, and John had laughed.
Not long after that, the killings had begun.
Helen closed her eyes and tried to pull her hands away, but John grabbed hold of them and held on. She looked up at him in surprise.
"Let me stay with you tonight as you stayed with me," he whispered so quietly she could barely hear him.
He knew. Despite his drug-addled state, he'd known she was there in his bed lying next to him. She swallowed hard, not sure how to respond.
"You shouldn't be alone, Helen," he continued. "And I am…myself tonight." He didn't need to explain what he meant. He knew that she understood.
A quivering breath left her lips. It would be so easy to slip into his arms. He'd offered nothing more than that…to hold her, be with her. And if she wanted more….
God, how she wanted more!
He leaned down, loosed one hand to tilt her chin up, then stroked her cheek so feather light she wasn't sure it was real. He bent down toward her, his breath warm against her face, smelling of wine and a scent so strong her heart nearly burst from the memory of it. He leaned in, his lips barely brushing hers. She could smell his cologne mixed with his sweat. He was nervous, hesitant, like the first time their lips had met on a cold winter's day behind a bookshelf at Oxford….
Helen found herself spinning, reeling, falling uncontrollably. She dug down deep within herself, searching for the gravity to hold on, and pulled herself back to the surface, John's lips never fully touching hers.
"I've been alone for more than a century, John. What does one more night matter?" she said painfully looking up at him, doing her best to keep the tears at bay.
The silence hung between them like a shroud. This time John closed his eyes and nodded, released his hold on her much smaller hands and pulled away, leaving her fingers cold and empty and her heart full of regret again.
He stood up to leave, rounded the desk, and crossed the room to the door, looking back at her. To see if she would change her mind? He wasn't sure.
She returned his gaze as he stood there. Her eyes said a million words, but her lips were still. John finally nodded his goodnight and left, hoping someday a momentary lapse of reason would let her find her voice once more.
END