The Chimera preview has me ridiculously excited. Ridiculously. Hence this chapter.
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Helen changed quickly, retrieving a leather dress from the back of her wardrobe, and returned to find James burning the items in the sack. She'd left Nikola upstairs to find some clothes himself to fit in more readily in the era.
"James," Helen said, warningly, as he looked at her phone longingly. It was difficult for someone with such a vividly curious mind as his to simply discard items from 100 years in the future.
"Yes," James said, throwing the phone to join its sibling futuristic items into the fire with a last longing glance.
"Is this better?" she said, holding out her arms when he turned to her.
"Much," James said, approvingly. "If it were not for the darker shade of hair I would have thought you were..."
"Myself?" Helen said, somewhat amused.
"I like it, by the way," James said, indicating her hair.
"Thank you," she said.
"Where is Nikola?" he said, looking around her, as though the other man would be lurking in the doorway.
"He's upstairs changing," Helen said, "He was pilfering your wardrobe with a critical eye last I saw him. Honestly, he was taking longer than I was." James smirked and shook his head.
"Same old Nikola then," he said. Helen nodded.
"Some things never change," she said, a little wistfully. It was hard to stand beside James, even at this point so far in their past, knowing his fate. She had missed him dearly ever since losing him in the ancient vampire city a few years ago.
"But some things do," James said.
"I recognise that tone," Helen said, narrowing her eyes, "And that look in your eyes, James."
"You and Nikola," James said, "You are...together...in the future."
It wasn't a question, and Helen was momentarily stunned by the inference.
"Nikola and I? What would prompt you say such a thing, James?" Helen said.
James regarded her with quizzical amusement.
"Come now, Helen," James said, "I know you cannot risk telling me too much about the future, yet you and Nikola are here together. I've been watching the two of you."
"James..." Helen said.
"It seems rather obvious," James continued. Once James began a rant about a new discovery, it was often rather hard to break his train of thought. The fact that he was so often right unsettled Helen somewhat, especially considering his current line of thought. "You don't need to hide it, Helen, I won't tell your present self. Nor Nikola's present self. I have to admit, I'm not surprised in the least. I always saw something between the two of you back at Oxford, and I did wonder at it before you and John began your courtship."
"James, there's really nothing to – what?" Helen said, a little stunned at his words, so casually spoken. Of course, she herself had always wondered about whether there could have been a chance at her and Nikola being, well, her and Nikola. But she had thought they hadn't been that obvious.
"Please, Helen," James said in amusement, "I wasn't the only one to suspect either. I know that your father was quite concerned for a time." He had an amused twinkle in his eyes and Helen could only gape. She knew her father had never quite taken to Nikola as much as he had to the others, Nikola was a difficult personality after all. But she'd never thought it was because he'd suspected anything untoward going on between her and the Serb.
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Nikola stood scrutinizing the fabric of one of Watson's shirts. It was too large for his wiry frame, and Nikola did so detest when his clothes didn't fit properly. Why Helen insisted he change he had no idea. His clothes were reminiscent enough of the era to be plausible, if not a little eccentric. But Helen had insisted they not stand out if they could help it.
He was tossing up between two shirts when he heard the faint sound of footsteps walking outside the door. Thinking it his Helen, he opened it a fraction intending to call her for her opinion on the matter, and saw the retreating form of Helen. But this one had one distinct difference, this Helen had blonde hair.
She – past Helen – was headed to the bedroom where his Helen must have vacated only minutes ago. He could only imagine the mess that would have occurred had she decided to come up a few minutes earlier.
She was wearing a long black over-coat on top of her pink vest, her blonde hair tied up in a bun. He briefly recognised the ensemble from the time, when he'd visited England. He was surprised at the stirring of emotion within him upon seeing her blonde hair. It reminded him so much of her, of their past, of the feelings he'd spent so many years diligently trying to suppress. One look at her, and they'd all come bubbling back to the surface, simmering dangerously just as they had then.
God, how he wanted to call out to her, to follow her and pin her against the wall and kiss her. To taste her soft lips upon his own. It was yearning he'd experienced so often back in their days at Oxford and the years following with frightening need. He'd been so hopelessly in love with her. Not that he didn't experience similar desires with her in their future – their present he supposed really – but he'd spent so many years accepting the fact that she would never look at him in the same way. Back then there had always been that hope, he'd always imagined a life together, the two of them side-by-side through the ages sharing in adventure after adventure.
He'd spent a century accepting that Helen didn't share in his feelings. She loved him, he knew, of course she did, but just as a friend. Despite his innuendo laden comments, he never really expected anything to come of them. Because truth be told he didn't want it to simply be an affair or a fling with her, he couldn't handle that. She was the woman he'd fallen hopelessly in love with all those years ago, the woman who had always held his heart in her hand.
It had been so painful for him to watch her give her heart to another man, then to be hurt so deeply by that man. He'd been so angry then, angry at her for loving someone else, angry at John for hurting her, but mostly angry at himself for not being the man worthy of holding her affection. He knew his counterpart self in this time was still brooding over that pain, still miserably pining over her.
It would be so easy to change everything, to erase all of those years of misery and pain, to just walk into that room and to kiss her. She would think he was her Nikola. He could tell her that he loved her – do what he had never had the courage to do then – say that he had always loved her and hope she wouldn't reject him. He could wipe away all those years of lonely pining.
His hand gripped the doorknob. He was sorely tempted.
But then he thought of his Helen, waiting for him downstairs. His Helen would was always there for him, always saving his troublesome hide when he got into predicaments. His Helen who put up with his eccentricities and who cared for him despite it all. The only person who had ever truly understood him.
As easy as it would be to waltz into her room and change their future, he still loved her too much now to erase her timeline. He may have loved her then, but he loved the person she had become. All of the things she'd done, the life she had made, she had a family and her work which she loved. He wasn't stuck on an image of her in the past. His love had stayed steady through the years, they'd both changed, but that had remained. She meant too much to him now to risk altering the timeline simply so his present self could bed her in another timeline.
That wasn't what love was.
So Nikola released his grip on the doorknob and returned to the room, picking up the nearest shirt and replacing his old one with it.
He knew despite the pain, self-loathing and self-pity his Victorian-era self was wallowing in right now, he, future Nikola, could still stand by Helen's side and fight to make sure that their future – her future – remained intact.