While the Sands O' Life Shall Run
A/N: Totally obsessed with the charming Ch5 production of All Creatures Great & Small. We've just gotten the second season here in the U.S., and I found myself thinking about how James & Helen's relationship might have progressed off the screen. This story goes AU from the end of Ep6; the Christmas special is sweet, but we know from the books that they didn't wait months to get married (and with that chemistry, who would expect it?). In any case, hope you enjoy!
Rated T for the moment, but further chapters could get...more interesting. ;-)
Chapter One: A Red, Red Rose
"Jeannette Alderson!" James started as he heard Helen's angry whisper. "I didn't raise you to spy on folks! Up to your room!"
"Shouldn't you be in a better mood?" the answer floated back down the stairs, accompanied by the sound of clattering feet and clicking paws.
James just had time to palm the tiny ring box and slip it into his pocket before Helen rounded the door into the kitchen.
He'd been sitting there for the better part of an hour, running the gauntlet of Mr. Alderson's fiancé inspection…which had mostly entailed listening to memories of Helen's mother Joan and drinking far more whiskey than was advisable, considering the long drive back to Skeldale House. Mr. Alderson had been generous with his permission as well as the liquor, bestowing Joan's engagement ring on him. As for James, he hadn't "gabbled" nearly as much as he might have. All in all, he felt a pleasant sense of accomplishment.
Helen apparently didn't agree. "All right, you two," she said brusquely, just as Mr. Alderson—Richard—lifted the bottle to pour James another slug. James tried to wave him off, to no avail.
"Oh…why not?' he grinned, clinking tumblers with Richard. Just as he raised his glass, however, Helen came behind him, plucking it neatly out of his hand.
"That's enough—Dad, you needn't be trying to pickle our James before he even joins the family."
"Ach, the lad's reet," protested Richard, and "I'm fine!" James echoed. He stood up quickly—too quickly—and wobbled noticeably before sitting down again.
"Are ye now?" Helen folded her arms, the sarcasm in her tone cutting through the cotton wool in James' brain. She turned to the window, where a white mist blocked out the sky. "Don't matter anyway—fog's come in. You won't be getting down the village tonight."
"I don't want to be any trouble," James protested.
She shook her head, but there was the tiniest quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "It's no trouble." She plunked down large glasses of water and ham-and-cheese butties in front of he and Richard. "Take that in, or your 'eads'll be a mess tomorrow, you daft beggars. I'll get some blankets for the sofa."
"Bossy, she is," Richard nodded his head at his retreating daughter.
James couldn't help himself. "I think it's a bit late for a warning on that score."
The pair of them dissolved in giggles that would've been more befitting of Jenny than two grown men.
A few minutes later, with the butty soaking up some of the whiskey, James felt considerably steadier on his feet as he collected their plates. "I'll take care of these," he said, putting them by the sink. "And Richard—I thank you." He stuck out his hand and the older man shook it. Seeming to feel that he'd displayed enough emotion for one evening, he nodded shortly. "See that the door's barred before ye turn in, lad."
"Of course," promised James, but Richard had already gone.
He went through to the lounge just as Helen came in, arms full of linens. The room was dark and cold, generally reserved for "company" use, and she struggled around her burden, trying to push the light switch. James hurried forward to help and nearly came a cropper when a small end table jumped into his path.
The overhead fixture buzzed and sizzled, but no light was forthcoming. "That's another fuse blown," Helen sighed, tumbling the quilts and pillows onto the wide Chesterfield.
"D'you have a torch? I'll go take a look at the box," James offered.
"Not sure you'd be able to see your way to it, in this soup. That's alright—we'll need a fire to warm this place up anyway, else you'll have icicles on your nose by mornin'!"
James knelt down by the grate. "I can do that, at least. Won't be a moment."
And, indeed, a merry blaze graced the grate just a few minutes later. He brushed his hands off and straightened up, noticing for the first time a landscape painting of the Dales above the black marble mantlepiece. In the dim glow, he could make out a ribbon of road between two rock walls leading to a snug farmhouse, nestled in green fields.
"Why that's—"
"Heston Grange," Helen said softly, from just behind him. "Me mum painted it."
"It's beautiful. She had a rare talent," he replied, turning to face her.
She was gazing at the painting with something like regret. "Aye. Wanted to go to art college, she did, but her parents thought it was beneath them. So she married a Dales farmer instead," Helen smiled wistfully. "When she died, she made me promise to make sure our Jenny got to follow her dreams."
"And what does Jenny dream of?"
"Well, since you came, all she talks about is becomin' a vet." She bumped him with her shoulder. "If we can find the money, o'course." Avoiding his eye, she smoothed down her skirt and said quickly, "It's a few years off, so no sense worrying about it now."
"Helen." James put his finger under her chin, tipping her face til their eyes met. "If Jenny's after going to any kind of college, we'll make it happen. What you want for the future—we'll figure it out."
"You're a good man, James Herriott." She smiled up at him tremulously.
"Whatever I am, I'm yours." Stroking a thumb over her cheek, he threaded his fingers through her hair and brought her mouth to his.
As much time as they had spent together in the last few months, the physical side of their relationship was largely unexplored. James kissed her, often, but always softly, gently, giving her ample space to pull back and stopping before she did. Perhaps it was his native caution (what Siegfried had decried as "lacking the courage of his convictions"), or perhaps he was reading Helen right and she wasn't ready to move things along. It wasn't that he didn't want more—indeed, he couldn't be within ten feet of her without aching to touch her, and images of her bedeviled him waking and sleeping; he'd taken more cold baths lately than warm ones. True to form, though, he hadn't been brave enough to bring up the subject, so he didn't really know where she stood.
But tonight, something had changed. Perhaps the whiskey had given him good old Yorkshire courage, or perhaps he felt bolder since plunging forward up on the Dales earlier that afternoon. In any case, he let out the rein of his passion and kissed her deeply, savoring the taste of her lips, the feel of her hair cascading through his fingers, the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her blouse.
He swept her chestnut locks aside and kissed the spot that had been tantalizing him for weeks, every time she wore her hair up: that sweet, smooth place just below her ear. She sighed, and he was lost: holding Helen to him while he buried his face in her neck, running one hand down her spine til it hit the waistband of her skirt. Somewhere, a long way away, he heard her say his name, but it wasn't until she put a hand on his chest and pushed that he came back to himself.
Raising his head, he looked at her as he tried to catch his breath. There was an intensity in her dark eyes he had never seen—and before he could ask what it meant, she had slipped out of his arms and was striding across the room, toward the door that led upstairs.
"Helen—" He pushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "I'm sorry—I don't know what came over me—"
She didn't look back at him. She was obviously angry, and he couldn't blame her. He turned, resting his elbow on the mantle. Idiot, he thought. Brute!
Closing his eyes, he waited for the inevitable slam of the door. To his surprise, he heard instead a soft snick as the old-fashioned bar fell into the latch. Cautiously, he turned back around.
Helen was leaning against the now-closed door, her expression still unreadable. But at least she wasn't stomping upstairs in a huff.
"Are—are you angry with me?"
Slowly, she crossed back toward him, coming to a halt a few steps away.
Not close enough to touch.
"No." She came one step closer, and he saw that her eyes were twinkling, not snapping. "But we can't be kissin' with the door open, not since our Jenny has taken to peeping from the stairs."
"Oh, thank God." A relieved breath rushed out of him. "It's just—I haven't—I've never kissed you like that before." His cheeks hot, he felt vaguely ridiculous.
"True enough," she agreed, folding her arms. "And might I ask, why not?"
"I wasn't sure—I didn't—"
"James," she interrupted his excuses, which were obviously going nowhere, and came close to him once again. "I'm twenty-three years old. If you were lookin' to be my first kiss, you should've shown up twelve years ago."
He laughed with relief at her teasing tone, as she put her arms around his neck. His heart, which had been galloping first with desire and then with anxiety, started to slow. Then what she'd said struck him.
"Eleven! Isn't that a little young?"
She shrugged. "It were Tommy Panzer. He were a young scalawag, but harmless. We was playin' blind man's bluff an' he caught me…said 'e'd let me go if I gave 'im a kiss. So I did." She grinned cheekily up at him. "You didn't answer my question."
"Which question?" James asked absently, preoccupied with a mental picture of an overall-wearing young Helen bussing a spotty, scrawny boy. He felt an irrational urge to reach into the image and haul the boy off by the scruff of his neck.
Helen put both hands on his face to capture his glance, and his brain returned to the present. "Why," she asked slowly, "are ye only just now kissin' me like you're goin' through the desert and I'm a drink o' water?"
Closing the gap between them, he pulled her up flush against him. "Don't think I haven't wanted to…I started falling in love with you the very first time I saw you—"
"From up on the paddock wall, y'mean?"
"Never going to let me live that down, are you?" He smiled, but then turned serious. "All that time you were with Hugh, engaged to Hugh, it seemed hopeless. And then, when I went into the church, and you were still there…alone…it was like a miracle. When I finally got my chance with you, I couldn't mess it up by pushing you too hard or too fast…"
"It's a good job you're done overthinkin' things." The sarcasm was gentler this time, and there was a new softness in her eyes.
He stepped away from her for a moment, turning back to the fire and raking a hand through his hair. "I'm not sure I am done. I still have questions—I don't know what you want, how you want to go about things—"
"Might be easier to show you," she said, pulling a quilt from the bundle on the sofa and laying it in front of the fire. She piled two pillows atop it. Kicking off her shoes, she sat down and curled her legs underneath her. "Come on down here an' let your poor overworked head have a rest."
James hesitated, thinking of Jenny and Richard, somewhere nearby. Helen read his thoughts and laughed. "Mind out of the gutter, Mr. Herriott—" he blushed, for that was indeed where his mind was headed—"I'm only after a spot of canoodlin'. We are engaged, y'know."
He was by her side in about a second, brushing the hair off her face and leaning in to kiss her softly. "Not having second thoughts, then?"
"Don't give me cause," she said, mock-sternly. Sweeping her hair back over one shoulder, she ran a finger down the open collar of his shirt. "Seems we've taken a long way 'round to get back to where we started 'alf an hour ago." Her voice was low and a small smile played on her lips…and even James understood it was an invitation.
After that, it was all delicious sensation and discovery. At first, he let her take the lead, holding himself back til he was sure what she wanted. Gradually, though, he got more confident, tracing the line of her neck with his tongue and thrilling to her sighs in response.
Just as he pressed his lips to the hollow above her collarbone, however, she let out a little giggle and he pulled back. "Ticklish?"
"No…just…happy." She ran her fingers inside his collar and he shivered. "I love you, James."
He would never, never tire of hearing those words, and certainly not like this, propped up on his elbows with her warm and soft underneath him. "I love you, mo chridhe."
She raised an eyebrow at the Gaelic, and he translated: "My heart."
"Mo chridhe," she repeated. "That's lovely."
"It's fitting for you, then." He rested his forehead against hers.
She slipped her hand into the gap in his shirt, resting her palm against his chest. "I want to feel your heart against mine," she whispered, unfastening the few remaining buttons and slipping the shirt off his shoulders. Now there was nothing between them but the thin cotton of his undershirt and the even more delicate satin of her camisole.
They lay there for a long moment. James sensed that they were on the edge of something: the firelight sparked red off Helen's hair, flickered over her lips, swollen with their kisses, and danced across her lovely white shoulders. He bent to press a kiss right where her heart beat, strong and true, and the words tumbled from him: "Tha mi gad iarraidh."
"What's that, then?" she whispered.
He wasn't sure he had the courage to tell her, in words she could actually understand. But something in him was stronger than he thought, because he said, "I want you, love. God, how I've wanted you."
Her breath hitched, and he could see in her widening eyes that she felt the same. His mouth found that tender spot below her ear again; she arched into his touch, and he was nearly undone.
Until he remembered where they were. And who was sleeping upstairs.
Sighing, he rolled onto his back and pulled her to lay on his chest while they both caught their breaths. If he could stop time, he thought, he might do it—just—now—with this wanting singing in his veins, and the knowledge that tomorrow—and all the tomorrows—he would wake up, and she would still be his.
James sat up. "We'd best be getting you put back together."
"I must look a fright." Helen tried to tame her springing curls with one hand, reaching for her blouse with the other.
He laughed, low. "Oh, no. I only hope I can make you look like that every day."
She blushed as he pulled her blouse back over her shoulders. With hands that trembled slightly, he did up the buttons and helped her to stand.
"You goin' to be alright, down here?"
"Aye. Go on with you, now."
Helen leaned into him, just for a second, and kissed his cheek. "Sweet dreams, then."
She had no idea.
A/N: The title and chapter headings are taken from Robert Burns' poem, "A Red, Red Rose."
Reviews much appreciated!