FIC: (not much else) as sweet as this (Santuary; Magnus/Tesla, NC-17)

[tellitslant]

Title: (not much else) as sweet as this
Author: tellitslant
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/pairing: Magnus/Tesla
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 5000
Disclaimer: Characters are property of SyFy. This is a transformative work; no infringement is intended.
Thanks: To sophia_gratia, whose betas are one of the best things about writing in this fandom. :P
Notes: Written for atatteredrose in sanctuary_santa 2011. Originally posted at the AO3.
Warnings: None. Set somewhere in season four; no real spoilers past "Tempus."
Summary: It's been a hundred and thirteen years for Helen since she and Will were stuck in the psychworm's dream-world, yet sometimes it still seems all too real. Talking about it might help, she thinks - but with whom?


But wave and blow me one more kiss
You're a dead eye, baby, you never miss
There's not much else as sweet as this
I waved so hard I broke my wrist
But don't act broken, even when you're broken
- "Don't Be Crushed," Hawksley Workman

*

She and Will never speak of their time in the psychworm's dream-world. Perhaps it's still too raw for him; after all, she has a hundred and thirteen years' more distance from its disturbing cocktail of bliss and despair. She knows he remembers it, not least because she does so herself. She sees it in his eyes, sometimes, when he looks at Abby, much as she feels it when her fingers tingle, aching for the smooth wooden handle of a paintbrush.

Helen is no artist, not in the real world. Oh, she's a competent draughtswoman, capable of rendering the anatomical detail of an Abnormal or recording a surgical procedure. But the ability to capture the spirit of an object rather than merely the form... that, not even a century of desultory practice has given her. No, her artistic ambitions far outstrip her skill: frustrating, for someone as focused on success as she is. That doesn't stop the doodles from creeping into her notes, though; her normally pristine paperwork now sprouts a border of half-finished sketches whenever she gets distracted.

It's Nikola who catches her at it, of course, one night when she's absorbed in a drawing that seems almost presentable. She's concentrating so hard that she genuinely doesn't hear him until he leans over her shoulders from behind, startling her so that the pen goes flying. She flattens her hands on top of the sketch and curses herself a moment later. Her instinctive secrecy is a revelation in its own right – and it's one she's not thrilled to share with Nikola, who'll never leave her alone until he knows what she wanted to hide.

"Why, Helen," he says, leaning one hip against the edge of her desk. "Drawing naughty pictures of me again? You know you have but to ask if you want the real thing for your viewing pleasure." She glares up at him, but he merely grins back, nudging her hands with one long finger. "Come now, let's see," he says. "I want to be sure you've gotten the proportions correct."

She gives in with as much grace as she can muster. Rolling her eyes, she lifts her hands away and folds them into her lap to hide their shaking. The subject is not Nikola, of course, but it's almost more revealing.

She draws Ashley often, as if to make up for the fact that her daughter never existed in the universe where Helen had the talent to do her memory justice. Much more sparse than Helen's usual style, this sketch captures her in profile with just a few lines: the blunt cut of her fringe and the straight bridge of her nose, the curve of her jawline and the way her hair fanned out around her mid-spin. It is recognizably Ashley, and Helen has been puzzling over whether more detail will flesh it out or ruin it completely.

Nikola touches the stark lines gently, almost reverently. "Oh, Helen," he says, his tone devoid of its usual levity. "I didn't know you were an artist."

"I'm not," she protests automatically. "It's just that I remember– " She chokes off the rest of the words before they can spill out, centuries of secrecy coming to the fore.

Her need for privacy vies with the gnawing ache that thoughts of Ashley always brings, but Nikola's hand on her shoulder brings her sharply to the realization that she craves the connection that confession might bring. She looks up into unexpectedly concerned eyes and thinks, Why not? For all the things he has been to her over the years, still Nikola is likely the only person alive to whom she can unburden herself without fear of judgment. Talking about the dream-world might exorcise some of the demons that still haunt her. "Fetch us a bottle of wine, Nikola," she says, and smiles to see his surprise. "I've a tale to tell you."

"A bedtime story. How wonderful," he says, squeezing her shoulder briefly before he departs.

She builds up the fire, takes off her jacket, and is curled in the corner of the sofa with a blanket around her when he returns with bottle, decanter, and crystalware. "Let it breathe," he advises, handing her a glass, but she ignores him and takes a hefty swallow. It's far too good a vintage to treat in that manner – trust Nikola – but the alcohol steadies her in a way she hadn't even known she needed. She has another, more genteel sip, letting the flavours of years long past burst on her tongue, and begins to talk.

She tells him more than she meant to. He sits too close on the sofa but listens intently, wineglass dangling forgotten from his fingers. From the attack she still doesn't remember to the paintings she can't replicate, John's presence to the Lorazepam, Ashley's erasure to the final desperate suicide-dive off the mountainside – she tells him everything and he absorbs it all.

After the long rush of speech, she stops abruptly. He stares through her for a frozen moment. Exhausted, she sips at her wine. Reminded of his, he drains his glass; before he speaks, he refills them both.

"But how extraordinary, Helen," he says at last. "Your entire life, reimagined to give you everything you thought you wanted." She shifts uncomfortably, remembering the disorientation of that world of her mind, and draws the knitted blanket closer around her.

Nikola tucks the blanket edges under her, for once heeding her visible anxiety. "Of course," he says, fingers drifting across the curve of her thigh, "you should have known at once that it wasn't real." She tilts her head in inquiry, knowing he needs no more encouragement. "Helen, really!" He gestures to himself. "I wasn't there!"

Helen rolls her eyes. "Not everything has to be about you, Nikola, you narcissist," she says. His insensitivity is somehow reassuring, though, placing things in perspective even as it annoys her.

"Well, no, but." He pouts a bit. "You mean I wasn't part of it at all?" She shifts, looking away, and he pounces on the inadvertent movement. "I was there! Oh, Helen, you're blushing," he points out with glee. "You must tell me everything now."

"You weren't in the days I lived through, no," she says slowly, hiding her flushed face behind the wide rim of her wineglass. "You were present in the world, though. You were in some of my memories."

"Ooh," he says delightedly, sliding further into her space. "Sordid ones, I expect."

"They weren't complete," she continues as if he hadn't spoken. "But you were certainly there. You were– "

"No, don't tell me," he interjects. "Let me guess. I was a dashing scientist. A forensic pathologist, perhaps? We met at some deadly dull work function of your husband's and began a torrid affair right under his nose?"

She notices Nikola doesn't say John's name. Instead of the pang usually provoked by even an oblique reminder of his existence, another revelation distracts her. "No, you were an artist too," she corrects Nikola. Part of her world, not John's; she sees Nikola reach the same conclusion.

"A sculptor," she adds, patching together half-real memories. "You worked with metal, naturally – built these massive pieces that dwarfed every gallery they were exhibited in. You were– " She laughs and touches Nikola's shoulder lightly. "You were the reason I stopped showing my work publicly. We had a massive row one opening night because the idiot gallerist had put my paintings in the shadow of one of your monstrosities. I gashed my palm open trying to shove it out of the light..." She trails off, looking at her hand as if there should be a visible scar.

Nikola takes her hand in his own, tracing her lifeline in lieu of any mark he might have left on her. "A competitor, and someone who brings you pain," he says softly. "Is that truly how you see me now, Helen?"

There is real hurt in his voice, and Helen closes her hands around his. "Let me finish," she says. "I cut my palm, and I was bleeding all over the place. The gallerist was hysterical because there was blood spattering the floor, your agent was hysterical because I'd dared bleed on your sculpture, my agent was hysterical because I'd injured my painting hand... you just ignored all of them and whisked me off to the toilets to fix me up."

She smiles at the memory, real or not. "I kept telling you I could take care of myself, but with only one working hand I really couldn't. Every time I lowered my hand below the level of my heart the bleeding got worse. You cleaned the cut while I sat on the floor of the toilet, and you bound it with your waistcoat and tie. John was away on business, so you took me to the emergency room and waited while I got stitches."

His thumb caresses the fleshy mound at the base of her palm and she shivers. "And then you drove me home, and I said something like, 'You can't go home in that shirt or the neighbours will think you're a serial killer' – you had my blood all over you," she explains, seeing Nikola's eyes widen. Taking a deep breath, she continues. "So you came inside, and you took off your shirt so I could give you a clean one, and, well." She bites her lip. "We didn't actually make it upstairs to the wardrobe."

Nikola crows with laughter. "Helen Magnus," he declares, "that is one of the most clichéd fantasies I've ever heard!"

"I wasn't exactly at my best," she snaps, feeling unaccountably put out. "And besides, I'm a scientist, not a writer – or an artist."

"Never mind, dear Helen." Nikola reaches for her, but not with the passion she'd half-expected the story to provoke. Instead he gathers her up, blanket and all, and resettles her so her head is against his slim chest. She can still feel him vibrate with suppressed laughter occasionally, but the sensation is surprisingly soothing. She feels lighter after speaking of the dream-world, and yet it seems more real than it did before, as if the act of describing it has been both exorcism and summoning.

"So, I can hurt you," he says softly, voice resonating under her cheek. "I can hurt you as much as he does, but the difference is that I never go so far I can't make up for it, is that the message here?"

"Nikola– " She tries to move away from him, but he holds her in place easily, fingers tracing lazy circles on her back through the blanket.

"I have hurt you, Helen," he continues in that same low voice. "Only when I felt I had to, yet I always regretted the necessity. But maybe I haven't displayed sufficient remorse."

He lets her go then and she pushes up, hands on his shoulders to steady herself. His fingers curl over her hip, offering rather than demanding, and his face is calm as she searches it for an ulterior motive.

She hasn't had Nikola in her bed since the War, since before she faked his death and organized his funeral. Six decades had passed before she'd seen him again. He has indeed hurt her very badly since then, but - he's here, isn't he? And a century of inadvertent solitude has blurred all but the worst betrayals.

Could it hurt, to take Nikola as her lover again? Yes; if she's honest with herself, yes, it could end very badly. Yet they've gone from lovers to friends and back again in the past and it has never made her any less willing to shoot him if need be.

To hell with the past, she decides. They'll make some new memories. "What have you done to be sorry for lately?" she whispers, straddling his lap and kissing him before he can reply.

It has been decades since they kissed – many more decades, for her – yet they haven't forgotten the way of it. There is no awkwardness in the meeting of their mouths; he cradles her head in his palm, drawing her close. She remembers snow falling in Vienna in 1911, the pounding spray of Niagara Falls in 1930, the brief moments they've snatched over the years; she remembers, too, the whiff of pyridine in a laboratory at Oxford, their mutual surprise at each others' competence. Their whole history unfurls in her memories. Her skin feels delicate and overly sensitive. Even through the blanket, his fingers leave trails of gooseflesh in their wake.

The fire crackles behind her and warmth blooms under her skin and between her legs. Nikola may be content to kiss all night, but she isn't; she slides a hand between them and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt.

"In a hurry?" he asks, breaking the kiss to nibble gently at her earlobe.

"Inflamed by passion," she answers, undercutting the impact of her sarcasm by trembling under his mouth. "Were you waiting for something in particular?" She tugs his shirt out of his trousers to reach the last few buttons.

"Just thinking." He draws his hands down her back and she arches into him. "We didn't make it upstairs, you said – in the dream-world," he clarifies when she looks at him in puzzlement. "Where did I take you, then? On the kitchen table? The stairs? The floor? Or was it..."

"The sofa," Helen finishes breathlessly.

"The sofa." Nikola grins wickedly, drawing the heavy mass of her hair up with one hand so he can kiss the hollow of her throat. The gesture should be threatening, his teeth sheathed so inadequately behind the shelter of his lips, but she merely tilts her head back further. "Surrounded by canvas and paints, the tools of your trade," he whispers against her skin. "Anyone could've come to the door and seen us, but you simply couldn't resist my charms any longer, is that it?" He slides his hands along her legs, pushing her skirt up until he is gripping her hips, thumbs caressing the tops of her thighs.

Helen opens her eyes – when did she shut them? – and glances around her office, almost surprised to see her collection of Abnormal artefacts rather than a jumble of brushes and easels. Anyone could come in here, too; night is no guarantee of privacy, not in the Sanctuary. Nikola cups her arse, drawing her close against him, and she abandons the idea of propriety. Nikola often has that effect on her, she thinks wryly.

"Maybe I wanted to be sure you wouldn't change your mind," she says, rubbing deliberately against him to distract from her half-truth. She's never harboured any illusions about Nikola's desire for her, merely his vision of its ultimate endpoint.

"Oh yes, inconstant in my affections, that's me," Nikola drawls, sounding vaguely affronted. His fingers play under her skirt, across the silk of her underwear, tantalizingly close to where she needs him to touch. She kisses him to apologize, running her fingers over his smooth chest. He lets go of her to shrug out of his shirt, leaving it crumpled behind him. She still has most of her clothes on, even the blanket over her shoulders; it's surprisingly erotic to have him half-naked beneath her. He's not physically vulnerable, but the effect is the same now that he's baring himself to her.

"This is how all our evenings should start, Helen," Nikola says as if he's reading her thoughts.

"What, with you shirtless? Not that it doesn't have its attractions, but...." She flattens her palm over his heart, where he'd been impaled by a wooden spar in the catacombs under Rome; the skin is perfect, as though the wound never existed.

"But it would be too distracting. I understand." Nikola begins unbuttoning her blouse, barely touching her. "This is how that night started, though, isn't it? Poor shirtless me, waiting to see how you'd thank me for my loyal service."

Under the blanket, Helen is suddenly blazing with heat. She tugs it off, tossing it aside on the couch, and lets her blouse fall to the floor. Nikola grips her waist, his hands cool on her overheated flesh. "And what sort of thanks would you expect?" she asks, running her fingers through his unruly hair.

"What more could I ask than to be allowed to continue my service?" Nikola lifts her easily, standing and turning to lay her out along the length of the sofa. The blanket is soft beneath her; Nikola slides her skirt and underwear off, fabric rasping over her thighs. His fingernails raise gooseflesh where they touch, reminding her of the menace he is keeping sheathed – for now. He is unwontedly tender tonight, but somehow that only makes the danger he can pose more vivid in her mind, and she shivers.

This isn't how it had been in the dream-world. There, she had taken charge, stripping both of them out of their clothes before pulling Nikola down to cover her. Now, she shifts slightly, letting him unfasten her bra and draw it off. It's her turn to be laid bare in front of him, and she's surprised to find she doesn't mind.

"Ah, Helen," he breathes, hands hovering in the air as though he can't decide where to touch her first.

"If you say something absurd, like that I haven't changed a bit..." she threatens, cupping his cheek to take the sting from her words.

"I would never," he assures her. "Not only am I far too clever to spout such inanities, the fact is that you have changed."

Helen blinks up at him. Changed? She's looked at the same face in the mirror almost every day for two centuries, seeking signs that the events she's lived through have left their mark. Nothing's changed. "What in God's name do you mean?" she snaps.

It's Nikola's turn to be taken aback. He stares at her in open surprise before the shutter drops over his eyes and he produces a smug smile. "Well, you're certainly not looking your age," he says, settling a hand familiarly on her hip.

She pushes him away, struggling to a sitting position and wrapping herself in the blanket. "Don't play coy with me, Nikola," she warns. "What do you mean, I've changed?"

Nikola sighs and moves to sit next to her on the sofa. He is visibly aroused, but he doesn't look frustrated at the delay, merely... concerned.

"I don't just mean physically, though there is that." He traces a scar curving over the top of her right knee; she twitches the blanket to cover it, giving him her best get-on-with-it glare. "It's been more than seventy years, Helen," he says, sounding rather put-upon. "This is a different age, with different challenges. We inhabit a different space. The very world has changed. How could you not have?"

Helen usually banishes all thoughts of John from her mind when she is with other lovers. It isn't fair to them, or to her. Now, however, she can't help but remember their last exchange in the tunnels of Hollow Earth: John's desire to turn back the clock, to sacrifice the woman she is for the woman he once loved, and the betrayal she felt at knowing he either couldn't tell or didn't care to think of the difference. A hundred years since then, and the anger still burns as brightly.

But now here is Nikola, not only acknowledging her evolution but drawn to it, even aroused by it. And has he not changed? The same smile, the same flirtations, but tempered by... well, 'maturity' is the wrong word to use when describing Nikola Tesla, but certainly he's developed a deeper understanding of long-term planning after his brief turn as a mere human. And if she can see how he has changed, he can see the same about her.

"I'm sorry," she says, groping for words. "It was... too much like the dream-world," she finishes inadequately. It isn't quite true, but even having told him so much tonight, she's not ready to reveal the extra century of loneliness through which she's lived. Speaking of that might make real the sea change she sometimes fears occurred during those long years, she thinks, and reaches out for Nikola's reassuring presence. "I am sorry, Nikola."

"I understand," Nikola says, gripping her hand. "It is difficult when a dream like this comes true."

That startles a laugh out of her, and he takes the opportunity to run his fingers up her arm and tug at the edge of the blanket. He is entirely irrepressible, but underneath all the scheming what he wants from her has never changed; Helen finds she craves that constancy now.

She lets him draw her back across his lap, and the blanket puddles around her waist as she curls against his chest. His breathing is unsteady and she can feel him hard against her hip. She kisses him and he responds hungrily, bending her back over the arm of the sofa until she feels like she is falling, with only his hand to steady her.

"So beautiful, Helen," he whispers, running his fingers over the curves of her breasts and down the slope of her belly. She shifts in anticipation, but his touch merely skims the sensitive skin of her inner thighs before darting away, circling her knee and moving back up, over her hip, light as the brush of her hair against her bare shoulders. His mouth fastens on her neck and everywhere he touches she is suddenly aware of the thrum of blood in her veins, pulsing with the increasingly rapid beat of her heart.

"Nikola," she gasps, but whether in warning or benediction she isn't sure. She curls a hand around his head, either to draw him closer or push him away, but his touch darts between her thighs and she forgets what she'd intended.

Her hips twist as he slips one, then two fingers inside her, stroking slowly. He's not using his electrical powers, but she feels like a current is humming through her anyway, her body strung tight between his mouth on her throat and his hand at her core. He's still teasing, though – so Nikola, now he's got what he's wanted he still keeps pushing, drawing her out, resolutely refusing to touch her where he knows she needs him to.

"God, Nikola, enough!" She squirms, trying to get the friction she needs against her clitoris, and he tips her further backwards, denying it. He smirks against her neck and she laughs in frustration. It's too much, though, and she reaches down to take care of herself. Her hand brushes against Nikola's and his head snaps up in surprise. He doesn't stop moving, though; it takes her only a few strokes to bring herself close to a shattering climax, and the sight of his eyes darkening as he watches her touch herself pushes her over the edge.

She shakes against him and his hands steady her until she collapses back, breathless. He helps her sit up, almost solicitous, though his smug grin betrays his impersonal touch. She takes a moment to collect herself before slipping off the sofa to kneel in front of him.

"Helen!" he says, wide-eyed as if she were the Victorian maiden he first met, and she smiles at his expression; it's so rare that he'll admit to being startled. Not that she had been innocent, even then, when societal roles were as constraining as the corsets they demanded. Now she needn't chafe beneath the strictures of propriety; she'll do as she likes.

"Yes, darling?" she says angelically as she unfastens his fly, and he shakes his head and touches her cheek gently. He helps her shove his trousers and pants down until he can kick them off. She can't resist taking his cock in hand and stroking him, admiring the lines of tension that cord his body as he strains into her grip. He's beautiful like this, just on the edge of control, and she bites her lip, wanting to watch him lose that tenuous hold. "Turnabout is fair play, Nikola," she says with a smile.

He stops her, though, his hand tight on her wrist. "No," he says. "I want you."

In all their long lives, this may be the only time he's stated it so baldly, without all the fripperies and flirtation. Something twists in Helen's gut at the realization.

"Well," she says. "In that case." She stands and pads naked to her desk, knowing his eyes are on her. Her bag is on the chair, and in her bag... ah. She walks back deliberately slowly, toying with the condom packet. "In that case," she says, kneeling again to roll it over his cock, "you can have me."

He growls deep in his throat and draws her up onto the sofa so quickly it startles her. She's on her back in one smooth motion and he's poised over her, intent.

"Yes?" he asks, as if reassuring himself he hasn't misunderstood the situation.

"Yes," she answers, curling her legs around his waist and urging him forward. "I have you."

He slides into her slowly and she arches up against him, still sensitive, mixing care and urgency in her movements. The firelight crackles over his features as he supports himself above her, and this could be any of the times they've done this before, in places where electric light wasn't advisable or even available.

She runs her hands over the angles of his face, the planes of his chest, feeling his muscles work as he moves within her. The shadows dance on his skin, making him look young one second and ancient the next. Her fingers ache for a stick of charcoal, some way to capture either the innocent youth who smiles at her in one moment or the aged man who appears in the next and reminds her so terribly of the death she faked for him. If she could pin one of them onto paper, she thinks, she could hold him there forever. Instead she watches the transformation happen and reverse until she has to pull him down to lie on top of her. She presses her face into his shoulder, biting gently, the heat of his flesh grounding her in the present.

It's not cold in her office; the chill she feels is that of a half-empty house in suburbs that never existed, echoing with a dutiful loneliness that nevertheless has a counterpart in this world. The dream-world had captured the essence of that loneliness if little else, and the chill had settled into her bones during her century of exile. The fire's warmth is slowly healing some of those long-ignored wounds, but perhaps she has needed a lifeline to bring her fully back into herself - and Nikola is here, his weight helping to drive the demons from her soul, at least temporarily.

She's holding him so tightly he can barely move; he's buried his head in her neck and is bearing up more patiently than she would have expected. She draws his face to hers and kisses him tenderly. "Come on, Nikola," she says, loosening her grip. "Now."

He's beyond words as he surges into her and she expects him to just take his own pleasure, but he surprises her again; sliding a hand between them, he finds her clitoris and sends a tiny pulse of electricity crackling through her. She cries out sharply before she can help herself, digging her nails into his shoulder as the orgasm takes her. It lasts for long moments and he can't stop thrusting, drawing sizzling aftershocks out of her. "Nikola," she whispers into his ear. "Nikola!"

He strains against her for a second, the pressure bruisingly intense, and the lights flicker as she feels him pulse inside her. "Helen," he breathes, nearly soundlessly, holding himself above her on shaking arms.

She can feel her heart beat, deep and slow, filling her with a lazy contentment. Nikola pulls away to clean up, letting a cold draught play over her skin, but he lies back down again after a moment and traps her between his body and the back of the sofa. She reaches for the blanket – now crumpled and in desperate need of a wash, but still soft and warm – and pulls it over them.

They'll have to get up soon; she isn't ashamed of her relationship with Nikola no matter what shape it takes, but neither does she want to chance being found by one of her subordinates. What's more, the longer she waits, the higher the chance that Nikola will say something to completely ruin the mood. For now, though, she's content to nestle in a cocoon of warmth and enjoy the afterglow.

"I've missed you," she tells the small hollow just below his collarbone. The confession is easier to make when she can't see his face.

"Ah, Helen," Nikola says, drawing his fingers gently through her tangled curls. "I'll never really leave you. Unless you stop stocking the wine cellar," he adds as an afterthought.

She doesn't bother scolding him, only holds him closer and smiles.

Comments

[sophia_gratia]

\o/

I still love tender-yet-in-character Tesla here, and the tone of the piece, so like the tone of the show.

(You know what else I'd be a really good beta for? Smutty Sam/Janet. Just sayin'.)

[tellitslant]

:D Thanks, hon, and thanks for all the Making It Better you did.

(BTW, has anyone ever told you that you're subtle? Cuz they'd be lying.)

[gategurl.livejournal.com]

This was gorgeously well written. Sensual, emotive, heart felt, and just daaaaaaaaaaaaaamn. Thank you for the EXCELLENT read!

[tellitslant]

Whoop, extremely belated feedback response - sorry! Thanks so much for taking the time to comment - I'm really glad you enjoyed it! :D