#me too. except mine can be summed up with I Want That Man Dead (affectionate)

[addoves]

the farewell alberia zine just released, please take a moment to look into it ^_^!

[tryingthisfangirlthing]

Summary: On the run, Helen and Nikola pose as a young Swiss couple. They’re good friends, comfortable with one another; surely they can handle this for just one more night… Pairing: Helen Magnus/Nikola Tesla Rating: Teen? Approximately? Possibly a low M Word Count: ~3.8k Contains: Vague and/or mild spoilers for S1E7 “The Five” and S3E17 “Normandy”, Helen and Nikola still showcasing their multilingual skills, very surprisingly still no wine considering this is Teslen, part of that aforementioned romantic and sexual tension being resolved, some reason for second-hand embarrassment, uhm, some mild sexual references/innuendo but no actual sex (in this part at least)

I still owe so, so much to the lovely @tinknevertalks​ for being an incredible encouragement and such a patient beta. Thank you, lovely. <3

I have an amazing beta, but on occasion I’m a stubborn writer and (sometimes mistakenly) think I know best, so any mistakes are still all mine. ;)

This is Part 2 of a multichapter Thing that will have at least 3, probably more like 4 parts. Posting tonight in celebration (-ish) of the end of Teslen week, and as a bit of a reminder to myself to get back on this (because I know what happens, vaguely, I just need to get it on paper, though then when I do start getting it down they never really behave...).

“You two are all right?” Mathilde asked quietly, as she set the dishes in the small, chipped ceramic sink.

“Oh, yes.”  Helen busied herself with plugging the sink, turning on the tap and adding dish soap to the water. “We are just…” She cast about for some possible explanation for their behavior just now, regret seeping over her that she'd let her own feelings interfere with Nikola's safety, even if it was unlikely their path would be traced here. “I am still becoming used to his being so affectionate with me, in public.” She picked a sponge and one of the bowls, dunked both in the soapy water, and began scrubbing. “It embarrasses me sometimes.” She glanced over at Mathilde who was waiting with a dishtowel, listening expectantly, openly. Helen would likely never see her again, and so she allowed the confession to slip out: “I am sometimes afraid — I do not always believe it to be true, in my heart. That he loves me. It is ridiculous, I know. We are married, and he shows me every day,” she added, aware of their precarious cover, “But I still cannot help but worry. I am not young, and I will not always be pretty, and I am not even a very good cook…” She let out a quick, self-deprecating laugh. “And so I am not always good at showing my affection in return, which I am sure hurts him as well.”

After dunking the bowl once more and swirling it around, Helen handed it to Mathilde to dry and put away, avoiding her eyes as she started scrubbing another.

Mathilde turned the bowl in her hands deftly under the towel. “Oh, Sophie. The man worships you. It is in his eyes whenever you are not looking, and sometimes when you are.” She opened a cabinet, setting the bowl inside and leaving it open for the moment, as she took the next bowl Helen handed her. “He touches you so tenderly, and it is plain he knows you without trying. My Dieter was just like him when we were younger. He thought the stars shone in my eyes, and look at us now. I would not wish for another man, or another life.” She rose slightly on her tiptoes to push the bowls towards the back of the cabinet as she set the third in front of them. “It may sound like an old wives’ saying, but it’s true: life is too short not to allow yourself to love, or to be loved.”

Helen exhaled a ghost of a laugh. Her life wouldn't be short at all, in all likelihood; already she was older than this kind woman. And yet, perhaps her words were even more relevant because of it. It wasn't often that Helen thought of the centuries, possibly millennia stretching out before her, except in a positive light: she would be able to continue her work for a long time to come. But Nigel had already come close to death once, only a blood transfusion from Helen — against her better judgement, under threat of Nikola giving him his — bringing him back to his current youthful appearance. Last time they’d met, though, she’d recognized the world-weary look in his eye, and she doubted he would consent to such a procedure again. James’ machine worked wonders, but when it began to wear down… And his time in that bunker had aged him, it seemed, aged him and damaged the device. He wheezed, sometimes, still, when he thought she wasn't listening, the noise bringing back that terrible night with far too much vividness. And suddenly, aside from Nikola, those centuries seemed likely very lonely.

Mathilde gently took the well-scrubbed bowl from her hands, and gestured to the spoons. Helen offered her a tight, slightly embarrassed smile.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Helen swallowed, picking up the silverware. “Only that you're right, I suppose.”

“Mothers always are.” Mathilde winked at her. “One day, when you have children yourself, you'll see.”

Opening her mouth to protest, Helen thought the better of it, settling for a tilt of her head that belied a little of her skepticism.

Pulling open the silverware drawer as Helen finished the spoons, Mathilde remarked offhandedly. “If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were a couple just begun courting, instead of husband and wife.”

Helen's heart leapt into her throat, and she opened her mouth to protest.

“—But you know one another too well.”

“I — I suppose I'm not being fair to him,” Helen admitted, tasting unfamiliar words, yet they carried a ring of truth — perhaps too loud of one. “My — previous beau —” she wouldn't say Jean, “He hurt me very deeply, and I now wonder if he ever really loved me — or anyone — at all. But it's not fair to Nicholas to think he will be the same.” But he was always so bloody blasé about his affections, about everything, teasing, except when he apparently wasn't. And she never could quite tell when was which.

She offered the now-clean spoons. Taking them, Mathilde laid a hand on her arm. “The man would move the stars and bring back the dead for you, if he could, I am certain of it.” She tilted her head towards the living room. “Go to him. I will bring out the dessert in a moment. Apfeltorte. I baked it myself this morning, though it is not so sweet as it normally ought to be.”

Helen smiled. “It sounds delicious.”

***

Nikola and Dieter were seated in opposite armchairs in the small room that served as a study, holding an animated discussion on, as best she could follow, Goethe’s Faust. Something about whether or not knowledge brought happiness, and the symbolism of the devil, whether or not the girl truly made Faust happy or fulfilled...

Helen hung in the doorway for a moment and watched as Nikola gesticulated animatedly with one hand, absently petting the dozing cat in his lap with the other. “The failing wasn't in his search for knowledge, or for companionship — it was in seeking them separately, in rejecting knowledge as he sought out happiness. Companionship alone —” Nikola shook his head. “I could not live that way. Learning is too valuable to me. But knowledge alone is… a lonely path. Easily misguided, too.” Helen wondered if that was a hint of a confession in his tone.

Dieter laughed. “We cannot all find women who are both intelligent and good wives.”

Nikola smirked. “I never claimed happiness was simple to achieve.” A short pause, and then, “You seem to have found it, though.”

Dieter nodded. “Mathilde may not know her sums very well, but she is intelligent in other ways, and a good wife. We are very happy.”

“Anyone can see that.” Nikola offered him a smile, with only the barest touch of wryness to it, one even she wouldn't be able to pick up on if she hadn't known him for so long.

Helen cleared her throat and stepped into the room, gesturing back towards the dining area. “Mathilde says there will be an apple tart soon, for dessert.”

Dieter stood, grinning. “Good. It's been tempting me all day and she wouldn't let me near it!” He raised his voice for the latter portion of the sentence, directing it towards the kitchen. Startled, the cat leapt off of Nikola’s lap, leaving him looking momentarily bereft.

“Of course not, otherwise it would already be gone!” Mathilde yelled back, the clink of dishes and silverware being set on the table accompanying her words.

“Every pastry’s proper place is inside stomachs,” he answered as he made his way over to her, and dropped a kiss on her lips.

Helen watched their fond exchange with a smile on her face, then turned to Nikola, swallowing, lowering her voice, switching to French. “I may be a bit more affectionate during dessert. Mathilde is… perceptive.”

“You’ve been holding back on me? Ma chère, I'm hurt.” He pressed a hand to his chest, though the sarcastic tone to his murmur gave him away. Still, there was a curious, intent sort of light to his eyes, and she’d learned that particular smile playing on his lips meant they were playing with fire.

“Don't get any ideas.” It was automatic, the rebuttal, and she regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. Fine way to return to properly pretending they were married. Of course a man had ideas about his wife, and Nikola had a particularly clever, devious mind — she cut that train of thought off where it stood, though it didn't keep heat from rising under her collar. Helen grabbed his hand to lead him to the dining room, but he stayed where he was, drawing her to him instead. “Shall I still ‘not play quite so much’?” He drew out the low words, an ironic lilt to them that sounded almost painful, bringing his other hand up as if to lay it on her cheek, but not quite touching, hovering, waiting.

She flicked her gaze away from his, her heart pounding. “Play as much as you like.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek, his touch feather-light, then dropped his hand. “What do you want, Helen?”

A moment, she wavered, the question seeming to echo in her head. Somehow, her life was so very rarely about what she wanted — what the world needed, what Abnormals needed, what the Sanctuary needed — and it was what she needed, too, her work, her purpose in life, but what she wanted —

He exhaled, slowly, into the silence between them, and it sounded like a noise of defeat as he glanced past her, to the couple in the other room. “I could just… promise to make their lives miserable if they said anything.” He lifted a shoulder, his tone so deliberately casual. “Almost as enjoyable as this, and I’m told I have a knack for it.” He glanced pointedly down at her, a wry, self-deprecating smile playing on his lips.

“Nikola...” She shook her head. “One more night, and then you're safe, provided you don't do anything stupid again.” Carefully, she her hand on his chest, and almost dared think she could feel his heartbeat under her palm, quick and heavy.

“That's hardly an answer.” It was so soft she could barely hear him.

Inhaling, she brushed her thumb over his lapel, and met his eyes for a brief moment before avoiding them again. “I said to play as much as you like, didn't I?”

His hand trapped hers on his chest, his tone low and intent as he sought her gaze with his. “Only play?”

Swallowing, she trailed her hand down his arm to grasp his hand, and began walking backwards towards the door. The smile building on her lips broadened as his eyes darkened and his expression lit up. A small shock jumped from his palm to hers, and she shivered in sudden excitement, biting her lip. 

“Control yourself, Nikola,” she murmured. But there was something seductive about the idea of making him lose just a little control. It wasn't often she gave in to her impulses, but she didn't have to return to the life of Dr. Helen Magnus, leader of the Sanctuary Network, until tomorrow, and few did playful better than Nikola Tesla.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. “Oh, you very much underestimate my self-restraint.”

She laughed. “You? Self-restraint?”

“I know, I know, it’s hard to believe.” That little quirk of his lips broadened into a full-blown ironic smile, but it seemed something more lurked behind his eyes. Under his gaze, she sucked in a sudden inhale, her skin tingling, and still felt breathless.

“How large of a piece do you want, Nikolas?” Helen turned to see Mathilde poised with a knife over the tart, watching them expectantly.

Helen caught the edge of a grimace he turned into a smile. “Only a very small piece, please. I do have to keep my dashing figure up for my darling wife, after all.” He winked down at Helen, settling his hands on her waist and gently turning her to face the table, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her hair.

“Nonsense,” Mathilde muttered, more to herself than anyone else, as she cut into the pastry. “You're as thin as a rail.”

Helen leaned back against him. There was something about his solid presence she enjoyed, the crisp, crackling scent of electricity under his dash of cologne so very familiar, dare she say even comforting.

Mathilde levered Nikola's slice onto his plate — it was rather larger than Helen suspected he really wanted — and looked expectantly at her.

“Medium-sized, please.”

“Like so?” Mathilde held the knife over the pie to indicate where she would cut.

“Yes, that's perfect, thank you.” Helen smiled, swaying back against her companion. He unfolded his arms from around her to grasp her hips again, but not before she felt his erection pressing against her backside.

He took a small step backwards, straightening, and gripped her hips a little more tightly, to keep her where she was. His French a touch sheepish, he muttered, “I didn't mean — it'll be gone in a while.”

Now that her moment of consternation was past, she bit her lip, more than a little elation shooting through her. “It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Nikola,” she murmured, feeling a hint of a laugh bubbling up between her words. “I'm a doctor, remember? I know how male anatomy works — I've seen it before.”

He exhaled. “Well, that took care of it.”

She did laugh, then.

Mathilde set each plate at their place on the table, forks already laid out beside them, and settled into her own chair. Acutely aware of her eyes trained on them, Helen stepped away from Nikola to take her place as well. “Pardon us. My husband and I —” Switching back to hesitant Schwiizerdütsch, she cleared her throat, glancing at Nikola as he sat down beside her, feeling a smile spreading over her lips again. “We sometimes…”

“Get carried away?” Dieter supplied helpfully, his fork already halfway to his mouth.

“Yes.” Helen nodded, slicing a bite-sized tip off her piece of tart.

“You said you hadn't been married long, right? We remember what it’s like to be newlyweds. “ He winked at his wife.

Mathilde grinned, and elbowed him. “All this complaining about how I wouldn't let you near your tart, and now you're not eating it!”

“Just you watch, mein Schatz.” He popped the bite into his mouth, winking at her again, and immediately sliced off another.

Mathilde shook her head fondly at him.

Helen let the tart flake in her mouth; it was still delicate, the combination of cinnamon, apple, and a hint of vanilla more than making up for the lacking butter and sugar, and she savored it. “This is excellent, Mathilde,” she said, after swallowing, “Thank you.”

Mathilde beamed. “Thank you. It was my mother’s recipe.”

Nikola nodded his agreement. “It's very good. Far better than what my dear Sophie can do, though she tries.” He winked at her. “Last I heard, Marie won't let you into her kitchen anymore?”

Remembering the last time the little pixie had shooed her out of the Sanctuary kitchens and food storage, chittering, “No! No more fires, King James needs good food, not crispy food. Out!” Helen huffed a wry laugh.

“Thank you very much, Nicholas.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Even if it is true. A — friend of mine, well, I've burnt a few too many things on her stove, it seems.” She hadn't exactly been upset to leave the cooking to the little Abnormal, though, even if Mary sometimes did have trouble moving things on her own, and had to enlist the help of other residents, some of whom inevitably got hair in the food.

Helen couldn't resist a quick stab back at Nikola, though, murmuring in French, “I can still use a Bunsen burner better than you.”

He shot her a disgruntled look, and chewed fiercely, responding as soon as he was able. “Yes, well, my forté isn't modern-day potion brewing.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Yes, well, that ‘modern-day potion brewing’ is what gave you those powers you seem to like so well, in case you'd forgotten.”

“... when I was learning to cook as well, Sophie.” Mathilde smiled. “You'll get there eventually.”

Helen glanced down at her plate, realizing she'd only been half-listening to Mathilde again. What was it about Nikola that could make her forget anyone else in the room? She nearly snorted to herself — he'd probably make some wisecrack about “natural magnetism.”

“I certainly hope so,” was all she said aloud, slicing another bite of her tart and bringing it to her mouth. To be fair, cooking was not so very high on her list of necessary skills, and she really wasn't so bad as all that — assuming she didn't get called away in the middle to an urgent meeting or to process a new arrival or to any of the thousand and one things that still clamored for her attention some days.

“I’d be happy to show you a few tricks, if you like.”

“Oh! That's very kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid we'll need to be leaving first thing tomorrow morning. I doubt we'll even stay for breakfast. We were hoping to be home before any snow.” She glanced pointedly out the window, where the flakes were still drifting slowly down. “And we don't want to be snowed in.”

“If it's still snowing tomorrow, you're welcome to stay,” Mathilde offered, setting her fork down onto her empty plate.

Helen glanced at Nikola. “I think we'll try to make our way home either way.” She slipped the last bite of her own slice of tart into her mouth.

“If you're sure…” Mathilde stood, picking up her plate and reaching for Helen's as well. “Are you finished?”

“We're sure. And yes, I am finished, thank you.”

Mathilde nodded as she carried them both into the kitchen. Dieter was levering a second piece onto his plate, whereas Nikola picked at the remains of his. She set her hand on his arm, brushing her thumb over his sleeve. “You don't have to eat all of it,” she murmured, the French quiet on her tongue, “Just say you're full.”

“And lie?” His lips twitched up into their usual smirk. “Ma chère, you're such a bad influence.”

She arched her eyebrows at him, and reached over with her fork to spear a bite off his plate, slipping it it into her mouth with a broad grin.

He tsked in mock affront. In retaliation, she stole another.

“I thought you said you were done.” He mock-growled, wrapping an arm around her waist and dragging her closer.

She let out a small noise of surprise, hooking her ankle around one leg of her chair so she wouldn't entirely fall off. But in the face of Nikola’s strength, she ended up just pulling the chair with her up against his side.

“Careful, Nikola!” But she was laughing into his neck, as he nuzzled her hair. Shaking her head, she straightened to look at him, a smile still playing on her lips. “God, you're such a —” She stopped, casting about for the word, and found none.

“Dashing genius? Loveable rogue?” He smirked, but there was almost a hint of fear lurking behind his eyes, and it made something inside her clench.

She shook her head. He was simply Nikola…

His smirk turned pained, though she could tell he tried to hide it, and he unwound his arm from around her waist.

“No, Nikola.” She trapped his hand on her hip, reaching out to cup his neck. “You're simply… infuriatingly indescribable.”

“Of course words can't capture my greatness.” He swallowed, then, his next question quiet, and if it were anyone else she would have called it hesitant. “Good indescribable?”

On an impulse, she shifted in her seat, rising slightly to kiss his cheek. He shifted, though, too, in that instant, and she bumped her nose against his jaw.

“Hold still,” she murmured, already tilting her head to try to kiss him again.

Ever contrary, Nikola turned his head yet again, this time towards her, and she found his lips pressed to hers.

He let out a small noise of surprise, tightening his grip on her hip, his eyes wide. It could hardly be called a kiss, without finesse and so very brief, both of them drawing back after only a split second.

Helen sucked in a breath, her lips tingling, unconsciously drawing her tongue over them. Nikola swallowed, his gaze darting down to her mouth. She glanced over to Dieter, who was observing them almost disinterestedly, a small smile on his face, as he finished his second slice.

“Ma chère, you really must warn me before you kiss me like that.” Nikola’s voice was rough, even as he drawled out the French words. “I promise I'm a much better kisser when I know I'm about to be kissed.”

With another glance at Dieter, Helen inhaled, slowly, as she fixed her gaze back on Nikola. Her attention seemed to drift naturally down to his lips, which she very nearly thought a touch pinker than normal.

“Very well, then.” It came out hoarse, quiet, and she cleared her throat. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Leaning into her, he tilted his head slightly, watching her, waiting for her to close the last sliver of space between them.

Helen closed her eyes, and kissed him.

He was gentle, almost chaste, sliding his lips against hers, but a spark — she wasn't sure if it was literal or metaphorical, and didn't particularly care — danced through her, and she felt more than heard his sharp gulp of air. A small noise of appreciation slipped through her lips, and she drew him to her more firmly with the hand on the back of his neck, fisting his lapel with the other as his hands slid to her lower back. He opened his mouth slightly, drawing his tongue along the seam of her lips, not probing, not asking entry, just tasting, appreciating. She opened her mouth to him anyways, just before he drew away, leaving her feeling more than a little bereft.

He held her to him, practically half atop his lap, his gaze hooded as he looked down at her. Her heart galloped against her ribcage as she held his gaze: one moment, two, then he cleared his throat and glanced over at their audience, loosening his grip on her. Helen ducked her head slightly, shifting to sit back on her own chair, swallowing. They'd put on quite the spectacle, and she was faintly embarrassed.

“I think… I think my wife and I should retire for the night.” Nikola clasped her hand, squeezing it. She squeezed back, slowly, bringing her breathing under control.

“That might be wise.” Dieter sounded distinctly amused, though he kept his tone courteous. “A good night to you both.”

“A good night to you, too.” Helen stood with Nikola, and it was she who led the way upstairs.