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She does not go to him until she has nothing left to lose. He could only kill her. That is such a small thing compared to Ashley.
It means nothing. He must touch her to teleport, and in these long, desperate weeks of searching they cross and recross the globe together, New York to London, London to Madrid, Madrid to Delhi, Delhi to Singapore, Singapore to Sydney, Sydney to Bogota, Bogota to Mexico City, Mexico City to Cairo.
It is no more personal than standing in an elevator. They step together, and he puts his hands to her waist. She puts her hands on his elbows, an arm's length between them. There is the dizzying sensation of movement, a moment's disorientation, and they are somewhere else. Perhaps it really is that easy for him. Think, and be.
She has lost the fear of his touch. If he wanted to kill her he certainly could easily enough -- simply teleport to the top of a tall building and push, or to Antarctica, and then let go. If John wanted to kill her, he would require nothing so baroque as a knife. And so Helen is not afraid. She is thinking about the destination. About the things that will happen there, about the things that must be done. His touch is incidental.
This time nothing is different, except perhaps that they look up at the same moment, eyes meeting like lovers in a dance, and she remembers. Her gloved hand in his, fingers encased in tight white kid, his other hand at her waist in the waltz, warm even through raw silk and white lawn, through stays and linen to flesh, spinning and spinning and spinning under brilliant gas lights, music and motion as one, blurring into fire together. When the music stopped she reeled for a moment, his hand steadying her until the world stopped.
And now for a second their eyes meet, and she is again breathless.
It means nothing. Helen wears her hair down now, as most women do. There is nothing erotic about it, nothing charged with forbidden knowledge. Sometimes, in these weeks of searching, she pulls it back from her face, clips it up to be out of the way while she works.
He is standing beside her in the lab, another fruitless test that has led nowhere, and Helen shakes her head. "I can't think straight," she says, and stretches her neck. It is three in the morning, later in the time zone they began the day in.
"Perhaps you should sleep," John says.
"Maybe so," she says, her eyes still on the laptop screen before her, the same useless data scrolling again. "Maybe so." She reaches up with one hand and unclips her hair absently, bending her head as she looks down, and it falls like a river of dark silk against the back of her neck, faintly fragrant with whatever shampoo she uses, still a little damp where it has been clipped. And he remembers.
He took the comb out reverently, felt it cascade like water over his hands, poured over his hands like absolution for an unbeliever, the ultimate intimacy, propriety abandoned. Helen looked back over her shoulder at him, daring and a little shy, brash and determined and bright as fire. "You can brush it for me," she said with a secret smile.
Not a strand touches him. He stands beside her in the lab while she worries the clip in her hands, and his chest is tight, once again breathless.