Work Text:
It starts with a chill. It’s Sunday in mid-November, 1958, and even the thick Sanctuary walls cannot keep out the freezing cold forever. Reports on the radio are calling it the worst blizzard Old City has seen in decades. The habitat environments are controlled, but the temperature upstairs is far more difficult to manage. She’s bundled up in jackets, a hat, a scarf, and gloves, but they’re only helping so much.
He’s quiet when he comes in. Funny, how such an imposing figure could move about with so little disturbance. He reminds her of John in that way, though she tries not to think about John at all.
For all the time he’s stayed with her, he’s never once given her his name. Something to do with his traditions, she suspects. Regardless, when she asked what to call him, he considered for a long moment before replying simply, “Friend.”
“Friend,” she says now, and he lifts his head, “I’ve made a fire, but I’m afraid there’s little more to be done. I suspect we have quite a long night ahead of us.”
He huffs, neither in pleasure or displeasure but in simple acknowledgement, and settles on her couch beside her. He’s on the far end, like a proper gentleman, and she thinks he might have fit into her time quite well.
“Guests?”
She takes a moment to parse out the question, before shaking her head. “Settled. The lower levels are sealed off quite well. So long as we don’t use the elevator, cold air will have little opportunity to reach them.”
“Just us, then.”
“Yes, we’ll take the brunt of it. If I could get down there without endangering our guests, I’d sleep in a habitat myself.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, but she’s entirely serious. She has slept in far worse places, with far worse conditions, than an empty cell in her Sanctuary. Besides, if she had her blankets there, they might actually do some good.
“Glad I have a fur coat.”
It still catches her off-guard sometimes, his cheeky sense of humor. He seems so serious, though perhaps that’s more expectation than anything. His delivery is almost deadpan, but with it, he says things that would delight Nigel. They would, she thinks, make very good friends.
“It’s unfortunate that you don’t have enough to go around.”
He lifts his arm in response, silently inviting her to his side.
The offer throws her, briefly, and she hesitates, studying him. They’ve grown quite close over the past few years, and with James a continent away, he’s quickly becoming her closest and dearest friend. He’s a wild contradiction, and on most days, she finds the tug between beast and something almost human fascinating (though he’d be so offended if he knew that, and she keeps it close to herself). Today, though, it makes her wary: He’s certainly not a dog, cuddling up to her. Should she read it as a man offering to embrace her, or a friend offering comfort?
Something on her face must show her thoughts, because after a moment, he snorts. It’s one of the least-dignified sounds she’s ever heard in her life, and perhaps the most welcome.
“Not my type,” he says flatly. “Not enough fur.”
She laughs a bit sheepishly in reply, slipping under his arm and leaning against his side. “In that case, I may have to take you up on that.” And oh, he’s warm, in spite of the chilly air. His arm settles firmly around her as she presses even closer, trying to block out the winter.
How long has it been since someone has held her? She and James parted ways soon after Normandy, and she came here under guises of Sanctuary maintenance, firmly ignoring the voice in her head accusing her of running away. Since then…
No one. There’s been the odd hug, but never long. Never anything like this. She rests her head against his chest, letting her eyes flutter shut.
He breathes steadily, chest rising and falling, and it lulls her into a hazy state. How long has it been since she’s slept? Two days? Three? Her unique physiology allows her to push the limits, but when exhaustion hits, it doesn’t hold back.
“Don’t expect to move anytime soon,” she says, or thinks she says, as sleep pulls her under.
She is safe, she is warm, and for the first time in a very long time, she doesn’t feel like she’s alone.
-
Traditions are hard to come by in the Sanctuary, as are most forms of routine. That’s why she keeps them to a minimum, but holds fast to the ones they do have. Meetings at 9 AM are non-negotiable, unless they’re currently under attack.
Sunday afternoons are the same.
They cannot manage it every week. Sometimes, a mermaid needs someone to rescue her, or two warring factions of Abnormals require a negotiator. However, as often as she can, she sets Sunday afternoon aside for rest, relaxation, and comfort.
It’s not something she quite knows how to put into words-at least not words that don’t sound odd-but thankfully, her friend doesn’t require many words. He simply takes his spot on the couch, and tucks her under his arm.
She’s needed this for a very long time, she thinks. The contact steadies her, reminding her that she isn’t alone in this world. Maybe he needs it, too; all her studies tell her that his species is rather tactile, and being separated from them cannot be easy.
For the longest time, it is only the two of them. She has a steady stream of employees, friends, colleagues, and even the occasional romance, but no one is invited to Sunday rest. While the two of them understand, she knows that others might not.
Henry changes this.
Henry changes a lot of things, really. He’s small for his age when she brings him home, wild as the woods and terrified of everything. She only intends to treat him and return him to the moors, but when he meets her old friend, everything changes. He follows him around like a little shadow, eyes wide. The poor thing is quiet as could be, but his eyes speak volumes, and her now-old friend agrees: We’re family now.
So she lets him stay, gives him a room just down the hall from hers and close to her old friend’s, and hopes she’s doing the right thing.
Staying doesn’t mean relaxing, however. He keeps mostly to the shadowy corners, withdrawing every time someone reaches for him. Always close enough to see them, but too far away to touch. She doesn’t know how to do this; relating to others is always a task for her, and he’s so very young, she feels a world away from him.
One Sunday afternoon, she’s resting against her old friend when Henry walks in, looking them over with furrowed brows. He’s tiny and precious, and she cannot help but smile.
“Hello, Henry.”
He tilts his head to the side.
“Would you like to join us?”
For a beat, it seems he won’t respond at all. He blinks once, then twice, staring as if he can’t quite comprehend what he’s seeing. Then, all at once, he scrambles up onto the couch between them, and they quickly shift to make room for him. Helen wraps an arm around his shoulder, carefully leaning back, and her old friend draws them both against him. Henry barely has room to move, and she hopes he doesn’t feel trapped.
He doesn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, for the first time since she’s brought him home, he actually smiles.
-
Ashley joins in long before she’s born. Henry talks more than he ever has, quietly chattering away with his gaze fixed on Helen’s belly. He tells her all about the Sanctuary, their little family, and whatever fanfiction he’s currently working on. Sometimes, Helen or her old friend (now dubbed “Biggie” by Henry, who finds the stories of Bigfoot quite amusing) chime in, but mostly, they let him talk.
When Ashley first kicks, both Henry and Biggie are there to feel it. Helen’s never seen her old friend smile quite so brightly. Henry leaves his hand against her belly for most of the afternoon, delightedly announcing every time she kicks.
“She’s a fighter,” Helen says once.
Biggie snorts. “Gets that from you.”
Thoughts of John creep into her mind, taunting and cruel, but she forces them aside, pressing closer into the embrace of her family. “Absolutely,” she says, running a hand through Henry’s hair. “Absolutely.”
From infancy, Ashley spends her Sunday afternoons in Helen’s arms, or when she’s older, on her lap. It quickly becomes clear she isn’t as much of a cuddler as the rest of them; she’s restless, always moving and wriggling. At most, she’ll spend ten minutes in place before she’s ready to move onto the next thing.
Henry takes it upon himself to entertain her, regaling her with stories much like the ones he told her before she was born. She still kicks and squirms, but she mostly stays put, even if most of his words seem to go over her head. He makes up stories as well-of brave knights, daring princesses, and dragons in need of taming-that make Ashley’s eyes light up.
At first, the dragons in his stories meet unfortunate ends, usually the end of someone’s blade. Finally, Helen arches a brow.
“Seems like they just need a bit of help, really. It’s a shame that there isn’t a Sanctuary for them.”
Henry considers this. “But dragons are bad, right?”
“Hm. If dragons were real, they’d simply be large lizards, yes?”
“... Yes?”
“A lizard lacks the capacity for good or evil. It’s a simple creature; its only interest is survival.”
Henry’s quiet for the rest of the afternoon, thinking this over (as he does most things). The next week, however, features a rescued dragon, tamed at the hands of a particularly determined princess. Ashley revels in it, and Helen smiles to herself.
One day, she has no doubt that these dear children will be facing the realities of the world head-on. For now, they don’t understand how unusual their lives are, and they don’t realize that the creatures they’re surrounded by are as unrealistic to some as dragons. It doesn’t strike them as odd that their butler-though he’s so much more than that-is upwards of seven feet tall, covered in fur, and given to communicating by grunts. But one day, they will understand. And when that day comes, she wants them to know these creatures are worth saving.
“Mommy, you hafta listen to the story,” Ashley says, tugging on her sleeve, and Helen chuckles, shifting her focus to the children in her arms.
“Sorry. Carry on.”
As Henry continues his frankly impressive tale of dragons, princesses, and a crew of pirates, Helen runs a hand through Ashley’s hair, sneaking a glance at her old friend. He huffs quietly, and she knows what that means: Yes, I’m happy. Now pay attention. You don’t want to miss a single moment.
As always, he’s quite right.