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The trip to Scotland had been James’ idea entirely. Helen had been a bit cross about it, honestly, since she had plenty to do in London without traipsing off looking for will o’the wisps or whatever it was James wanted to see but once she was there, in a little cabin tucked in next to a rocky shore, she was happy enough. Content. Helen hadn’t been content in a long, long while.
John had finally left her. It seemed final to say it that way, to put such a sharp end to that which Helen wished would be unending but John was no longer a part of her life. She would have liked to say (and if pressed by someone, would have said) that she’d excised him neatly and precisely like a loose thread on her gown but in actuality, it was quite a bit messier than that. How does someone cut out their soulmate, the heart of their heart? With anguish, pain and guilt, it seemed, and sometimes when Helen looked at her hands, she half expected to see blood staining them even still.
She’d gone for a walk along the coast, carefully picking her steps along the rocks, and there wasn’t anyone about for miles save the puffins. They were adorable things, hopping to and fro on rocks, and Helen lost track of time watching them and noting their grooming habits, their pecking order, any number of things. She was so lost in time and in something simple and sweet that could make her smile that it’d started raining and she was far, far from the house she and James had let for the month. Scottish rains could be anything from a mist to a downpour and could turn in an instant; the wind kicking up sea spray told her this was going to be more the latter and by the time she got back to the house, she was soaked clean through with bedraggled hair and chattering teeth.
“Dear God, Helen, you’ll catch a chill.” James tugged her inside and fussed over her, fingers nimble over her buttons and ties. He was deft undressing her and while it could feel cold and efficient, there was a warmth and caring in his touch that Helen simply wanted to bask in. It might, also, have to do with the fact that she was freezing and James was warm and dry. She was going to say, instead, it was his caring nature, because it was simply more romantic and she could stand to use a bit of romance this day and age.
“I’m fine, James.” She wasn’t. Helen hadn’t been fine since before she’d discovered John’s dark secret and in truth, she’d known about it long before. His kisses were distant unless he was rough and his hands, once gentle in spite of their size, had long been employed as rough instruments to be used against her body. She hadn’t always minded it, when he looked to her pleasure, but at a certain point it’d just become mindless and painful, something she wanted only because she prayed that somehow she could coax her John back.
“You were thinking about him.” It was a statement and not a question, which was important to mention. James never said anything unless he was positively certain of the results and while he might play at an interrogatory tone to put someone at ease, it was never truly such. James always knew what he was about and, perhaps more salient to this discussion, what she was about.
Sometimes, Helen felt James knew her better than any soul on the planet, including John. Perhaps especially John.
“No, I wasn’t,” she lied, casting her eyes down and away from him. James didn’t press and Helen was grateful that for the moment, the puzzle was less important than her feelings. She was standing in stocking feet and her soaked through chemise and petticoats and she shivered a bit, gooseflesh rising on her arms from the evaporating water. James tsked and stripped her, sliding on one of his own worn, soft shirts and a thick cabled fisherman’s sweater before bundling her in a blanket and setting her before a fire.
“Don’t move. I’ll have tea for you in a moment,” he warned and Helen rolled her eyes. Really, she wasn’t an invalid even if it did feel nice to be doted on for once. Being warm and safe made her drift, though, and when tea was pressed into her hands, Helen barely roused to drink it. Warm and strong, just the way she liked it, and she smiled her thanks at James. He’d taken to growing a beard and while she’d never really seen him with facial hair before, she found that she fancied it.
She found, against her better judgment, that she fancied him. It was a part of her she thought dead, the part that ached and yearned for human contact, but it seemed James had stoked that fire again by being nothing but warm and gentle and himself. It was puzzling, to say the least. Helen had never been the least bit attracted to James when there’d been John to have and John had always been a bit dark and mysterious. She’d been drawn to it. Steady and loving was something she had no experience with at all.
When she finished her tea, she rolled the cup around in her hands, trying to find what words she wanted to give. She wanted to go to bed with him, that much was certain, but after only having been with John and no other, she had no idea how this went. James had been with other women on occasion and she was, in this situation, woefully underexperienced. Helen didn’t like feeling that way when it came to anything but much less about her personal matters. It wasn’t like she could learn about making love from a book.
“What’s troubling you? Are you thinking of him again?” James’ eyes were warm and focused on her, intense for all they did normally seem comforting. Helen shook her head and she felt the blush rise on her cheeks. How did one ask their best friend to strip down and spend the next few hours testing the mattress on his bed? There was no real delicate way to do it. James took her hands in his and lifted them to his mouth, brushing kisses against the knuckles. It felt so bloody good that Helen had to close her eyes; there was simply too much sensation to process at the moment.
“I’m thinking of how very much I’d like it if you brought me to your bed this evening.” There. She’d given the words, stark and brusque in contrast to the warm intimacy of the fireplace crackling and rain pattering against the roof. It hadn’t been all that long since John had left her and part of her nerves owed to the fact that there must surely still be bruises on her hips and thighs from when he’d last seen her. It had been rough and painful and yet Helen had more than simply endured it. She’d wanted it because it was John and if he’d just come to his senses and stop hurting her, she could make him happy. All she’d ever wanted was to make him happy. Perhaps she’d have better luck with James?
“I’d like that, Helen,” James said cautiously, “But isn’t it...I don’t want this to be rushed for you, darling. He’s only just left you and losing someone like that, especially the way you lost John, it takes a toll on you. Perhaps we should enter into this slowly so that you can be certain of your feelings?”
It stung. She’d mustered up every bit of courage she had in her body to ask James to take her to bed and he threw her words back with some middling consolation about her not being ready. She was ready. She was tired of her heart being a gaping hole excised by John and she was ready to heal, both physically and emotionally. James could do that. She knew he could do that for her.
“I’m bloody well ready, James Watson. Do you think I want my only memories of being with a man to be painful? Either painful because John’s no longer sweet and attentive or actually, physically painful? I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to lay stiff as a board beneath a man when he’s rutting you without a single care that he’s bruised you, bitten you, forced his way between your thighs like it’s his bloody right. And I let him! Fool...fool that I am, I let him fuck me any way he wanted because I wanted him to get better. I wanted...”
She couldn’t finish. The words that she’d spat in anger had fizzled on her tongue and she sobbed instead, both for her own embarrassment at having thrown herself at James and been turned down and for her shame that she’d not been completely forced to lay with John. She’d gone more or less willingly most of the time, even after he’d gone mad, and it was only at the very end that he’d had to hold her down and actually force her.
She wasn’t certain how long she sat there and cried and was only dimly aware of James lifting her in his arms and carrying her to bed. It was draining, to cry this much, and Helen had never been fond of it. She wasn’t like her sex ought to be, quick and flighty with emotions and like to faint or cry at the drop of a hat. She was strong, held her feelings deep within and only when they started to harden and cut her like diamond from the inside out did she let them go and it was utterly exhausting.
He laid her down in bed and stripped down before laying behind her, drawing her back into his arms. His lips were warm and soft against her ear before she spoke again and it was barely a whisper, barely something Helen could even catch him saying.
“You have to mourn him first, my darling, because I’m selfish and want you to love me. I won’t leave you. But I need for it to just be me and I don’t want him in our bed. Not any longer.”
Helen turned in his arms and answered, not in words, but in the softest kiss she could manage. Perhaps he was right, she needed to mourn, and provided he kept her warm and safe, she thought she could make it through. She was strong. She was going to get through this, one way or another.
But for now, she wept.