ALL IN A DAY'S WORK

By Mala
malisita@yahoo.com

RATING/CLASSIFICATION: PG, Helmfic.
CHALLENGE #16: pocket watch, scissors, El Camino Real.
SUMMARY: My first try at one of these challenges! I hope it doesn't suck, lol. Helm does some doctoring, Montoya throws his weight around. Business as usual in Santa Helena.
DISCLAIMER: You mean I don't own Peter Wingfield? Shucks! Spoil my fun!

~~~~~

Snip.

He cut the last dangling thread on the stitches, murmuring something low and purposely unintelligible to the indio who looked as if he would bolt from the iron cot at any second.

There had been several moments of panic involving the needle and the scissors...light flashing on the metal and mirroring the thinly-veiled fear in the young man's coal dark eyes, but he had done his best to apply pressure to the wicked scratch and inspire trust at the same time.

A physician's job was seldom easy. Much like intelligence work, one had to balance a thousand things at once. Upsetting even one tiny molecule could destroy the fragile equilibrium that made the difference between life and death.

"There. All done. See?" he soothed.

The brave was far from convinced--his proud features were a mask that didn't reveal an ounce of the pain he must have been feeling--and he glowered down at the ragged red line of stitchery that now bisected his forearm as if it was to blame for the initial misfortune that had led him to this fate.

The echo of footsteps in the narrow corridor broke the sterile silence of the tiny cell. The golden pocket watch that hung from Montoya's dress uniform gleamed like a miniature sun, catching the rays from the barred windows and casting bright circles every which way. Bright circles that belied the darkness of his countenance, of his purpose.

"Have you done your good deed for the day, Doctor Helm?" he asked, with a pleasant smile that wasn't quite wide enough to reach his eyes.

"I've done my job," he corrected, wrapping his instruments and supplies in a soft cloth and packing them into his bag. He would sterilize them later. The scalding water would boil away the blood and the germs...but not the memory of this moment. Of the smug smirk that was as constant as Colonel Luis Montoya's skewed vision of justice. "You do know what that's like, don't you, Colonel? To do one's job?" he wondered, acidly, without glancing up.

"I know my responsibilities." Again that damning false politeness. "This unfortunate young man came to us from El Camino Real and brought with him his penchant for thievery. He must be taught that California is different from our southern cousins. He must, of course, be punished."

"Of course," Helm muttered, pushing off the cot and gesturing for the indio to lay down...to get as much rest as he could before the gallows were erected and he was due to swing.

"We all have our crosses to bear. You heal the public...I protect them." The cell door slid back with a rattle, to let him through, and the keyring dangled mockingly from Montoya's fingertips.

He moved quickly, so as not to accidentally brush against the other man, knowing that to do so would be akin to touching the coiled curl of a rattlesnake's tail. On the other side of the bars, the "unfortunate young man" sat as still as a statue, seeing everything and nothing...or perhaps imagining some kind of distant peace that the doctor would never, ever know. He accepted pain. He accepted fate. He accepted what was coming.

Just as he would accept who was coming.

Robert stopped at the end of the jail's corridor and turned on his heel, matching the colonel's self-assured smile with a knowing one of his own. "We both know there's only one person who truly protects the people of Santa Helena. I trust, of course, that you'll give her my regards tonight?"

"'Of course'."

Montoya's grin faltered just an inch before maintaining it's position...and that minuscule tremor wrapped around him like the comforting folds of a soft wool cloak as he left the tight confines of the prison.

A physician's job was seldom easy. Much like intelligence work, one had to balance a thousand things at once. Upsetting even one tiny molecule could destroy the fragile equilibrium that made the difference between life and death.

But the Queen's job?

She was the balance.

She was the difference between life and death.

Montoya had caused the wound.

Helm had sewn it closed.

The Queen of Swords would heal it.

All in a day's work.

--END--

May 10, 2001

By Mala
malisita@yahoo.com

SPOILERS: "The Dragon."
RATING/CLASSIFICATION: PG-13, H/K-ish, H/T-ish, H/Q, angst, nongraphic physical stuff, fluffy.
CHALLENGE #17, QUOTE #1
SUMMARY: Helm's in a tub naked...we KNOW this happened, lol.
DISCLAIMER: Fireworks, etc. Blah bliddy blah.

~~~~~

Her hands are like soft silk...spun from the magic of the earth and the human worm. They slide across his back with the precision of a physician and the sensuality of a geisha.

They are not the smooth, unblemished hands of a noblewoman. He feels the calluses won from battle. Her badges of honor. But her warrior's hands do not deliberately offer pain. Even though he gasps and moans as she rubs away the soreness, he knows she is gentling the results of her own violence.

He knows her touch is not really for him. But she offers it anyway.

And before he can thank her...before he can caution her once more against Montoya, the samurai is gone.

The tepid bathwater sloshes against his lower body, reminding him, again, of where he is. Of his state of undress. Of the biological encumbrances therein. He throbs as he sinks low in the tub, rests his head on the cool porcelain rim.

The base of his neck is still vaguely sore...and he remembers another touch. A rough tap that made him start, touch the wound, and scowl up at a petulant mouth and sparkling dark eyes. Tessa Alvarado's eyes. Her hands. The smooth, unblemished hands of a noblewoman.

Deliberately teasing if nothing else. Well-meaning but playful. Both light and violent. Her fingers, he thinks, know nothing of consequence. They, perhaps, know how to seduce, to soothe...but are better suited to holding fans or the reins of an expensive team of horses.

He knows her touch is not really for him. But she offers it anyway.

He would thank her for it...teach her a lesson in kind...teach her the consequences...but the cad in him is long gone.

Suddenly, he hears splashing...the echo of before. Hot water spilling from the pitcher and warming the sea around him. "Kami! Have you come back, then?" he wonders, opening his eyes and sitting up. "Have you come to your senses?"

But it is not the lovely Asiatic that meets his gaze with challenge. "You make a habit of entertaining young ladies during your bath, Doctor Helm?"

The Queen.

Of course. 'Ill luck, you know, never comes alone, he quotes to himself, wryly. Although, Cervantes couldn't have foreseen said luck to come in female form twice in one night.

It is pure instinct to draw up his knees...and he cannot mistake the amused upward tilt of her rose-hued lips...the flutter of her hands at her slender, corseted, waist. "No," he murmurs with as much aplomb as he can manage, "It seems young ladies have a habit of entertaining me during my bath."

She waves away his excuse as she kneels at the side of the tub, leaning companionably against the edge. Her fingers trail, lightly, in the water. They do not move to make contact with his legs...with any part of him...and, yet, he can feel their weight despite that. Precise...yes. Sensual...yes. Teasing...yes. Well-meaning...yes. But always firm, always certain. Never without reason or rhyme. "Perhaps it is because men are most vulnerable at times like this?" she wonders, eyes fixed on his--not even casting one glance downwards at what the soapy bath barely hides. "Most naked?"

"Quite literally," he agrees, with gritted teeth. "You have me at a damnable disadvantage."

Her smile brightens her whole face...even reaching up under the spidery webbing of her mask. "On the contrary, Doctor...I would say this is advantageous for us both."

In one swift motion, she is leaning forward...bathwater splashes over and her black shirt clings to her like a second skin. But he has no time to feast his gaze on the glory of her curves...not as her mouth descends on his.

Oh, God, he thinks. Hands are nothing. Hands are nothing compared to this. Silk...lightning...fire.

~~~~~

The water that is still in the tub--that didn't somehow end up on the floor--is cold now, and he is beginning to wrinkle. But she doesn't seem to mind. Curled against him, clad in nothing save the mask that she refuses to take off, she is caught somewhere between asleep and awake.

It is times like this that she is most vulnerable. Most naked. Not just every inch of her skin flush against his...but her eyes, too. Half-lidded innocence, youth. Something headier than the flash of steel against steel or the thunder of her horse's hooves.

"Robert?" she murmurs into his neck.

"Yes?" he whispers into her damp, black hair.

"Can she kill me?"

Not "can she beat me?"...or "is she going to kill me?". Not battle questions...not at twilight. He knows what she asks. What she wants to know. He caresses the back of her neck with a physician's precision and a lover's sensuality. "No. I don't think she can. Not in her heart."

She turns her face downwards...presses kisses to his throat, his chest. "Thank you." And her hands follow the trail of lace and lips. Deliberately teasing if nothing else. Well-meaning but playful. Both light and violent. Firm. Certain. And never without rhyme or reason.

He holds his reply at bay...feels the "I love you," halt at the edge of his mouth and hang precariously off the precipice. "You're welcome," he gasps, instead.

He knows her touch is not really for him. That it cannot be. For a thousand reasons. But she offers it anyway.

And he accepts.

He will always accept.

He has no choice.

He wants no choice.

END
May 20, 2001