A/N: One of two planned parts. It drives me nuts that we can be so quick to forgive Nikola for being an idiot, but not John. My intention was to explore Helen's relationship with Nikola in the aftermath of season four in terms of trust and friendship. I didn't know how soon I would get around to finishing another part, so I've split it into two. Enjoy?

The first time is a flurry of passion, accompanied by a vigor that can only be explained by virtue of the fact that they are alive. No sooner has he crossed the threshold than he's breathed her name, tone full of relief and a little bit of pride. He smiles. "Good girl." He doesn't wait for permission; he simply does.

By the second time, they are already playing games again. Or rather, Nikola is playing games; Helen is being as elusive as ever. He's finally cornered her—literally and figuratively—and she succumbs to his advances with a crooked grin and half a laugh for his reassurances that she's hot when she's a genius, and remember that week in Marseille? Oh, she remembers Marseille—but not vividly enough to keep her from noticing that it's not his fingertips beneath her shirt, stroking her stomach: it's those claws of his.

For a woman who risks her life day in and day out, he finds it bewildering that she's so quick to push him firmly and quickly away, hands lingering on his shoulders, whole body tense, like she would be able to hold him back if he didn't respect her enough to behave himself. "No nails," she declares firmly, eyeing him with caution.

He chuckles nervously, making a broad gesture with his still-taloned hand. "Come now, He-"

"Or teeth," she finishes firmly, and when he hesitates for a moment, she tilts her head, glare askew, lips pulled into a look of disapproval he's all too familiar with. He realizes that she's giving him the benefit of the doubt. She's not invested in this, but she hasn't left. He continues to stare at her, bemused.

She doesn't trust him.

But then, why should she? He has a history of attending his own selfish desires. He likes to think he's grown, but he waspoised to kill her a bare few years ago. It's been much longer for Helen, but he doesn't expect her to forget things like that. And to think, he'd thought he was in love with her then, even admitted it to her. At the very least, she thinks now that he's worth giving a second chance. Deep down, he doesn't blame her for being cautious with him, and so, raising one hand to face an open palm towards her, he draws his vampiric nails back in, watching her as her eyes flicker busily between his hand and face.

"No nails."

They aren't trysts; trysts suggest an appointed time and place. Nikola and Helen do not plan these rendezvous, and the third, fourth, fifth, sixth times are much the same. To her surprise, she does not have to repeat her rules about his nails. He's grown up some, though; with all that's happened recently, he's let himself fall into a Sanctuary-oriented routine, and it almost feels… good. William's as annoying as ever, and a vast majority of the residents are far below him (but who isn't?), but the techno-geek is somewhat endearing, and Helen is as captivating as ever. Having a schedule that doesn't involve being alone with his work is almost nice.

These dozen or so rendezvous are brief; she barely gives either of them time to recover before shooing him away or fleeing the scene herself. But Nikola is good with numbers, and although a few agonizing months of chasing after the woman have passed, he knows that sixteen is their turning point.

Her breathing is still a little heavy when he sits upright, preparing to excuse himself, as he has done thirteen times before—twice, she's come to his room, and excused herself in the dead of night. He doesn't mind giving her her space; but before he's managed to push himself out of her bed, her elbow is cocked, fingers wrapped softly around his arm. "Stay," may be a plea or an invitation; for once, he's not quite sure, and in the dark of the room, it's difficult to make out her expressions. Nevertheless, he reaches for her free hand, wrapping his fingers around hers and bending to kiss her shoulder experimentally.

Sixteen is three years after Ashley's death, twice over, and one-hundred and sixteen years once. She breathes deeply, a little more quickly than intended, and his hand follows the path of her arm upward until he pulls their bodies together. Holding Helen when she needs to be held is the smallest favor anyone can afford her. He nestles his face into her hair, prepared to remain until morning or she no longer needs or wants him, whichever comes first.

She sleeps in his arms for a handful of hours, but Helen never sleeps much. He blinks groggily awake when his arms fall away from her, and it quickly becomes apparent that she is just as disoriented. Unused to the a man's weight beside her, she blinks away sleep to gaze down at him and cocks her head as he raises himself up to an elbow.

She recognizes him, and suddenly, it's as if she can't quite decide what to do with her emotions. One side of her mouth twitches stubbornly downward, though she struggles to keep it at bay. It's the way he reaches over to squeeze her knee that finally prompts her to gain absolute control of herself. She breathes purposefully, nods at him, utters an uncomfortable "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it." He stares at her for a few moments longer before adding quietly, "I'll go."

He does. She cannot conceptualize the passage of time. She merely knows, quite suddenly, that he is gone.