A/N: Five times Nikola Tesla thought he was dying, and one time he really was. Six loosely connected ficlets concerning Nikola's mortality, set mostly between Sleepers and Awakening, with one sojourn to the nineteenth century.

Part 1 is an episode addition for Sleepers.

Final Words

...

1. Life's a Bitch and Then You Don't Die (If Only)

He was stretched along the sofa, feet propped on the arm, his head on Helen's lap, which she was tolerating with such good grace it almost made him suspicious. Only almost, because there were several distracting factors at play - namely, the wine, his mortality, and the fact that when he turned his head just a little his cheek met the bare skin of Helen's thigh just above her knee.

Had her skirt been that short when he walked in? How depressing that he hadn't noticed.

And how many wonderful, enjoyable things were going to pass him by, never to be reclaimed because he simply didn't have enough time to do so? There wasn't time - a human life span wasn't nearly long enough to accomplish and experience everything he wanted to.

"I mean, I know that whole 'life is a terminal disease' bit is a cliché, but really," he said, gesturing widely with his wine glass.

"It is a cliché," Helen agreed, managing to follow his thought even if he had only started speaking in the middle of it. "You're better than that, Nikola."

"You're not the one dying a slow, boring death here. When you are, I'll do you the courtesy of allowing you to be as clichéd as you like." He prodded her shoulder with his glass for emphasis and she stole it from his grasp. He tilted his head back and frowned up at her, but she was only refilling it and returned it to him shortly.

It was an awkward position for drinking without spilling, but he managed. Motivation did wonders for one's coordination. Even if he was drunk for the first time in over a century.

"I mean, really. Thirty, forty years perhaps? That's a holiday. A weekend."

He had plans to make, visions to realise, genius to release upon a grateful world, and somewhere in there he meant to make Helen realise she loved him back. His schedule was full; there was no time for ageing gracefully, or at all.

"A long weekend, at least," Helen murmured in a tone that meant she thought he was being melodramatic.

It was a good thing she and the contents of her wine cellar were so distracting, or he might have been hurt by that.

"The zipper on your skirt," he announced, "Is made of metal."

There was a pause. "You haven't the fine motor control yet."

"I'll take that bet."

"Do, and you'll be wearing that wine, not drinking it. Such a shame that would be."

"You know, the least you could do is offer me pity sex."

"You think that's the least I could do? I could do a lot less than that, I'm sure."

"But pity sex would be, you know, sex. I'd enjoy it."

"No."

"I think I would."

"No."

He sipped from his glass, smiling, and sighed. "I like our talks. I'll miss them when I'm old and senile and have no idea who you are."

Helen matched his sigh with a quiet one of her own. "Oh, Nikola."

"You'll probably put me in a nursing home."

"Yes, that's precisely what I intend to do."

"Just make it a nice one. With hot young nurses. Mm, sponge baths."

"You'll be too senile to enjoy them." Her tone was slightly clipped, he noted.

"Don't get jealous, you were the one who put me there, remember?"

She laughed and he felt it right through the back of his head. He closed his eyes, smiling. He was either very drunk, or very tired, or both. He lifted his hand over his head, wordlessly waiting until she took the hint and removed the glass from his hand and set it aside. He folded his hands on his chest.

"You laugh at my pain," he said. "I think the least you could do is feel sorry for me. Don't worry, I'm only dying."

He felt her hand on his hair, very light, and rather tender.

"Grant my final request?" he said.

"What, already?"

He turned his face into her warm thigh, drunk and tired and seeking comfort. When her voice came next she seemed to be speaking from some distance. "What is it?"

"This," he replied, "Just this."