Title: Scelestus
Author: Shealynn88
Spoilers: Takes place after Season 2 finale
Rating: PG-13
Legal: None of this belongs to me. All things related to "Witchblade" belong to Top Cow and Warner Bros.

Too many. And yet it pained her to be responsible for his grief now.

Overcast skies seemed to echo the mourning at the gravesite, and the thunder in the distance promised rain. After a short sermon, the service ended, and most of the small crowd trickled away. Sara watched Ian as he stood, stock still next to the black casket, unaware of the people milling around him as they left. She was reminded of her father's funeral.

Rain began to fall, a slow drizzle at first, and then harder, and still Ian remained by the casket. Two men standing to the side made a move to lower it into the grave, but Ian stopped them, and they left.

Sara shivered in the cold downpour as she waited for Ian to go inside, but he only placed a gloved hand on the casket, seeming completely unaware of the rain. He looked helpless and lost, just the way Sara had felt after losing her own father. She started down the small hill to the gravesite.

"Nottingham?" she asked softly. There was no reply. "Ian? It's getting cold. Maybe you should get home."

"I have no home," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the casket.

Sara stood next to him in silence for a long moment, unsure of what to say. She was responsible for this. She had to at least get him out of the rain. "Ian, I know this is hard for you. I know what it's like to lose a father. To be sad, and angry, and hurt… It's normal…to feel that way." She waited for some sign that he had heard her, but there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of the rain pelting the coffin.

Finally, Sara slid between Ian and the casket, forcing him to look at her, even though his face didn't change, his eyes didn't move. "Maybe," she said, "You even feel glad, free. And you feel guilty about that. Ian…" She bent to meet his downcast eyes. "That's okay, too."

He looked up, finally, and stared over her shoulder. "You know he taught me everything I know?" He shrugged, the slightest movement of his shoulders. "Well, I had tutors and teachers, but he orchestrated it all. I learned six forms of martial arts, fourteen weapon forms, five languages, how to ignore physical pain..." Finally, Ian met her eyes, and the depth of emotion there struck her speechless. "But…he never taught me how to feel."

Rain dripped down the back of Sara's neck and under her shirt in a sliver of cold. She had to get inside, but she knew she couldn't leave him. The pain in Ian's eyes and the gray cast to his skin strengthened her protective instincts. "Come on," she said, taking his gloved hand gently. "You can't be alone right now." She led him easily over the hills of the Irons private cemetery to her bike, and instructed him to get on behind her. He obeyed as if in a trance, and she recognized the signs of shock.

She drove slowly through the rain, aware that she was the only one wearing a helmet. Ian clung to her desperately, curling himself along the length of her body, and she knew that it was loneliness, not fear, that made him cling so tightly.

When they arrived, she had to lead him by the hand up to the apartment. His lips had a blue tinge to them, and still he walked as if in a dream. She remembered how that felt.

She led him to the bathroom. "Why don't you take a hot shower?" she suggested. "I'll find you some dry clothes." For a moment, she thought she would have to help him, but finally he nodded.

"Thank you," he said absently, dropping his black trench coat and drawing his shirt over his head. Sara left hastily and ransacked her room for clothes big enough to fit him. Luckily, she tended toward large t-shirts anyway, and she had stolen her favorite sweatpants from an old boyfriend. She pulled a towel from the tiny cubby she liked to call a linen closet and stood in front of the bathroom door uncertainly. The water was running, but she wasn't sure she should open the door. Finally, she yelled, "I'm just going to set these on the sink." She didn't really expect a reply, and she didn't get one. She cracked the door and set the clothes and towel down on the sink, steam rolling out around her. She closed the door and realized suddenly that she was freezing.

She grabbed another towel and went to change her own clothes, drying her hair as well as she could, knowing it would be a tangled mess before she was done. She shrugged, reminding herself that she didn't care what he thought of her…if he even saw her, considering his condition.

Dressed in a near match to the outfit she had set out for Ian, she put water on to boil in the kitchen, and listened to the steady rain of the shower. She really didn't want to have to go in after him, but the possibility was growing. She couldn't let him fry himself in there just because she was too embarrassed to pull him out.

As the water on the stove began to boil, she went and knocked on the door. "Ian?" she called. "Are you about done?" Please answer me, she pleaded. The water shut off abruptly.

"Yes. Thank you, Sara," he said loudly through the door, sounding a little more like his old self. As if I really know what his old self sounds like, she thought, shaking her head.

Ian came out after a short while, drying his hair with the towel. His gloves remained on, incongruent with the rest of the casual wear. His skin color was better, and his usual submissive, mildly seductive smile was in place. Sara's protective instinct fled, replaced by a sudden heat as she noticed how her t-shirt clung to him like a second skin, revealing the movement of his chest muscles as he casually dragged the towel over his hair. The sweatpants fit a little better, though he'd had to pull the legs up to show half his calves just to be comfortable. Sara froze for a long moment and watched him walk, no movement wasted, every muscle trained…and Ian seemed completely unaware of the effect he had on her.

"Sara?" He asked, finished with his the towel. "Do you have a comb?" He lifted a lock of knotted hair with a gloved hand and gave her a half smile. "It gets tangled."

She laughed, covering her sudden attraction, and touched her own hair self-consciously. "I know, me too. Let me get you one." She slid around him into the bathroom, trying to ignore the way the t-shirt molded to him. I can't believe I'm thinking like this when he's grieving! She was disgusted with herself, and it cooled the attraction enough for her to think. Sara noticed his clothes on the sink, carefully folded and in a damp pile. She'd have to take them to the Laundromat tomorrow. She grabbed a brush and a comb from under the sink and brought them out.

"Here," she offered, handing him the comb and beginning to pull the brush through her own knots. "I thought some tea or coffee might be in order. What would you like?" she asked through gritted teeth as she hit a rat's nest. She picked it slowly and waited for Ian's reply.

"Tea would be fine," he said quietly.

"Caffeine?" she asked, turning to set the brush down and grab two cups.

"Please." He stood silent as she made the tea and handed him a cup. Then he spoke. "I…I appreciate you bringing me here, Sara, but it's not necessary. I don't wish to make you uncomfortable. I am simply…unaccustomed to grief."

Sara smiled sadly and grabbed the brush before she walked into the living room, hoping he would follow. He did. "Sit down," she told him, pointing at the couch.

She sat beside him and set her tea down to finish combing her hair. "No one is accustomed to grief, Ian, and despite popular opinion, there's no easy way to get through it."

"I am sorry you saw me there, in the rain. I wasn't…myself," Ian said, looking away. He took a deep breath and looked at Sara. "I really…I should be going." He started to stand, but Sara grabbed his arm.

"There's no good way to grieve," she said, pulling him back down, "but the worst way is to do it alone…no one should have to grieve alone." He stopped resisting and sat back down. "Drink your tea," Sara reminded him.

"Thank you," he said, although he didn't seem to know what he was thanking her for.

Silence stretched between them, at first comfortable, interspersed with sips of tea and the scent of shampoo, and then taut, as if the room were tired of waiting.

Sara spoke to relieve the tension. "After my dad died, I was in therapy for years. They always wanted me to talk about my feelings…they wouldn't leave me alone! I didn't feel like I could trust anybody. It was like…" she searched for words. "I felt like if I talked about him, I was letting him go. I was making it real…his death, I mean. For years, I wouldn't talk about it." She slid into the uneasy silence again, remembering.

"What happened?" Ian asked quietly.

She smiled into her memories, and then looked over at him. "I never did talk to those therapists. But I talked to my best friend, Maria. And it helped. Talking about it reminded me of him…of his life, the things I loved about him. He's still with me, sometimes." She pointed to the mantel over the false fireplace. "That's him. I still have him in my memories, and so, he's with me." She shifted to look at Ian.

"I don't know…" Ian trailed off, staring into his cup of tea.

"What?" Sara asked gently, leaning forward.

Ian spoke so softly Sara barely heard him. "I don't know if I want him…with me. He's my father, the only family I've ever had…and I'm not sure I want him in my head." He looked up at Sara, and a single tear fell. "I killed him," Ian said.

Sara shook her head vehemently and moved closer to him. "No, you didn't. I did. He did."

Ian shook his head. "No, I did it. Not physically, but…I failed him. My duty was to protect him, and I failed in that. I didn't…I didn't want it enough. I could have saved him, but I was unsure…and he is dead because of it." His voice became a whisper. "When you said…I might be glad? I am. Somewhere in this blackness, I am glad that he's gone. My own father." The tears fell more freely now, and Ian turned away to hide them.

Sara was suddenly angry. Even in death, Irons made Ian suffer. "Don't let him do this to you, Ian. The guilt…it's normal. I felt responsible for my father's death, too. But it wasn't your fault. You could save him from bullets, Ian, but you couldn't save him from himself. No one could. Ultimately it was his own greed and madness that killed him. He distanced himself from you, Ian, he used you and mistreated you." She shook her head in frustration, knowing that she wasn't getting through to him. "It's no surprise that a part of you is glad he's gone."

Ian shook his head, and his body trembled with the force of his guilt. Sara watched helplessly as his gloved hands clenched at his sides, and finally she grabbed one of them and pulled it toward her. "Let him go," she told Ian. She uncurled his fingers gently and tugged on his glove.

"No!" Ian said, horrified. "I…I can't."

"He's gone, Ian. Let yourself feel."

He pulled away and tucked himself into the corner of the couch. "I can't. I just…I can't do it. He…this is what he wanted of me, Sara. This is what I am."

Sara moved closer to him, aching so deeply from his pain that she barely knew where she left off and he began. "No." She lifted his chin with a finger, and the sight of the tears on his face made her eyes well up in response. What had Irons done to him? What combination of mind games and punishment had he put Ian through to make him this way? She wasn't sure she wanted to know. "You can be more, Ian. You can be anything! You choose your own destiny now."

Even with nowhere to go, Ian shrank from her touch, but Sara refused to let him go. Her tears fell for him as she wiped away the tears on his cheek with her thumb, cupping his face in her hand. The movement seemed to calm him. Some of the tension flowed away and he closed his eyes. Still, the tears fell, and Sara moved closer, kissing them off his cheeks, not sure if the subtle saltiness was his tears or her own. She kissed his forehead, as if she could remove the imprint of Irons' training with her lips. Slowly, she traced the line of his hair, gently combing it back as she kissed his eyes, trying to soothe him, unable to bear the pain that screamed in every line of his body. Be at peace, she tried to say wordlessly. Her kisses fell to his cheeks once more, and as she passed from one to the other, her lips grazed his, and something electric passed between them.

Ian's lips suddenly met hers with a bruising intensity, and what had been a half-formed desire became a heated need. Sara opened her mouth to him, responding naturally, as if her lips had been made to fit his, their tongues created to dance together. Ian pressed the length of his body against her, as if he could douse the flame of his guilt in the purity of her touch.

Time had no meaning. It seemed like that single kiss went on forever. Sara could feel Ian's gloved hands running through her hair, touching on her cheek, caressing the line of her back as he pulled her closer, closer. The need was stark, raw, flaming through their bodies in a primal war. Sara wanted to take leave of her senses, let go, and let it all happen. It felt so right to be in his arms, fitted against his body as if she were only a piece of him that had been lost.

It was wrong. She knew that, and even as she whispered to herself, shut up! she knew she couldn't ignore it. She couldn't let this happen. In his kiss she felt it…a dark need for solace and servitude that overwhelmed her own needs, an all-consuming guilt that needed an outlet. If she let it continue, Ian would never be anything more than a servant. He was asking, with lips and tongue and body, to belong to her, and much as she wanted to be with him, she wouldn't take up the reins that Irons had dropped. Ian had to take them himself, and learn to be his own man.

Slowly, Sara pulled back, bringing a paper-thin space between their bodies and gentling the kiss. Ian sighed, his hands still running through her hair and over her body in tingling lines that burned with unspent passion. Sara froze, fighting the desire that overwhelmed her, knowing, knowing that she had to stop, and needing not to.

"Ian," she whispered.

"Sara…" He breathed her name in worship, and it hardened her resolve.

I brought him here to help him, she reminded herself. "Ian, wait."

His fingers came to a trembling halt and he drew away from her. "I'm sorry," he said, looking away. "I should never have…to take such liberties…" He slunk off the couch and knelt at her feet. "I have no excuse, Sara, for my behavior tonight. You have been nothing but kind to me, and I…I have been an animal." He stood stiffly, suddenly formal. "You will not have to suffer my presence any longer. With my father dead I am my own man, and I will grant you what he would not: the freedom that my absence will give you." He bowed his head and turned to leave.

"Damn it, Nottingham, why do you do that?" Sara asked, reverting to her old anger. She stood up and stalked over to him. "I told you, you can't be alone with this, and I meant it! But I can't…we can't…" She closed her eyes in frustration and softened her voice. "Look, just stay here, okay?"

"I don't understand," Ian said, his shoulders dropping with uncertainty.

"Friendship, Ian. You need a friend right now." She shook her head and covered with a joke. "Unfortunately all you've got is me, but I'll do my best." She smiled as he looked up at her and then she asked softly, "Will you stay?"

He nodded slowly.

She grinned. "Good." She changed the subject quickly, hoping to reduce the tension in the room. "Now, lets see if there's anything good on TV."

Ian sat on the opposite end of the couch, hugging the arm like a life preserver, but slowly, as Sara plied him with cup after cup of tea, he relaxed, even putting his feet up on the coffee table after some encouragement. It was a little after one in the morning when they finally fell asleep: Sara, against the pillow behind her, and Ian, curled along her side with his head on her shoulder.

Finis