Disclaimer: I do not own Warehouse 13, etc. etc. Nor do I own HG Wells' The Time Machine.
AN: It's meant to be a bit jumbled, a bit confusing. Let me know what y'all think. And it's super long, but that's because I couldn't find a place to cut it in two. So it's an extra long, extra angsty one-shot for y'all. Trigger warning. Some actions may cause triggers. Use caution when proceeding.
"You've got to eat something," Myka hears the understanding in Leena's soothing voice, the patience, the motherly goodness, but she merely nods and continues pushing the macaroni and cheese around her plate aimlessly. It is her favorite. It was her favorite. When she was small, still only a child. Somehow Leena must have found out because she'd presented dinner with a grin in Myka's direction that evening. The agent hadn't even managed to muster a returning smile; it was more of a grimace. This was her mother's recipe. How had Leena managed that? It was merely an idle curiosity, passing through her consciousness quickly and dissipating into the air of the B&B before she'd even rationally decided not to bother asking. She could. And Leena would tell her. And everyone else would be delighted at the story she was sure. But she had no desire to, no energy to prolong the meal past its already never-ending timeframe.
Meals were always like this. Breakfast was a hurried affair, people still half asleep, and lunch was usually had at the Warehouse, but dinner... Often the meal would stretch itself out as the shadows lengthened on the South Dakota trees and dusk fell, smothering the house in a rictus of purples and blues. They'd all sit around the table talking, laughing, making fun. And on nights like tonight when everyone - Myka gulped and studiously ignored the empty chair at her left - not everyone - was here, the table was only that much more boisterous.
"Mykes, you gonna eat that?" Pete's voice broke her inner focus and she jumped as he leaned across the table, pointing at the piece of cherry pie that had magically appeared in front of her. "Sorry," he said immediately when he realized that he'd startled her. He looked boyishly ashamed.
"It's fine," she murmured. "And no. Go ahead."
"Well, I, no, that's alright," he stumbled, having received a piercing look from Leena at the head of the table. "You eat it. I already had mine. Wouldn't want to ruin this fine figure."
Claudia scoffed.
"I insist," she encouraged, or would have encouraged had her voice contained any type of inflection whatsoever. "I think I'm going to go for a run actually," she announced to the room at large, staring down at the pocked wood from years of utensil wear, before pushing away from the table suddenly. She caught Artie's eye as she was leaving the room, but had to look away.
The old man had looked strangely apprehensive. His eyes had looked almost pained, as though he wished to speak, perhaps to stop her, but he held his tongue. And she was grateful. Artie meant well, she knew, but his bumbling attempts at giving her fatherly advice had quickly fizzled out after she told him point blank that she would prefer if he kept their relationship strictly professional from that point onwards. He'd looked hurt, but true to Artie form, he had done as she asked, and they'd slipped back into the somewhat tense relationship they'd had at the beginning of her time at the Warehouse. But his words didn't have quite as much bite to them as they did when he addressed any of the others, and she'd caught him watching her now and then in the office. She tried to ignore it, and was, for the most part, successful.
Rushing upstairs, she threw on her running clothes, hating the emptiness of her room, and slipped silently back down the stairs. They were all still around the dining room table. Pete's booming laugh broke out at something Claudia had just said. She felt her heart pull slightly at the sound, as though forlorn over missing the joke, but it was barely felt and brushed off immediately. Small aches such as these were nearly unnoticeable these days.
She did not even sigh as she left through the front door, jogging down the porch steps and out into the gathering darkness. There was no time for such small melancholies any longer. She had become immune to them weeks ago. Instead, she focused her attention on the pavement before her, passing beneath her feet, at the rhythm of her strides pounding on the hard ground, the way her breathing increased as she pushed herself to go faster, to find that speed where she no longer had to think, no longer had to feel anything except the air passing in and out of her lungs, no longer had to be anything except moving and alive. That took quite enough concentration as it was, and she thrived at that speed, in those moments when she could let the monotony overtake her, and revel in the exhaustion spreading throughout her muscles, the lactic acid being released, the lack of oxygen. It was the closest she came to feeling...something, even in the absence of everything these days. And so she sped up, until the memories were left on the path behind her and her pain was in harmony with the beating her heart.
The days seem to pass slower now than they once did. Or perhaps time has sped up and she is merely wading through, having fallen behind. It's hard to tell. Some days the minutes between waking and walking through the umbilicus into the Warehouse seem to take years. Other days she ends up in her bed at night with almost no memory of what happened throughout the day. She is losing control, and she finds that she doesn't seem to mind.
The moments that stretch the longest though are those right before she falls asleep. Her bed feels emptier, larger than it ever has, as though it is the sea and she is alone without even a life raft. It's silly now, the things she associates with these moments. She was never one for poetry. Sure she loved it, but she'd never considered her own life in the lines of sonnets or haikus, in metaphors or imagery. Now, that's the only way she can think, removed from it all, as though she's merely reading the words on the page that tell the story of someone else's life. And so her mattress becomes the sea, and her body becomes an empty shell, and the hand that she stretches across the water is the invisible telegraph line that has gone cold and quiet because there is no longer anyone at the other end.
Each night has become a battle, a struggle for rest. She finds that even when she is exhausted and has spent the entire day battling some foe or the tracking down a random artifact, she cannot slip into dreams as easily as she once could. It is no longer counting sheep or reciting Shakespeare until her mind pulls her under. Now it is darkness and silence and a screaming in her ears so loud she is sure her head will burst before it is done.
So those are the worst moments. The best are between asleep and awake, as the sun just barely pokes its head into her room, and the stillness of the night has yet to leave the house's old wooden floorboards. The moment right before she becomes fully conscious: that is the best moment. Because she can still imagine that her dreams are reality and that she will open her eyes to see red lips and deep brown eyes smiling back at her. In that moment, she can almost feel her heart as it once was, whole, solid, steady. But the seconds are far too short and even as she reaches across the expanse of the mattress and feels the cold, undisturbed sheets, she is resurrecting the mask she assumes on a daily basis. She is hardening her heart against the inevitable disappointment and she is pulling her hand back before she can allow it to linger on the empty pillow.
And so mornings are both bitter and sweet, but mostly bitter, and that is the way the day begins. When it is a bad day, when not even the dreams have allowed her respite from her torment, when she awakens without even a moment of allotted peace, on those days, she rolls from bed and heads out for a run immediately, refusing to meet her own gaze in the mirror. On those days, she runs so far and so fast that she is not sure she will be able to stop. She misses breakfast. She is forced to rush through her freezing shower (a habit she has assumed anyway, because the heat and the enclosed space, and the solitude were too much). And then she slides into the car beside Pete even as he is honking at her to hurry up. Those are the bad days. And although she would not admit it, that seems to be the dominating routine, even as the weeks pass and she feels that she should be getting better not worse, but also finds that she doesn't care in the least.
"One game? Pleaseeee," Claudia is begging, but Myka hardly looks up from the case file in her hand. The young agent has cornered her in the library where Myka had escaped to immediately after dinner. Her pink hair is glowing in the soft lighting, and she is staring at Myka with her hands clasped like a child's in front of her. Myka might have laughed at such an action. Once. Once she might have laughed. But now she does not even tear her eyes away from the page.
"I'm busy, Claud. Why not ask Steve?"
"He cheats," she pouts.
"So do you," Myka points out.
"Yes, well, so what?!" and the techie throws her hands into the air in the universal gesture of who cares! "C'mon, Myka, just one game? You can whoop my ass and then get back to your," she waves a hand at the pages spread out on the desk, "stuff."
"Not tonight, Claudia," and Myka is firm now, annoyed at the distraction.
"We haven't played in forever though," and the whine in Claudia's voice is very nearly cute. "Not since-" but she stops speaking immediately, and Myka can't help but tense at the implication.
Her hand clenches around her pen and she is certain that her heart rate has increased. She closes her eyes and takes one breath, then another.
"Sorry," Claudia mumbles.
"Not tonight, Claudia," she says, but her voice is softer now as she finally looks up at the younger woman. "I just can't right now."
And Claudia nods her acceptance even as she looks disappointed. She doesn't argue anymore and Myka is thankful when she leaves the library immediately after that. She presses a hand to her chest, harder and harder until it hurts, waiting until the mist fogging her vision has cleared before going back to her reading. Claudia will get over it; she always does. Myka feels sorry for letting the younger girl down, but it's very nearly become habit and she finds the effort necessary to soothe Claudia's hurt feelings too demanding. Leena will take care of it, and Pete will set her to rights and everything will be fine. As fine as it can be. Yes, fine. She taps her chest impatiently and then goes back to work, filling the corners of her mind with typewriter ink and the histories of items which would have found places in fairy tales and fantasy stories much more easily than in reality. She goes back to work, because it is the only way she can stay sane.
"Any word?" Pete's voice reaches her as she steps down from the last step, and it causes her to freeze in place. He sounds serious and not at all like himself. Someone must respond in the negative because he sighs loudly and she can picture him running a hand through his hair distractedly. "She can't keep going like this," he says sadly, and with a start, she realizes that he is talking about her. "She's not eating, she's hardly sleeping. I hear her pacing at night, when she thinks we're all asleep." There is a pause, whoever it is is answering. "Well, have you spoken to Mrs. F?"
"Of course I have!" Artie. And that is Leena shushing him softly.
"There must be something we can do. Anything," and if Myka had any room for it, her heart might shatter at the tone of her partner's voice. His normal innocence and enthusiasm has disappeared for the moment, replaced instead by worry, fear, anger. "They haven't even said why. I don't understand how they can just keep her away like this. No word on whether she's alive, dead, nothing. No word on what the hell the regents have got her doing!"
Her stomach rolls over at his words. She has had these same thoughts too often for comfort. In fact, they often constitute a running monologue of sorts. She doesn't want to listen anymore. She wants them to stop discussing her as though she is some sort of invalid. She wants them to stop. So she sneaks back upstairs and then comes down louder, clearing her throat as she does so. The conversation ceases and when she enters the room, Leena has bustled off to the kitchen and Artie and Pete are staring at one another from across the table.
"Morning," she manages, trying to inject as much energy into the word as possible. Trying to make them forget the conversation they were just having. She tries. But she is not certain that she succeeds.
"Morning," Artie grunts.
"Morning!" Pete manages to sound excited, but she can still hear his worry there. It frightens her. "No run this morning?" he asks. She nods. "Guess you'll have to fight me for the syrup then," he is teasing her, and she tries to smile and nod in reply, but it comes out forced, and too late she realizes that she should have mock punched him or come back with a sarcastic remark. Too late she realizes that once again he has seen right through her scantily clad defenses, but she ignores his eyes on her for the rest of the meal and she is undeniably thankful when Artie assigns her to inventory for the day with Jinks.
His worry is easier to ignore. And his strength and encouragement are easier to acknowledge. His silence is appreciated. And his unquestioning support makes her thankful for his presence on the team. Steve doesn't push her as Claudia is wont to do, nor does he try to joke it away like Pete. She loves them both of course, but Steve is simply there, everyday, quietly observing, not butting in, and she has come to love him for it. Or as close to love as she is capable of feeling these days. She has come to depend on his unfailing presence, even as she pretends to ignore him. And she hates that. She hates the fact that she feels as though she relies on him, or Pete, or any of them. She shouldn't. She'd tried that and it had blown up in her face. Twice. And so she ignores him all the harder throughout the day, down the long, twisted aisles of the Warehouse, as they place random artifacts in their places and check that others are where they are meant to be. They spend the day in silence, and even as she wants to pretend he does not exist, she is grateful to him.
"Just one word? A letter? Something, anything! You must know where she is." This time it's Claudia's voice that she hears as she comes up to office from the Warehouse below.
"Agent Donovan, I suggest you remember your place," Mrs. Frederic's voice is cold at the petulant tone of the youngest member of the team.
"This is getting completely ridiculous!" the techie spews. "Why can't you just tell us what she's being used for? Or at least let Myka write to her or something. As ancient as the practice might be, a good old fashioned hand written letter would do wonders, Mrs. F."
There is silence in response.
"Please," and Claudia sounds very nearly desperate. "You haven't seen her-"
"I have," and if she didn't know any better, she would think that was care in the ancient woman's voice. "And I will see what can be done," and that is that on the subject.
She passes out for the first time in the shower after one of her nightly runs. When she comes to, the water is pounding down on her head, and her body is shivering in the freezing spray. Her hands are shaky and her breathing feels a bit labored. She sits for a moment to collect herself before attempting to stand. When she does she sways in place as she reaches blindly for the nozzle and turns off the water. She grabs a towel and sits down on the side of the tub, finding that her body feels weaker than it ever has. It almost feels as though she's suffering from the flu, except without the fever or the vomiting.
And it's strange, but the longer she sits there and ruminates on how it felt to feel the darkness closing in on her and to awaken in a different position than she last remembered, the more she comes to realize that she honestly didn't mind it. She feels more rested now than she usually does after a night spent tossing and turning on her lonely sea.
She stands and looks at herself in the mirror, really looks at herself for the first time in months. If she is being honest, she has avoided the reflective glass, because seeing her own face, hollow and lost was too much. But now, she allows her eyes to trace the way her ribs are visible, to caress the jut of her hip bones, to fall into the black circles beneath her eyes, to examine the way her jaw juts out more than it used to, the skin pulled tightly across her skull. She knows that these are not good signs, that she has lost too much weight than is healthy, but it is with a removed and scientific eye that she notes these things. And the feeling of weakness encroaching on her is also a feeling of satisfaction. At last her body is catching up to her mind and to her heart. It is empowering to know what strength she can have over her own, very human, very broken condition. She understands that this is the wrong attitude to take, she knows that she should not have enjoyed the feeling of losing all control, she should not take a perverse pleasure in the shaking of her limbs, but she ignores those thoughts as she has attempted to ignore all other painful things for the past half a year. She is both pleased and proud, and the worry that she should be feeling takes a backseat.
She feels strong and in control for the first time in too long. She used to be always in control, always prepared to take charge, to call the shots, to make a plan. But with her went her desire to have control, went her need to be in the know. But this, this, and she runs a finger down her torso, counting her ribs as she does so, this is a different kind of power, exhilarating and dangerous and addicting.
So she does not tell anyone about the fainting episode. And although she does not actively seek out such feelings again, she is pleased when her legs shake after a run, when her head spins as she stands from a seated position, when the ocean that is her bed feels larger and more immovable than ever before, wrapped around her thinning frame. She is disappearing and she finds that she does not care enough to tie herself to the dock to keep from drifting away. She feels lighter than air and after weeks and weeks of feeling heavier than stones, this is a welcome relief.
The pain is more intense than it has ever been. But now she has something to focus it on. It is electrifying. And when a pale face framed by brown locks shows up in her mind's eye, smiling slyly at her, when she stumbles and falls and skins her knee, she stares at the blood in fascination and welcomes the sting of the physical pain because it helps her ignore the hurt within and push the image away. It is an easier pain to manage, and so she craves its soothing influence, adores its power and her power over it. And so she floats away even as her team rushes blindly about trying to tether her to the ground and bring her back to earth.
"She shouldn't be in the field any longer, Artie!"
"Leena!"
"It's true, Pete. You can see it; we all can."
"She needs more help than we can give her," and Steve sounds apologetic.
"I'm not going to just give up on her," Pete is adamant.
"No one's giving up on anyone," Claudia sounds fiercely determined. "We are her family. No one. No. One. Is giving up."
"Well, what about Mrs. F?"
"She doesn't know," Artie finally speaks. "It's beyond her clearance level and so far the regents aren't giving out her location or her mission."
"Irene won't give up," Leena assures them all, but there is a rumbling around the room as though they all know that it is most likely useless at this point.
Myka leans her head against the banister heavily. She is supposed to be napping, or at least resting. Pete had half dragged her to her bed after he'd caught her almost passing out after lunch. She'd let him tuck her in, she'd accepted his admonition to, "Rest, Mykes. Geez. We got this." But she hadn't really been paying attention. She found it more difficult to focus on anything these days.
Instead it was her voice that Myka heard, loud and clear. That British accent, lilting and smooth. Darling, come to bed; it's late. Myka, be a dear and hand me that would you? Do you know I think you might be the most stunningly beautiful creature I have ever seen. Let's stay in this bed forever, what do you say? Teasing and taunting her, always just out of reach. Instead, she imagines the way their hands looked, entwined together, the way her breath on Myka's ear sent shivers down the taller woman's spine. The way a single look from those mischievous brown eyes could have her aching with desire. With longing. Now all she is left with is longing.
The first time she'd said those words, slipping them out between a quick good morning kiss and her first sip of tea. Good morning, darling. A quick look to make sure no one else was paying attention. I love you. And then she'd been gone, moving away as Pete thundered down the stairs. Fast and sweet and melancholy and wonderful all at once, just as she herself had been. Was. Is. Myka has a difficult time deciding what tense her thoughts belong in now.
"There has to be something we can do!" Pete's frustrated voice breaks her out of her daydreams. She should be napping, but she has come down to sit on the steps and listen as they debate how they should best handle her, as though she has become something fragile and breakable.
"Maybe if she went home for awhile, back to Colorado Springs," but even as Artie suggests it, he is expecting to be shot down.
"This is her home. We're her family," Claudia repeats, and there are tears in her voice.
"Maybe," Steve says softly. "But we're not complete. Myka's not complete." without her is unspoken but everyone hears it. Normally Pete would make some crack about Steve's meditation mumbo jumbo but his silence says more than his words ever could.
They are worried about her, Myka knows this, but the thought feels far away. What is worry? They speak about her and she hears them from far away, from underwater.
"Ping," Artie says gruffly, breaking up the discussion. "Lebanon. Pete, you take Myka, and Claudia, you and Steve will stay here with me."
Myka picks her head up from it's resting place against the warm wood of the railing at the words. Missions, being out in the field. There is something about the exhilaration, the danger, that she craves. Lately, she's been spending more time left behind as the other three go out to 'snag, bag, and tag,' but the times when she gets to leave behind the B&B and its memories and pockets of hurt are wonderful. She can almost pretend that she will be here waiting for her when she gets back with a new novel to discuss and a question about modern day fashion choices and a kiss and smile and her arms ready and waiting to wrap around Myka's waist as she leans forward to whisper a secret in her ear. Almost. So a mission sounds lovely.
"Artie," there is a warning note in Leena's voice.
"And when the two of you get back, we'll revisit this further. Alright?" Myka is certain that he is staring each of them down in turn. "Now, Pete. Go and grab, Myka. You two. Warehouse. Let's go."
And just like that there is the sound of people moving about and Myka scrambles up the steps and back into her room so that when Pete knocks on her door she can look surprised and sleepy, not elated as she very nearly feels. Not almost ecstatic at being given an opportunity to pretend and to try to forget. That feeling of hopefulness never lasts and when she steps through the door of the bed and breakfast on their return she knows that what is left of her heart will sink into her stomach and that she will immediately go for a run to escape the empty confines of the house, but still. For now, she is excited. As excited as one can be with a broken heart.
Everything goes well until Myka tries to take down the crazy lunatic waving the sword in the air. And then everything is not going well, and Pete is yelling at her to get out of the way, but her head is pounding and everything is going dark, and she's telling Pete to, "Get him! Go. I'll be fine. Get the artifact." Because she has hit her head and she thinks that might be blooding flowing from her side and sinking into her clothes, warm and tasting of iron on her tongue, and so she cannot run any farther. But she tells Pete to go, and she waits for the darkness and the peace which accompanies it, not even caring if perhaps this is the time when she doesn't wake up.
"Every Warehouse agent we've ever known is either crazy, evil, or dead."
But perhaps she already is crazy, and she knows that she has been at least a little bit dead for months, so the darkness is not scary. And the tiredness in her body is relieved at the weight being lifted from her shoulders even as she succumbs to the pull of gravity and the loss of blood. Because if she's already crazy and half in the grave than what's the point in pretending to live any longer. She's not been herself and that in itself has been exhausting, so to wave Pete on, and to realize that perhaps this time she won't be forced to relive that feeling of loss upon her return to South Dakota all over again causes her to smile. And an image of her, looking peaceful and calm comes to Myka. "I smell apples," she says, and Myka thinks that in that moment she, herself had been frantic. But it isn't a memory, Myka thinks even as she falls under. It can't be a memory. Can it?
It is dark, where she is. And she does not feel...anything. Neither heavy nor light. Present or apart. It is dark. Now and then she can hear things, beeping and voices. And at times she almost feels like someone might be touching her, holding her hand, kissing her forehead, but she is never sure. It is dark. And she cannot feel anything. And she cannot remember anything. There is a thought, always pressing against her, trying to get her to remember. Sometimes there is the image of...someone...but it quickly fades and is replaced by the blackness. A bright spot, shining from down a distant corridor, but dimmed and shoved away as quickly as it appears.
She thinks, if they are thoughts at all, that there is somewhere she needs to be, something she needs to be doing, and someone. Someone? There is always someone, hovering there. But most of the time, there is no thought, only darkness. And now and then the voices:
He got away. I chased him for blocks but then he just disappeared.
It's alright, a second voice, joining the second. Murmuring. Encouraging.
Vanessa says it's the artifact. We need to find it. But that it's also her. Her body is too weak to fight it off properly. And it's drawing what little strength she has left.
We'll find it.
And later. We're going to find it, Mykes. Don't you worry. Mykes? That sounds familiar, but then the memory is gone again, fading into the darkness. That voice doesn't come again for a long time. Although there does not seem to be any time to where she is. She? Who is she?
Sometimes the voices are softer, as though they're whispering, speaking quietly so as not to disturb someone.
She's getting worse.
I know.
Any luck?
They are all still looking. But so far...
Nothing?
Nothing, and it is heavy and released with a sigh.
There is one voice that is more constant than the others, as though whomever it belongs to is always nearby. Watching.
You should go back to the B&B, Leena. I can watch her tonight.
It's alright. Claudia's flight gets in tonight. I'll stay until she gets here.
Alright.
Then they're gone again. And sometimes the voices are loud. Louder than they should be. And the most familiar one (Deeper. Male? But that is a concept she cannot fully comprehend.) is shouting.
You need to bring her here! Now.
Calm down, Agent. This voice is authoritative and sounds ancient.
Calm down?! That's my best friend in there. My partner. And we've been looking for weeks with nothing, no trace of it. So, you tell them. I don't care what you have to do, but you get them to agree. She'd want to be here. Myka needs her.
It almost seems as though it's getting darker where she is. But now, there are flecks of light floating in the infinite space. These pieces of light are in the opposite direction of the voices. And she is unsure what is real and what is not real and if 'real' is even something which exists. And she believes that perhaps she is meant to choose one or the other: the light or the voices, but she does not recognize either and so she waits.
Pete.
Mom? Mom, what are you doing here? Is she with you? The voice sounds hopeful and childish and she feels the word 'smile' in the blackness in response.
Who? I heard about Myka. I wanted to be here for you.
But did you bring her? Desperation.
Who, dear? Oh! Oh, you mean - no. I'm afraid I'm not involved in that case. I'm sorry. Pete. Pete! The voices trail away.
There is an older voice. She can hear the memories in it. And this voice speaks to her, but not to her. The words are ... passages. 'Reading.' Ah. Yes. And she understands that outside of this blackness with its growing pinpoints of light and its fading voices, that outside of this place where there is up or down or left or right, that this 'reading' means something. That it brings emotion. Joy? Yes. But she does not understand what experiencing such joy means.
"But to me the future is still black and blank-is a vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his story. And I have by me, for my comfort, two strange white flowers -shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle-to witness that even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness still lived on in the heart of man..."
Sometimes, the voices tug at her, disrupting the peace that is the nothingness. They pull on her, trying to drag her from her perfectly balanced position between them and the light.
Wake up, Myka. Please. Please. Please wake up. It's not the same without you. Jinksy's broken up without you. And Pete. Pete, too. And Leena looks sad all the time. And Artie is a holy terror without you here. And I- The voice breaks. Please wake up.
More shouting ensues. The voice full of control, of power. And the man-child. The man who has begged for her and said things that she thinks are meant to be funny. But she does not remember what 'to laugh' is. And a voice that she does not recognize.
This is more than just a single artifact, the Regents-
I don't give a rat's ass about your Regent business. This is Myka we're talking about.
What Agent Lattimer is trying to say-
Look. I get that you guys have crap you have to keep secret. Fine. But that woman in there needs her. And it isn't just a single artifact retrieval gone wrong. You're right. It's about a person now. A life. And I'll be damned if I let her die. So you tell all your little buddies to get her here.
I don't think you understand the consequences of your actions.
Fine, then I quit.
I beg your pardon.
I quit, too. The younger voice. Female.
A pause. Me, too. From the soft one.
An image of a woman, old, yet young, with an eyebrow raised comes unbidden to her darkness before it is chased away again. And the artifact?
Steve and I are still leaving again tomorrow. But we will be quitting before then. Unless you get her here. Immediately.
Silence. They are waiting for something. Your darkness feels tense around you.
Very well. I'll see what I can do.
The tension has eased.
"Pete?" She breezes through the door, shaking the snow out of her hair. Winter is just around the corner and it seems to be coming early this year. "What's going on? I got here as quickly as I could! Well, you look like Hell," as though it has not been almost a year since they've seen each other. As though they have been in communication all this while. And that they were meeting in the hospital foyer to grab tea and catch up on old times.
"This way," he says, by way of greeting, as though no time has passed at all. He grabs an elbow and begins to pull her down a hallway.
"But, what's happened?" She asks, her voice sounds curious, but a bit worried. Not nearly worried enough.
"Wait," he freezes and she nearly runs into him. He spins slowly so he is looking into her eyes. "They didn't tell you?"
"Tell me? Heavens no. They told me what flight to catch and that it was imperative that I return to South Dakota immediately. They said there'd been a situation with an artifact."
"Yes," but he is staring at her in disbelief. "All this time and you haven't even known?"
There is a crease in her forehead now. There is no longer any humor in her voice, no snarkiness, simply worry now. "Peter, what in the world has happened?"
"Myka," he breathes out. Her face falls automatically. "I-it's Myka."
"What are you talking about?" She is suddenly whiter than the snow still melting on her jacket.
"There was an...incident. She was stabbed actually. And so far we haven't been able to retrieve the artifact. But Steve and Claudia are following up on a lead in Mongolia at the moment." He looks afraid of her. Afraid of the storm gathering across her brow and in the set of her shoulders. "And, it isn't good," he tells her, and it's then that she finally realizes that the playfulness that accompanies Pete where ever he goes, the joy, is missing. That is why he is standing taller while looking so completely bowed down.
"Oh," it is not the most eloquent moment she has ever had.
"We've been trying to get them to bring you here. To let you come. But we didn't know where you where..."
"What?" She stares at him piercingly. "But, my letters."
He shakes his head no at the question.
"Those bastards. Every week. I wrote every single week," and it is understood that she means to Myka. "I imagined they were keeping my mail from me, but I never thought... How long?" She snaps her head up to look at him again. "How long?" and she indicates the linoleum tile and the pastel green walls.
"It's been three months tomorrow," he responds apologetically, and watches as she crumbles before him.
"Thr-three months?"
"I-" he looks exhausted.
"Take me to her," she orders, but her eyes are faraway and she does not see the halls as they pass through them, and she does not feel anything except dread, a dread that was not present on the twenty hour flight or the four hour drive, a dread that grows with each step. Three months. Three months.
There is someone new now. The voices have become almost too faint to be made out over the light of the stars. Because that is what they are. Stars. The word had come unbidden out of the blackness, and she had accepted it without question. They are brighter now, closer, and now there is heat. Warm and cold. But this voice, this voice reminds her of many things all at once. The images pass too quickly to make an impression, but it is the sudden color that they bring, the whirlwind of what used to be considered emotion that clouds the darkness and fogs the lights from view, that strikes her. Draws her closer to it.
Hello, darling. And for the first time she wishes she knew how to communicate in return. Because she thinks that she might be this 'darling.' She wants to be. More than she desires the stars. And she can feel the pressure outside of the blackness. Someone is touching her. Because that is what sensation means. But this touch is stronger than the others have been, and she can make out soft from hard and gentle and loving in strength.
Hello, my love. A place where she thinks a cheek might be is burning.
I'm sorry it took so long for me to arrive. I've only just been brought up to date. For some reason the voice sounds as though it is striving for humor, nonchalance, but is failing. Emotions. Those are emotions. Intonations. These things are flooding her system. And the stars are receding.
Well, I must say, you certainly aren't looking your best. I thought you'd be a bit happier to see me. But with that statement, any attempt at humor is lost. In truth, I am beyond happy to see you, my love.This feels like a secret. An admission. The voice continues, and time begins to have meaning again. There are...stories...she thinks, and explanations, words, phrases, paragraphs, until the voice begins to sound tired. Sleepy. She doesn't believe she's slept in quite a long time. Or perhaps she's sleeping now?
You can head home for tonight if you want. Leena and I will be here.
I think I'll stay if that's alright?
Of course.
Just let me freshen up.
There is no indication that anything has happened, but suddenly, Myka knows that the voice is alone. The others have disappeared for the time being. And suddenly the pressure is covering her everywhere. She feels solid. Corporeal. And one 'side' of her is warm.
I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Water. There is water in the darkness. Warm and liquid and burning to the touch, falling from the stars. I'm here now, love. Oh, sweet girl. I'm so terribly, terribly sorry. I love you. Again. I love you. I love you. I love you. Until the voice has drifted off. And she is left feeling full, but also empty at the loneliness. She has not been lonely here, but now that the voice is gone, so warm and inviting and wonderful, she feels lonely. The darkness seems vast, incalculable, foreboding.
They give her twenty-four hours. Twenty-four blessed hours. She has not let go of Myka's hand once in that time. And she slept curled beside the other woman, so much smaller now than she remembered. Pale. Cold. Quiet. Still. She does not look up as he enters the room. A regent. She does not remove her eyes from chasing the curve of Myka's neck, the outline of her ear. Beneath the tubes and the wiring, she is still Myka. Still beautiful.
Pete stands at the entrance, however. "What are you doing here?" His voice is harsh. There is a tone there she has never heard before. Protective. Of Myka. And of her.
"I've come to collect Agent Wells."
"You've got to be kidding me," Pete scoffs. "You let her out of her cage for a single day and that's supposed to be enough time."
Enough time to say goodbye. Is that what he meant? Hello. Goodbye. Oh, my darling, how I love you. Adore you. Ache for you every moment of every day. She won't. She refuses to leave now, not when they have kept this from her. She'd spoken to the team of doctors in charge of Myka's care, and if Steven and Claudia are not successful, there is no final reserves of strength left for the sword to draw from. She refuses to be absent. She will not leave. Not again. Not this time.
So, when the regent side steps Agent Lattimer and begins to make his way towards her, she does not let go of Myka's hand. And it is not until he places a sweaty hand on her shoulder that she moves, faster than she thought possible, pointing the tesla in his face.
He freezes. And Pete stares between the two of them. If this were a normal situation, she realizes with a rueful grin, Peter would intervene. But he won't. Not today. "I suggest you leave," she says softly. Icily. Without a care in the world. But her tone is dangerous.
"Do you understand what you're doing, Agent?" the regent questions her.
But she smiles at him. "Perfectly, sir," and the title rolls off of her tongue with all of the disdain she is capable of. They stare at one another, silently, waiting. She does not move. She is as taught as a bow string, but more relaxed than one might be on a lazy Sunday by the lake. This is not an action she will need to reflect on later or to regret. She will not be leaving. Not yet.
He glances at the patient, lying in the bed, undisturbed by the events going on around her. And back at the woman in front of him. Her lover, she sees the recognition alight in his gaze. "I see," he murmurs. She does not dignify the statement with a nod. "Irene was correct."
Pete's eyes narrow from behind them.
She lowers the weapon in understanding.
"We will be in contact then," he explains, turning towards the door. "Agent," she looks at him, unfeelingly. "May I offer my apologies."
"You may," and she dismisses him loftily, sinking back into the chair and drawing the small hand into her own once more. Once more to wait.
Pete retreats after the regent, to call Leena and Artie most likely, to check on the other agents' progress. But she does not move from her position by her lover's side. Her lover.
They are having a conversation, except she is unable to respond verbally. The voice is speaking to her again though, and tonight, because it is tonight, she knows now, tonight, the person attached to the voice is running her fingers along her cheek, her arm, her hand. It has been several nights since she arrived. And since then, the stars have become only half-remembered pinpricks once more, and her voice has become louder, and she can feel - feel - her touch almost completely now. Her voice - Helena - that is her name. It came to her unbidden in the darkness, and with it came an image of a woman, a beautiful woman, a haunted woman, but a woman who was whole when she looked at her, a woman who made her feel whole.
Helena. Yes. That is her name.
They might have found something. Pete went to help them yesterday evening. They should know by tonight. There is thinly veiled excitement there. And if she could respond, she would say, 'yes. excitement. yes. good. happiness. please. please be happy.' Because so far this woman, this Helena has been unaccountably sad.
I do so hope they've found it. Hope. 'yes. good.' Do you know darling, I'm not quite certain what would happen to us all if you were to never wake up. Vanessa proclaims that it is a distinct possibility, but I of all people, have never dealt solely in absolutes, darling. Surely you must have realized that by now. So I must say, for purely selfish reasons of course, that you are required to wake up. You mustn't stay away for ever, because I, well I'm not quite sure I'd survive it. There is a laugh, but if she could respond she would not laugh. 'i love you.' is what she would stay instead. Serious. Water again. Tears, she knows now. And she wishes desperately to be able to stop them for a moment, to-t-to kiss them, yes, kiss them away. 'i want to kiss you.' she says. 'i love you.'
You are quite the conundrum, my dear. I'm not sure that I understand you completely yet. 'i understand you. you are good. you are kind. you are wonderful.' But, I think perhaps you might understand me. 'yes.' And so I must ask that you do not take this opportunity to take your revenge for all of the times I have, she clears her throat, left you. By leaving me. That's just rude, my sweet. That word. Leaving. It makes her hurt. She'd almost forgotten what hurt was. What pain was. And suddenly she feels as though she is drowning in it. Hurt. Yes. Loss. Pain. Agony. She was in agony. Outside of this darkness, of her cocoon, she was wrapped in pain instead of blackness. But this woman, this Helena, her Helena was the light, the stars.
"What is it? What's happening?!" She is terrified and is staring at the monitors in fear. Vanessa rushes in, followed by several nurses. She is unsure. She doesn't know what is going on either.
Outside is agony, and here is safety. Peace. But she is outside. She is there, waiting for her. And she remembers what leaving feels like, but mostly what being left feels like, and she does not want to put Helena through that. She must not be allowed to face such pain on her own. She will not be the cause of that hurt for her.
She is crying. She never cries and yet tears are forcing their way down her cheeks in rivers, in torrents. And the beeping is growing louder. And Myka's heart is beating so quickly. And she doesn't understand what has suddenly gone so terribly wrong. But above the din in the room, she makes out the sound of the Farnsworth ringing. "Pete?" she asks through her tears and her confusion and her fear.
She is fighting the darkness now. Fighting it with a strength of will she did not realize she still possessed. She needs to get to her, the Helena. To prove to her that she will not leave. That she is still herself and Helena is still herself, still hers, still beautiful, still stunning, still confusing, and complicated, and brilliant, and terrifying, and wonderful. She is fighting. Myka, because that is her name she remembers, is fighting.
"We've got it!" he crows. "Finally."
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. It is the mantra at the back of her mind. She looks at the bed, at the woman lying there, fighting some invisible battle. "Hurry," she says. "Do it. Do it now."
And Pete nods to someone she cannot see, there is a flash of light, Pete has covered his eyes and looked away. And she has closed her eyes as well, even though this is taking place thousands of miles from the hospital room. But when she opens them, blinking, it is to a sudden silence, because the furious beeping has stopped, and Vanessa is standing, hair askew, and the nurse with her is gaping at the monitor, and Artie and Leena have appeared in the doorway, brought up short from a rapid dash, and it is blessedly, blessedly silent.
"HG?" Pete asks, unsure, unable to read the expression on her face over the technology. "Helena?"
"Yes," she breathes, eyes glowing. "Yes, it's worked. Yes, oh yes," but she does not look at him because she only has eyes for Myka, for the woman who is blinking sleepily at the people arrayed about her room, who is weak and exhausted and unsure, but who's eyes light up when they land on Helena. Myka, who looks both confused, elated, and afraid at the sight of the other woman. "Yes, thank you. Thank you so much," and she steps forwards and leans down to press a kiss to Myka's cheek, to her forehead, to take her small hand in her own. "Thank you. Thank you so very, very much."
"I don't think you fully understand the consequences of your actions Agent Wells. Pulling a tesla on a regent is no small charge."
"And yet, I'm not sure you understand the consequences of your actions," she snaps back, temper getting out of control at his condescending tone. Mrs. Frederic lays a staying hand on her arm, but her normally controlled face is a bit more turbulent than usual.
"Keeping Agent Wells from the Warehouse was a mistake. Surely we can all agree to that. Not allowing her to have any contact with the other agents, particularly with Agent Bering turned out to be a poor decision in hindsight. Her actions at the hospital were deplorable and must be punished," Mrs. Frederic turns to her and lifts an eyebrow, but Helena merely stares back at her. "However, I don't believe the solution is to isolate her once more."
"And what would you have us do?" the regent sounds very nearly exasperated.
"Suspend her," the ageless woman says simply. "pending future actions. Watch her closely. I myself will take full responsibility for her," Helena cannot help but gasp at that. "But allow her to serve out her suspension at the Warehouse, and to remain there once she has proved her worth. And she will," this is directed at HG. "Quickly." Helena nods in agreement. There is almost nothing she would not do to be returned to the Warehouse, returned to the woman waiting there for her.
The regents (there are three of them present for this hearing) talk amongst themselves for a surprisingly short amount of time. "Very well," they decree. "Based on the events after her previous actions, Agent Wells may be allowed to return to Warehouse 13 on the condition that she is not placed in the field for a period of six months, and not until you deem fit, Irene."
"Of course," Mrs. Frederic bows her head gracefully and turns to collect her new charge. Helena would like nothing better than to exit the room with her spine straight, her head up, glare fixed firmly in place, but she finds that her eyes are shining in delight and that she would much rather skip than walk haughtily out. It is a surprising feeling, this elation, but over the past month, she's come to recognize it for what it is: excitement about the future, but most importantly, excitement for a future in which Myka will play a prominent role.
"You have to eat something," Leena reminds her, but there is a smile in the motherly tone. "Vanessa only let you come home last week because you promised to continue resting and recuperating, and that includes breakfast," she reminds her charge.
"I know," Myka responds, but she isn't paying attention. She's staring fixedly at the doorway into the kitchen, waiting for the tell tale sounds of tires on the driveway and the front door swinging open. She's practically bouncing in her chair and so Leena merely grins at the others at the table and takes her own seat. They're all excited at the prospect of HG coming home, but mostly they're all thrilled at the change Myka has exhibited since she woke up four weeks previously. She's been better. Eating more. Saying more. More present. Especially when HG is around. It's as though some weight has been lifted, or more perhaps, as Claudia remarked yesterday at lunch, as though HG is serving as the tether they'd all been searching for. The home base.
"Mykes, are you gonna eat that?" Pete is already reaching for her muffin, but she hits his hand away without even looking.
"I don't think so Lattimer," she grumbles. He grins at the response and turns to Steve and Claudia as if to check that they saw what he just did. And they smile in return because, yes, that was a purely Myka response. And it is wonderful.
The sound of car doors slamming in the chilly South Dakota morning air can be heard, and Myka is very nearly out of her seat at the sound. She waits though, they all do, until there is the door opening and closing and a voice rings out from the hall, cheery and loud, "Good morning! Where is everyone?"
Myka is the first one there, wrapping her arms around HG tightly and nuzzling her nose into the other woman's skin. "Hello, darling," the voice is softer now, her hands trail through Myka's curls, still damp and warm from her shower earlier. "I missed you."
"HG!" Pete's voice is overly loud in his excitement and Claudia is clasping her hands together, Leena is grinning. Even Artie has a smile on his face, and although Steve is leaning against the doorjamb nonchalantly, it is clear that he is pleased to have the British time traveler back in their midsts.
"Well hello, Peter," she lets out an oomph as he wrestles her into a large hug once Myka has let go and stepped back. "And everyone," she smirks at them all over Pete's shoulder, one hand still holding onto Myka firmly.
"Are you staying?" Claudia asks.
"For good, I'm afraid," the older woman plays, but her cheeks are flushed in happiness. She squeezes the hand in hers, pleased to find that the return grip is stronger even than it was a week ago. "For good," and she looks down, glowing, when Myka leans forward and presses a quiet kiss to her cheek.
The two women smile at each other, forgetting for a moment that they are not alone. And Helena is asking, just to check, to make sure, Alright? 'yes,' Myka responds silently. 'perfect.'
"Well!" Pete claps his hands together loudly, bringing them back to the present. "I suppose we should finish breakfast, yes? Wouldn't want those muffins to go to waste. Let's let these two lovebirds do a bit of catching up," he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Both women glance at one another mischievously before reaching forward simultaneously and punching him. "Hey!" he shouts in mock horror. "No fair. Two against one!"
But they merely grin at him, before Myka pulls Helena into the dining room, and settles back into her chair. She glances over, just to check, and smiles shyly at her plate when she catches HG grinning back at her. The seat to her left is no longer empty and the sea in her bed is receding, and once more, her world is turning freely on its axis. And Helena is here, and Myka feels calm, solid, grounded, for the first time in a year. She is home. Home. At last.
Fin.