Disclaimer: Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.
A/N: This is a direct and rather angsty response to 4x15. If you're not in the mood for misery, I'd give this one a miss. ;)
It breaks.
Over time.
Litters shards too small for the human eye to see in the Warehouse aisles, at Leena's - because it will always be hers - and through the streets of cities all over the world.
There are pieces of Myka Bering's heart scattered throughout the United States of America. There's a city or two in England that hold fragments in their palms. India had been an incredible experience, and she'd left grains of herself there too.
Myka's heart has been breaking for longer than she knows, each beat rattling fragments loose. They're small enough that she doesn't notice at first, feels the ache in her chest as a familiar companion and nothing more. It's only as time goes on, as the ache become something more, that she starts to suspect.
Time, as it turns out, does not heal all wounds.
In the top drawer of the table beside her bed there is a box. It lies largely empty now, but once it had been filled with all manner of questions and dreams. Within it there is a single square slip of paper with a message written on it and sometimes, when she's feeling particularly strong or desperately weak, Myka takes out the box and reads the note.
And tears well and her chest hurts and everything about life feels suddenly unbearably heavy.
She'll never get the chance to fulfil her debt, she supposes. This is one "IOU" destined to fall by the wayside.
And it's a shame.
The box had been full of such hope once.
They notice. Of course they do. They're her friends, her family, the people she turns to in times of trouble.
Only this time she knows they can't help, no matter how valiantly they try.
No one can.
One morning, her name is mentioned over breakfast and Myka feels it slip into her like a knife. Low in her gut and high in her heart and she feels a piece break off for the first time. She imagines it like a chunk of ice being chiselled free.
Steve stumbles over himself and his apologies and Myka's reassuring smile is weak and faded around the edges. She excuses herself in an attempt to make thing less strained but wonders later if her absence only made things worse.
Everyone tries to be cheery. They wear their brave faces and try to pretend nothing happened, but it's seared Into her brain like a brand.
She let her go.
The knife slips in again and she feels it twist.
She feels it every time now. The pieces must be bigger, heavier as they break away.
Thoughts of her are constant. Of what she's doing, thinking, saying. If she's happy.
Myka knows she is.
Another piece tears free.
The locket is hung on the inside of the door to her closet, quite safe. Out of sight. It hurts to look at that one. To remember.
Solving puzzles, saving the day.
But now it's only "Bering", and all Myka feels is empty.
She'd dreamt of marrying when she was young. Before her eyes became hungry for knowledge and almost bypassed boys altogether. She'd wished for children and a dog, she remembers this quite clearly, and had been not a little upset when her mother had informed her of the wait she was in for.
Sometimes, Myka lies awake at night and in between the cracking of her heart she often wishes she could go back and talk to her younger self. Warn her of the dangers of waiting too long for something.
Explain that one day you might wake up and find the thing that perhaps meant most to you in all the world is gone.
And it won't be returning.
She'd tell herself to hold on, to not be afraid and not let go no matter what. Assure herself that whatever she might think, the pain isn't bearable. Not even for Helena.
And she wonders if maybe she's the one who isn't that noble.
She knows.
The day she's drawn to that closet door and somehow finds it in her to fasten the locket about her neck, she knows.
All she wants is to feel close to Helena again, just for a second. To feel the warmth that accompanied her presence instead of the frigid chill that clings to her absence.
She places it gently against her chest and waits, desperate to feel something other than hollow.
She waits.
And waits.
And she waits.
But there's nothing, only the chill. Omnipresent and numbing.
And the tears that fall are cold against her skin.
She doesn't dream the same anymore. Her visions are disjointed in a way that actually makes sense and all the scenes are painted black and white and see-through.
Most nights Helena is there, sometimes smiling at her, sometimes past, and Myka can almost feel her heart begin to beat again with even the most fleeting of glances.
Because Helena's there, even if she isn't, and Myka wants so badly to feel warm again.
She can see the red of Helena's heart through the black and white of her elegant suit and it's so bright and brilliant Myka wants to reach out and touch it.
But she doesn't.
Because it doesn't belong to her.
It never did.
The doctors are called. She wonders if it'll be Vanessa, or if they'll give the new girl a whirl. Maybe both. She imagines this might be a good training exercise.
They won't find anything other than finality, definite and inarguable. She doesn't know how she knows, but there's no room for denial.
Myka's broken beyond repair.
And the only reason it hurts is because she feels for those around her. Those that will miss her when she's gone.
But then there's the woman who won't.
And the idea of death doesn't hurt so much anymore.
She wonders, however briefly, if there will be time for goodbyes. If she should say them now, just in case, before she doesn't get a chance.
Only she isn't sure if she wants a chance, isn't sure what she'd say. These people mean more to her than words could even begin to express and any words of love or thanks that pass her lips are sure to end in apologies.
Because this is her fault. She knows it, can feel it in her aching bones.
She's giving up.
Had given up as the car pulled away from the curb.
She wakes in the night.
Or she thinks she does.
Knows it's time.
Knows because Helena is there and she's smiling at Myka like she's the only thing in the world. Brilliant and beautiful.
She calls Myka hers and whispers words of love into the night as she feels her heart thud for the first time in months.
And she smiles.
A real, honest smile as she feels Helena's arms around her.
And finally, Myka lets herself go too.
They hold the funeral on a Wednesday. It seems fitting somehow, though no one knows why.
The coffin they'd chosen, Claudia and Pete, is a dark mahogany. It had reminded them of her curls, and that had seemed fitting too. The handles are gold, like the flecks in her eyes had once been, and the four of them carry the casket with all the reverence of monks transporting a holy grail.
The service is small, quiet save for the sobbing. Pete had written a speech but he can't make it to the end. Steve steps in to finish for him, tears shining in blue eyes, as he falls into the arms of a surrogate father that is minus a child.
Helena is there, only she isn't. She's a shell, a ghost, a pale reflection of the "Father of Science Fiction" who'd become a woman they all respected. All cared for.
But no one more than Myka.
Helena's eyes are as dark as ever, but there's no spark lighting them this day. Her cheeks are more hollow than he remembers, her skin more porcelain.
"She loved you, you know."
And Pete can see it on her face the second he says it. But she doesn't speak, won't voice the truth only to have it fall so far from intended ear.
What good would the words do now.
She breaks.
Over time.
It's a period that is short, all things considered, and it sees her spiral quickly, though no one else does.
The gap between meetings has been a handful of months and contact has been non-existent, but Helena would be remiss in not commending them on their persistence.
Still, she'd failed to grow fond of cell phones and her landline had unplugged all too easily after a while.
Claudia is perhaps her biggest regret concerning those remaining. Helena knows the young woman had looked to her as a mentor of sorts and if her heart could weigh heavier it would at the though of shutting dear Miss Donovan out.
But she hasn't anything left to teach.
She writes notes to herself as she works.
Slip after slip of bright yellow post-it paper slapped to every available surface.
She uses the them even though it hurts. Even though every time she peels off a sheet to scribble down something she doesn't want to forget – a name, a place, a line that repeats itself over and over in her head – she remembers that day.
Remembers sweeping the very embodiment of all she'd hoped for off her feet and into the air as though she were as light as a feather, despite all the hope she carried within her.
But hope hadn't been enough then.
And there's none left for her now.
Guilt is something to which she has long since grown accustomed. The feeling of it weighs no less, but it's almost comforting in a way. She wagers she'd be lost without it blanketing her.
But this guilt. This is quite unlike any other she's encountered. It clings to her, inky black and cloying. She wakes at night, on the rare occasions when she sleeps, gasping for air and clutching at her throat as it suffocates her.
And every human has a line that, when crossed, brings them to the brink.
But this is Helena's second time.
And this time there will be no mistakes.
She works until her bones ache. Until her fingers bleed and leave red smudges across blackened brass.
She works until the pain in her hands almost outshine the pain in her heart, and then she pushes on until it's finished.
But there's no sense of accomplishment this time.
Only that of finality.
And she knows there's no way to fix things.
But there is a way to stay.
They find her.
Just as she'd planned for them to.
Not too early, and far enough removed from too late so as to avoid their nights being plagued with thoughts of "if only we'd arrived a little sooner".
She understands the need for closure, is together enough to realise that they might need it in the end.
She even leaves a letter, though as she slides onto the crude metal chair she can no longer recall what it says.
Perhaps a simple "I'm sorry", or maybe something more. It doesn't seem to matter in the moment. They'll understand with or without an explanation.
The machine itself has been streamlined from her original blueprints, spirited away from a folder in her aisle at the Warehouse.
One never knows when one might have need for a time machine.
"I can't- there's no off switch, Artie!" Pete's voice is frantic as he searches the base of the machine below the single reclining would-be chair and spins, rushing for the small control panel placed on a stand beside it.
"There must be something in her notes! Check-" His voice is clear but tinny over the Farnsworth and Claudia interrupts it with her usual ease.
"There's nothing here!" Her tone is shrill, desperate. Her eyes are red and evidence of tears stain her cheeks, only to be covered by fresh trails. Her fingers fly over hundreds of post-its, taking in the information written on each one with lightning speed. "They don't," she rubs furiously at her eyes as she tries to get them to focus through the onslaught of tears. "Most of them don't make any sense, Artie! There's nothing about the machine anywhere."
And she's right.
This is not who you are
They don't make sense.
You'll never lose this friend
Not to her, not to Pete.
The price is too high
Not to anyone still capable of reading them.
You can owe me
Except one.
I'm so very sorry to you all. But please, don't try too hard. There's no saving me this time.
Her fingers skip over another that has "same body" written in block capital on it and has been furiously underlined.
And she hopes she knows what that means.
But there's no way to know.
Just as there's no way to save her.
And the realisation takes all the strength from her legs and her knees buckle.
"Claud!" And Pete's at her side but she doesn't really feel him.
"What's happening? Pete? Is Claudia okay? Is Helena-"
"She's gone." It's wet and it's broken and she has no idea if Pete can hear her, let alone Artie. But the silence that follows is all the confirmation she needs. "There's no off button, there's no way to extract her. She's gone." And a sob rips its way free as Pete's head falls to drip tears onto a paper-strewn floor. "She went back for Myka."
And she would not be returning.
Everything breaks.
Over time.
Pieces and fragments fall, sometimes landing too far from one another to ever reconnect.
But even damaged hearts will find a way, though battered and broken.
And perhaps death is life's great healer.