She watched them, didn't mean to stare, didn't mean to be a voyeur. But nevertheless she watched, bitterness rising up within her that originated somewhere strangely close to her heart.
She should have felt guilty for laying eyes upon the scene playing out before her, but in her righteous defense, the door was open. And it's not as if she had intentionally spied on them in the first place. It was all very accidental, and while part of her wished she'd never decided at that moment in time to discuss with Will the urgent matter at hand (what was that again?), another part - the part that boiled over with an indescribable anger - was glad she found out.
Jealousy is nothing more than the fear of abandonment. She'd read this somewhere, some time long ago.
Her dear friend Watson had now passed away. John was on the brink of reverting back to his former ways. Bigfoot was struggling to hold on just another day as the sickness overtook him. Henry's fight against his alter ego was now more impossible than ever, thanks to the Cabal and their injections. And Ashley, her daughter, was perhaps lost to her forever.
"I suppose you'll be leaving me soon," she said randomly amidst a conversation with her protege.
She'd surprised him, obviously, by the way his knit brows and narrowed eyes peered up at her in confusion. But despite the fact he had no knowledge of her thoughts or what scene she'd accidentally witnessed between him and Clara the previous day, a hand found its way onto the skin of her arm and squeezed gently.
"Never," he whispered.
By the way his voice cracked, Helen guessed he hadn't intended for it to be a whisper at all.
She smiled and looked across at him, tears threatening to break from the confines of her watery eyes. She placed her hand atop his, relief flooding through her. Jealousy was, after all, nothing more than the fear of abandonment, and she believed him when he promised that he wasn't going anywhere.