All The Things We Owe, a warehouse 13 fanfic

There is something about this morning. Something about the dull blues that flood the walls, the floors, the ceilings that make this day feel more sombre than those recently passed. Helena is sick of these walls, sick of these floors, sick of these ceilings. Fed up with inanimate objects influencing her in ways only people should.

She had made sure to avoid anything (anyone) that could change her mind. For she knew, only once, would she be able to make this decision. Only once could she pretend to pack, before realising that nothing (no one) really belonged to her. Only once could she step lightly down the corridor, her arms outstretched, softly touching the doors that belonged to her friends. Only once could she release the soft murmur of words (names) caught in her throat. Only once could she say goodbye.

You cannot communicate with any of us.

You can trust no one.

So Helena silently agrees. She walks away without a word. Carefully swallowing, holding back the disagreements, the curses, the names that try to claw their way out of her throat. All Helena is allowed to do is to silently agree.

It seems idiotic, that the Regents would trust her with something, much less something of this scale. They provide with a car, a week's supply of food and water, and an astrolabe. The astrolabe. A device that could control time, a device that could destroy the world, given to the world's biggest, and presumably only, time-travelling psychopath. Helena cackles. But quick in response is the silencing pound in her chest. Flinching, she tightens her fingers around the wheel of the car. It makes her cringe, the thought that the Regents can read her weaknesses so easily. That they know the astrolabe would be safe with her, unused by her. That they know the reason she isn't going to use it.

Perhaps they also know what she is going to do next.

Helena wants to pretend this isn't one of her stupider ideas. Wants to pretend that it isn't as ridiculous or as dangerous as she believes it is. She knows that isn't true. She wants to believe that in doing this, no one will get hurt. She knows that isn't true. But she is scared that if she doesn't do this that they will get hurt. The only people who matter. The only person that matters. She wants to believe that she has the willpower to just walk away. As her hands tighten around the receiver, she knows that isn't true.

Perhaps Warehouse agents shouldn't be so simple to find. Perhaps she should feel embarrassed that their security is so minimal that Helena, someone who doesn't even have a full grasp on modern day technology, can so easily find Pete and Myka. Admittedly she is H.G. Wells she smirks to herself. And admittedly the room of tourists screaming about flying and nooses and secret agents had significantly helped.

For a moment she captures Myka's face as she sprints off, Pete on her heel. For a moment Helena's world stops. The ache reflected on Myka's face ignites the pound in Helena's chest. Empty eyes prevent the waterfall of emotions that want to rain out, a clenched jaw preventing screams and begging and words of regret. She knows that face because she recognises that face. A face she has too often seen in the mirror. A face she has too often seen on those dearest to her. A face, too often, worn by Myka. Half-moons form on the palm of her hand as she tightly clenches her fist. She curses herself for the thought that darts through her mind. A thought unforgivable. Yet she knows that she means it. She means to be thankful to whoever has fallen in place of Myka.

The world resumes. And seemingly at a pace that Helena can't quite keep up with. Somehow the Warehouse agents are always one step ahead of her. When, finally she finds them it seems like it is almost too late.

The scene before her is indescribable, a painting of an artist who had long-lost hope in the world. Shadows fall over the man whose eyes that usually gleam with childlike innocence and joy now shine with tears. The girl whose red hair is usually eye-catching is bleached in contrast to the red spread across her hands. A boy sits trying to comfort the girl ignored as she clutches to an older man, a father figure, the source of the red. And Myka. Strong, witty, intelligent, beautiful Myka, stares at the floor, gripping her shirt, willing herself to be the hero, willing herself to be enough for the people she loves, for the Earth she loves.

Helena doesn't know what to, for fear of breaking the silence that keeps the painting immobile. For she knows, once they move, fear will become reality.

"Helena."

It is Myka that notices her first.

"Helena."

It is Myka that notices her awkward figure retreating from the doorway.

"Helena."

Of course it is Myka that sees her.

"Myka," she whispers, "I…I was too late."

Once again, they are running out of time. It takes Myka's hand sliding into her own to restart the pound in her chest, to restart the brave person, the noble person the Helena pretends to be for this family of misfits. Despite all her wishes she forces herself to let go of Myka. She is startled when the girl spins to her, clutching at her as if wishing to be engulfed in Helena's body. Perhaps she should not be surprised, that Claudia may see her as a mother figure. Perhaps if they were not in this predicament she may feel the urge to bring up the absurdity that she could be someone's mother and Artie their father. Perhaps she should feel an overwhelming joy as she brushes the hair from the girl's cheek, placing soft kisses on wet skin. Instead the sinking feeling that so often overwhelms her roars to life.

"Everything is going to be okay," she whispers. As she looks around the room at her fellow agents, fellow friends she notices the boy drop his knowing eyes to the floor. She wonders if that lie were ever believable?

It is urgent again. Last minute again. It seems the Warehouse demands dramatics in its sacrifices. But there doesn't seem to be any other way.

"Myka," she speaks softly, ignored.

"Myka," she repeats grabbing on to an arm as the woman dashes past her, spinning her so they are face to face.

"What Helena? Helena look we… we have to do something. I have to do something!" panic is written across Myka's features and Helena wonders if she will ever see her smile again.

"I need you to trust me."

The usually sentimental statement sounds stupid spoken between the two. Has trust not been proven countless times, has faith not been restored by lives saved, by love found?

"I need you to get everyone out of the building," a strange echo of calmness contrasts everything she is feeling, the tingling in her fingers, the tears threatening to drop from her eyes, the pounding in her chest that seems to ricochet through every cell in her body, "Myka, I need you to go."

Myka fumbles as she turns. She blindly wipes the tears on her cheeks, blatantly ignoring Helena's last words, "I will get everyone out."

It sounds like a promise. But Helena doesn't think it will be enough. A shuddering breath escapes from her lips as she breathes slowly, attempting to clear her mind and reorganise her thoughts. Yes.

So she does it. She reorganises. She reroutes. She uses artefacts and science and hope as she turns the building into the equivalent of a large quarantine tent.

She near collapses with joy, sobbing, "That's…that's it. Helena, you still have it."

Instead of the silence she expects a voice softly responds, "I knew you could do it Helena."

She spins angrily towards the noise, "Myka what are you doing? Get out. Get out!"

Instead of silence the pounding in her chest intensely responds.

"They're trapped. Mrs Frederic. A group of civilians. I was trying to get them out, but I couldn't. And it started, whatever you are doing, it started. And I wanted to stay. Stay with the people I couldn't save. But then there is you. And I want to save you," finally Myka gasps for air crying as she stops the endless truths that fall from her mouth, "Because it is you. Because I love you. Because you bring out the worst in me. Because you bring out the best in me. So I couldn't stay."

There is no good way she can respond. No truths and no lies that would make this any easier for either of them. So she grabs Myka's hand and pulls sprinting as fast as she can.

They sprint like the wind. The phrase always seemed rather silly to her, the use of the wind as a comparison to speed. But when the third timer goes off she think she might finally understand. Their bodies are easily lifted. Carelessly, like twigs in a storm, they are tossed across the room. As Myka's hand slips from hers she feels weightless. Until her body collides with solid.

The world shines all white. Or all black. Her mind buzzes, not able to focus. She sees a shape. A figure. A person. Maybe it is Myka she sees. Maybe it is Christina. She can't quite comprehend what is in her vision and yet she is able to think, to wonder. Was it like this last time she died? Did her life flash before her eyes? Did she see flashes of Myka as the pound in her chest flooded her body?

She doesn't know if she thought then, last time she died. But she knows she thinks now. She thinks of her family. Her real family. She thinks of her other family. Her adopted family. She thinks of how it was always supposed to be this way. That Helena had always planned to leave them. Because she could bear no more tethers, cling to no more hope. Because any form of home became an anchor of fears and potential loss. Yet, she has assumed she would have time. Time to breathe. Time to make peace. Time to say goodbye. She had assumed that the world would let her off lightly. That perhaps, the world would stop punishing her, would forgive her, for consuming time that she wasn't supposed to have.

"Helena!" is the last thing she hears before the pound in her chest stops.

In asking to be bronzed Helena Wells had avoided seeing the consequences of many of her choices. She never saw how her ideas and inventions would go on to bring suffering and pain to the world. Still she had seen enough of suffering caused by her hand for multiple lifetimes. Yet here she was watching walls crumble around her. It wasn't the same anymore. The Warehouse wasn't the same without Mrs Frederic. The Bed and Breakfast wasn't the same without Leena. The People weren't the same without their family. The World wasn't the same without the lives she had taken.

Helena knows that, someday, they will recover. Claudia will begin to smile again, forgive the world, forgive herself, and forgive Helena. She will stop having nightmares of Steve, of Artie, of the responsibilities and expectations that she doesn't believe she can fulfil. Steve will be able to sleep again, be able to pretend that he doesn't watch Claudia's each and every move his heart aching for the sister he almost lost. Artie will recover; physically and mentally, and will one day understand that Leena forgives him, that they all forgive and love him. Pete will relearn to crack jokes, will feel comfortable around the people he loves. And Myka…Helena can only hope that one day she will lose the face of emptiness and regret she wears and will feel joy again.

She knows that they will recover. As a family they will always recover. Helena knows that she was never quite part of the family. Never quite accepted. Never quite loved. They try to convince her otherwise, but she can feel it, the secret daggers in their eyes, in their words and in their lies. They can see the body count. 287 souls. Countless lives affected by what she has done. They try to convince her otherwise. Myka will plead and tell her that so many more lives were saved by Helena's actions. In a way Helena knows that Myka is just pleading to herself. It seems there is a limited amount of times you can watch someone commit murder before you stop loving them.

She wishes she could formulate words. Be the articulate, poetic HG Wells that Myka fell in love with.

She wishes she could tell Myka of the way she makes her feel. Of the pound in her chest. But she can't bear to look at her again. To tell her she is leaving. So she grabs a paper and grabs a pen.

The next morning Myka will wake up, clueless, with a heavy feeling in her heart. She will find the letter. She will yell. She will sob. She will slowly be consumed by silence.

Eventually, she will smile her fingers slowly tracing the letter, remnants of a love heart scribbled out with blue ink.

Keep it.

You can owe me.