Glorious

Warehouse 13, Bering and Wells - This is the 30 day challenge from over on Tumblr. I've been asked to post it here for ease of reading now that it's finished. Enjoy!

Day 1 - Holding Hands

"Do you think it will ever end?" you ask, breaking the stillness that lays over the both of you like a blanket.

She doesn't answer, merely looks at you, her head cocked to the side in question.

"This," and you wave your hand in the air to indicate...everything.

She glances around. You are sitting the lobby of a hotel, waiting for Pete to join you. It is five in the morning, and all of the normal people are still sleeping. The sun is rising, and the muted oranges of a new day are filtering into the deserted lobby, making her skin glow. You have successfully snagged, bagged, and tagged another of the world's hidden dangers. It is time to catch a plane home. Home. South Dakota. No one has died, although once more you all escaped only by luck and some strange twist of fate. Except you don't believe in luck. You might, however, be coming around to the idea of fate. Especially when she is sitting beside you, looking ragged and sleep deprived and lovely.

You have not slept in 72 hours and your head feels a bit fuzzy and floaty. The way it does when you pick up your pen at three in the morning to attempt to transmit your thoughts onto paper. The way it does when she smiles at you.

She bites her bottom lip in thought. She is actually considering your question. It's strange to think that she might care what you say. It's nice. It makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. The way it does when you catch her looking at you in the office of the Warehouse. Or when your eyes find her immediately when you enter the room, latching onto her as if of their own volition. She is the first one you look for. Always.

"No," and her response comes out in a whoosh of air. "I don't think so," she looks apologetic. But you nod and look down at the floor to let her know that it's alright; you were expecting that answer. You study the patterns of the red and greens on the faded carpeting and try not to notice the prickling behind your eyes. It's ridiculous to feel so emotional about such a silly question. You don't want her to see.

"But," she pauses. You look up at her quickly. She is staring at you, studying you. And then she shifts her green eyed gaze out towards some unforeseeable future. "But, maybe. I don't know," she shrugs.

You feel your shoulders deflate in poorly concealed disappoint. She notices, because she turns toward you, glances around quickly. The only other person in the lobby is the one yawning behind the desk. Then she scoots closer to you on the couch. You force yourself not to lean closer. You force yourself not to look away from her face.

Now she is the one seemingly fascinated by the carpet. "Sometimes," she begins, her face a mask of concentration, "after weeks like this one, when I think that it can't possibly get any better, or any worse," she gives a strangled laugh, "I remember what Artie said once."

You look at her curiously, because Arthur Nielsen has never seemed like one for flowery phrases or quotable remarks. He is brusque and too the point and although he still doesn't trust you, you find yourself liking him immensely.

"Pete likes to quote him on it," she smiles, fondly this time. "Endless wonder," she said quietly. "We are living lives of endless wonder at the Warehouse. And it's true," she wants you to agree.

You turn the words over in your mind. Endless wonder. Yes. That is true. But, "Is it worth it?" you ask. And you are asking because of near-death experiences, men like Macpherson and Sykes, because of Egypt, Yellowstone, the Bronzer, Christina, because of Kelly, and Pete's ex-wife, and because of Sam, and Leena, and events that leave you always feeling just a step behind, always searching for solid footing.

She sighs at the question, her eyes darker, deeper, understanding. You are sitting closer together. You do not remember moving towards her. You are asking because she is the person who understands you better than anyone else in all the world, and yet she is also the furthest away and you, in all your infinite wisdom, are unsure how to bridge that distance. "I think so," she whispers. "I hope so, because," she breaks off once more.

You are waiting for her words with bated breath, waiting for her to save you, talk you down off this ledge you have carried the both of you to like she has done so many times in the past. Her lips are in a thin line, however. She looks down to the sofa. There is a three centimeter gap between your fingers. It feels like three centuries. Time and space are difficult to decipher when it comes to her.

She takes a deep breath, an affirming one. You see her back straighten. Her face adopts that look she wears when she's stopped thinking, and decided to act. Determined. But vulnerable. And she reaches out and intwines your fingers. Her palm is soft beneath your own, with none of the calluses that come from many hours spent tinkering with Claudia. Her hand is long and thin and delicate, but her grip is strong. You are not able to contain your gasp, because although you have held her to you while you both flew above an advancing vehicle. Although she has forced a gun into your hand. Although you have been trapped in the coils of rigging rope from Mary Celeste. You have never held her hand this way, familiarly, gently.

You are afraid to hold too tightly. But she gives you a gentle smile. Her cheeks are flushed. You can feel your own burning as well. You are bereft of your normal cocky composure. You blame it on the loss of sleep.

"Endless wonder," she whispers. You feel yourself nod in agreement. "There are bad days," she is explaining, as if to herself. "But there are good days, too. And I have to hope that somehow, the scales are balancing themselves out." She looks down to your tightly clasped hands and gives a squeeze, as if in preparation for letting go. You find that you want nothing more than to be permitted to maintain contact. You feel grounded, less flighty this way. Your head is not as light. She doesn't let go though. No. Instead, she stares out towards the sliding glass doors where Pete has gone to retrieve the car. And you sit, holding hands, until the SUV appears in front of the hotel.

When she stands, you follow her, still connected, and only when you are both vertical do you feel your hand fall, empty, to your side. She turns to face you once more and gives you a soft smile. "Today feels like one of the good ones, Helena."

You open and close your hand, feeling the emptiness in your palm. For those moments, those few blessed moments, you knew what it would be like to be the person she looked for upon entering a room. Even if the moment has passed and Pete is only ten yards away, opening the trunk and looking anxiously in at both of you while you stand locked in place. Even if this fleeting moment of trust and understand never comes again, it has happened. And it was, "Glorious."

You smirk at her, because that is what she expects from HG Wells. And you turn to lead the way towards the car, preparing yourself for the long trip back to the Warehouse devoid of any physical contact. You are: traitor, inventor, author, time traveler, Warehouse agent, loyal, alone. And hopelessly in love with the way her hand fits inside your own. Today is one of the good ones, yes. But they are few and far between.