Hey Mr Curiosity
is it true what they've been saying about you
are you killing me?
You took care of the cat already
and for those who think it's heavy
Is it the truth
or is it only gossip?
Call it mystery or anything
just as long as you'd call me
I sent the message on did you get it when I left it?
See this catastrophic event
It wasn't meant to mean no harm
But to think there's nothing wrong is a problem
I'm looking for love this time
Sounding hopeful but it's making me cry
Her reflection looks back at her, all pale and delicate skin and dark eyes framed by long lashes. The loosely tied up ebony hair. Serious expression. But her teeth are still flawless. The things she has done with those fragile looking hands.
She knows exactly what she looks like.
Stunning to some, dangerous to others, and from time to time hideous to herself in her devilish attractiveness, but certainly not like someone who has been alive for a hundred and forty six years.
A hundred and forty six. Nobody, not even a person concerned with the science of time travel, expects to see their hundred and forty sixth birthday.
The relevance of birthdays in general fades at some point.
Relevance of worldly matters in general begins to appear questionable. Especially when the majority of years passing by is spent in perfect obscurity.
And yet, she had to discover that time, regardless of how large the amount of it, cannot make the grief of losing the most important dissolve. Quite the opposite, as it turns out. The confusion of waking up to a new century - especially to one that not even all its children know how to handle - has even increased her emotionality. Of course, she must not let anyone know about that.
Still, her heart has not withered, and it feels sorrow as well as -
affection, astonishingly.
The contrariness is so hateful to her, that she must feel so torn and broken and yet the world does not stop spinning, and deep sentiment finds her nevertheless. Curious, really.
She has already considered that there is a rational explanation to everything, that her subconscious makes her hold on to something because she is still human. That the way a hundred and fifteen years in the darkness are not as relevant anymore sometimes is a natural way of coping. But she is no fool.
She has been there before. Over a hundred years ago. Love has caught up with her, it shall seem. Well, one should always accept the inevitable, for there is no point in denying it. Only what to make of it, she does not know.
How do you say goodbye to the one person who knows you better than anyone else?
Yes, she said it, but has the true nature of it even been comprehensible?
Like a coward she has absconded from where she wanted to be, and the Farnsworth has been quiet ever since.
Of course, the terrible incident in the Warehouse had distraught them all, but to think that it should have brought them further apart although they had been so closely together is rather dreadful to her.
And still, she knows that she would act the same way if she were to decide again.
What other options are there to pursue, really? Noble or not, are not the both of them troubled human beings, branded by loss and deceit?
To travel down that path could be a journey doomed to fail. How is she to determine alone what should be resolved by the good team she is only part of?
If not at all, granted, she is not sure whether she is ready for the decision to be finally made in the first place.
Perplexed and disquietingly, Helena stays away from where she wants to be.
Myka.
Love is a mystery
Mr. Curious...
Come back to me
Mr. Waiting, ever patient, can't you see
that I'm the same, the way you left me
in a hurry to spellcheck me
and I'm underlined already in envy green
and pencil red
And I've forgotten what you've said
Will you stop working for the dead and return?
Mr. Curious: Well, I need some inspiration
It's my birthday and I cannot find no cause for celebration
The scenario is grave but I'll be braver when you save me
from this situation laden with hearsay
Yes, a part of Myka feels hollow and not at all like everything turned out alright since she discovered that H.G. left. But what is there to say, she is caught between a rock (somehow missing her) and a hard place (being utterly disappointed) and Helena is somewhere else, nothing really changed.
Except everything changed.
Death and disaster have struck once again, forgiveness and sacrifice have been offered, long lingering glances and reinstatement as a trustworthy person have been given.
Not knowing how to say goodbye doesn't justify leaving without a word.
She feels so strongly affected, pulled in and pushed away again. Who said it?
Wells and Bering, solving puzzles.
Bering and Wells, not solving anything these days.
Even though she is pretty sure they both know that they have quite a task this time.
However, Myka bottles it all up, carefully, and files it away. There is nothing to say.
Everyone carries their own weight and nobody needs to know about hers.
The world doesn't stop turning and decisions are best made rationally, not emotionally. What good will wallowing do? As a certain british author once wrote: Affliction comes to us, not to make us sad but sober; not to make us sorry but wise.
But still.
A part of Myka feels hollow and deeply miserable, craves for closure (or closeness).
Despite all the brave thoughts about carrying one's own weight without complaining and really wanting a solution to the situation -
when Myka lies awake at night, which often happens these days, she is silently aware.
Aware that she can't be wanting to talk too badly, otherwise she'd call, and aware that she can't be trying too hard, because she keeps waiting for Helena return to the Warehouse.
She keeps wondering - which way to go, what to say, whether to speak up, how to think.
It all comes back to I wish I knew.
I'm looking for love this time
sounding hopeful but it's making me cry
trying not to ask why
'cause love is a mystery
Mr. Curiosity,
Be Mr. Please, Do Come and Find Me
Her left hand buried in dark curls and the other franticly scribbling, surrounded by books in the ghosty light of her computer screen, Myka sits in the library and does her research on a suspected artifact. She loves working at night, when she is the only one still awake. She likes feeling like the house is asleep around her, and she is guarding its sleep while quietly getting a lot of things done, prim and perfect. The feeling of all the gears and steam engines in her brain running smoothly and to her satisfaction. She works well at night.
When the handle of the glass door goes down with a creak, Myka's hand stills immediately. There is the sound of hinges turning. Steps. Two. Clothing swishes, the door closes. The air draft that haphazardly lifts a page of her writings carries the scent of fresh night air and something that tugs at Myka's heart strings because Helena.
She takes a breath and braces herself before she tosses back her hair in a quick, light motion and opens her eyes to meet H.G.'s gaze.
Myka can't help it, she thinks Helena is bonny. She thinks she looks like spring with her cheeks reddened by cold air and her eyes glistening with, well, life, and her hair all wavy. She thinks it's enraging.
Because how is this helpful? What does it mean? The fact that she melts a little inside every time Helena makes an appearance (it's not like H.G. Wells turns up, no, she arises) is not going to change anything.
She is still going to have a dangerously soft spot, and they are still not going to talk about it. About any of it.
For a moment, Myka falls into the abyss of doubt, something she does on a regular basis these days - the question wether it is all in her head and none of it - the glances, the things they said and what they really meant, the tension between their bodies - means anything.
But it is right in front of her. Wouldn't people normally say something right now? Because they don't. They are absolutely silent and motionless.
They just share this one, long look, blank faces, with their eyes flickering all over each other, while they have all the possible conversations in their heads.
How are you, dear? I'm fine. Where have you been? I'm afraid I can't tell you.
What are you doing here? I'm just on a visit. How have you been? Noticeably better.
None of this is helpful.
Love is blinding when the timing's never right
Oh, who am I to beg for difference?
Finding love in just an instant
but I don't mind -
at least I've tried
The treasury of words to her disposal has been grand enough to fill over fifty books with it in the past, and yet now, that she really rather needs it, her mind chooses not to function properly. Not that there is nothing to say. On the contrary, Helena finds that the difficulty of voicing a coherent thought lies in the magnitude of things she would like to express.
She almost regrets coming back to the Bed and Breakfast, because she is obviously not in the state to accomplish what she came here for. And what did she come here for, exactly? Surely not to talk, because in that case, she would have decided upon what to say and then prepared for doing so.
A hundred and forty six years, and has still not overcome her tendency to be too impulsive for her own good. One could think that life would have taught her that by now.
Myka is equally quiet, and everything about her is alluring to Helena in this moment. Her nightly activity so reminds her of her own preference of waking until dawn to finish a project. The edge of her right hand is grey stained with graphite from writing with a pencil, Helena does not know herself what she likes about that. Maybe it is the carelessness towards her anyway impeccable appearance for the benefit of her work, the dedication to progress. But the most appealing about her in this moment, Helena realises, is her stern expression: She is neither questioning nor judging, not dismissive and not the least bit impressed, either. It is appealing because it makes them so gloriously equal.
In this time of manmade wonders, Helena has ascertained that while encountering different people, she usually feels either superior to them due to her evidently greater intelligence, or rather inferior because of her meanwhile slight but constant confusion about the exact nature of the progress made in her... absence.
Now with the agents of Warehouse 13, it has been something else, a mixture of feelings, really. For example did she feel older and wiser than Claudia but nonetheless inwardly overwhelmed with her smartness.
But true equality, something she misses bitterly, is something she finds in Myka time and again.
The look on her face is hard to read when she gets up, and for the spur of a second, Helena irrationally expects a slap in the face.
She stays still and frozen to the spot while Myka nears her, the silence is suddenly deafening.
Myka, she desires to plead, but refrains in lack of something worth saying next, her heart beat pounds in her neck, what a curious feeling.
She realises her fingers are cold when Myka reaches for her right hand, but somehow this is the only conclusion her mind draws from this, which results in utter astonishment when she is hauled forward in one moment
and resting against Myka the next.
Adjusting to this sudden change in the situation, Helena raises her arms to return the quiet embrace. It is strangely comforting.
- I've tried.
Oddly enough, it doesn't feel awkward.
It feels like resting, like sitting down on a bench to take a break from the long, long journey they are taking together.
They still don't talk. But maybe they will get there. Eventually.