She sat in the back at the funeral. Didn't want to face any of the others, couldn't let them se that her face was set in anger and not sorrow. Claudia had sent her the obituary and it had felt like a slap in the face. She could here Claudia's sobs all the way back, and spot her huddled under Steve's are on the front row. Artie was there too, looking more surprised than anything, but with visible tearstains on his face. Pete's face was the one her eyes kept landing on. His face was frozen in a mask of resentment. He was angry too. She knew what he was feeling, she had worn that mask a long time after Christina. He was mad, not at Myka for dying, but at the warehouse for letting her. After all, like she knew herself, it was a place of endless wonder but somehow all that marvel stuffed in between those four walls wasn't enough to save the people you loved, and it was enraging.
There were other people there, people from Myka's life outside the job. People she had never met but could have, had she not been so afraid.
She left before it was over, couldn't let them see the rage in her eyes. Most of them wouldn't understand, but she thought she knew who would.
Pete was sitting alone on his bed when she barged in, didn't bother to knock. She threw the door shut behind her and he looked up with a jerk.
"Helena" was all he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. There was still no signs of tears in his eyes, only emptiness. Helena didn't say anything, just stood with her back against the door. Peter got up and walked towards her.
"I didn't know you were here" he said. Helena could feel the anger inside her rise up, ready to bite.
"No why would you?" she asked and met his eyes dead on. "Claudia was the only one who bothered to tell me, and only after it was too late." She let go of his eyes and walked past him to the window on the opposite wall.
"Helena" was all he said again, all he could say. She picked up a photo standing on a small table next to the window. A photo of the warehouse family when she was still a part of it. It was amazing how Myka's eyes could seem so alive in a picture, her smile so radiant. Helena felt her eyes burn but she couldn't cry. Wouldn't. She was pissed, pissed at the world, pissed at Myka and Pete and...
"Why didn't anyone tell me she was dying?" she set down the frame and turned to face Pete again. "Why didn't she?"
"Helena..." Helena again, only that stupid Helena. She wanted him to say something else. To scream and rage and cry so that she could do the same. She wanted him to do something. But he just looked at her, empty eyed and stern. But then his face changed, his mask slipped a bit and he looked like he was searching for words and Helena felt a chill go through her. She realized that she didn't want to hear whatever he would say after all. Didn't think she could endure it. So she pushed against him, let their lips meet with a clash, merged their bodies with a ferocity that would leave them both sore. Pete froze at first, tried to pull away but soon met with the same intensity he was given.
Her tongue in his mouth, trying to keep the words from coming out. Words she didn't want to hear, because whatever he said, whatever words of comfort he had to offer, she knew the truth. She was the reason Myka hadn't told her. It was her own stupid fault. She had try to push Myka away in order to protect her, and it had worked a little to well. She had asked Myka to let her live a normal life and though they both knew it was a lie, Myka had promised she would. And if there was one thing you could say about Myka O. Bering it would be that she always kept her word.
Helena had come here thinking she was mad at Myka for not telling her, but truth was it was herself she was angry with. She hated herself for not coming back to the warehouse with Myka that night. For not kissing her outside that car. For not telling her how much she loved her.
She hated herself as much as Pete hated the warehouse and as she pushed him down on the bed they let all that hate turn into passion.
This wasn't about love and they both knew it.
This wasn't about love, this was about anger.
This wasn't about love, this was about loss and pain.
This wasn't about love, this was about Christina and Walcott and guilt and sorrow.
This wasn't about love, this was about Myka and trying to keep her close, somehow.
This wasn't about love, but it was what they both needed to survive.