Set after 4x08. AU from then on.
Edit: It turns out I accidentally forgot a part near the end when I uploaded this, sorry! It has been fixed now; please let me know what you think.
Weak sunlight filters in through closed curtains, brightening the room just enough to make out the features of the people sprawled across the bed. Which is to say, just enough to make out the features of one of their faces, because the other one, with the head of unruly curls, has her face buried in the crook of the other woman's neck.
They're dozing, all of them, enjoying hovering on the edge of consciousness. One of them shifts and squeaks before resettling. The movements startle the other woman, who mumbles in a voice thick with sleep:
"Tell me you do not really allow Pete in your bed."
Myka springs straight up at that, previous drowsiness dissipating. "Shoo!" she hisses at Helena's thigh. "Shoo! How'd you get out of your cage?"
Affronted, Pete the ferret squirms out underneath the sheet and scampers off the bed. He disappears through a flap in the door and Myka curses the day she bought into human Pete's "ferret-door" idea. ("It'll be like a doggy-door! But for little No-name! It'll be great, Mykes!") She really should have known better. Every time Pete speaks in consecutive exclamatory sentences, she is left with a mess to clean.
Myka sighs, already shivering at the thought of chasing her stupid rodent in the cold of the South Dakota morning. She's stopped from getting out of bed by an arm snaking around her waist, followed by a warm torso pressing against her back.
Myka shivers for an entirely different reason.
"Don't go just yet," Helena murmurs, mouth warm against her shoulder, voice husky and low. "You've not properly wished me a good morning."
There's a horrible second in which Myka is sure she'll choke on her own spit and die, thereby horribly embarrassing herself in front of Helena.
"Morning," she manages. It isn't quite a croak, but it's definitely on its way to becoming one, but frankly, Myka's pleased she remembers what English is. Helena grins and falls back to bed, stretching languidly. Her nightshirt rides up and Myka has to look away to regain composure.
"It's far too early to be up and about, darling." Helena says. "Come get some rest."
"Well, maybe twenty-first century women don't need as much beauty sleep as you," she mumbles.
Helena makes an amused noise and swats her with a pillow. Myka stares back in disbelief before lunging for a pillow. In a calculated move befitting the wisdom of her years and her Secret Service training, she bonks Helena right over the head. All thoughts of wayward pets disappear as Helena gasps in mock outrage and the two unashamedly regress into giggling schoolgirls.
Artie grumbles at her sudden good mood. Claudia and Pete are delighted by the nervous energy it entails. Steve is bemused and both Leena and Helena smirk at it, although the expression on the latter woman's face makes Myka want to pull her into a deserted corner of the Warehouse and lick it off her face.
Wipe it. Wipe it off her face. Well, hands are just as versatile as – no, she probably shouldn't go there right now.
Myka glances guiltily at Marvin Wernick's mood ring, currently glowing a deep red. It's probably for the best she doesn't know to what emotion that colour corresponds. She checks where Pete is – all the way at the other end of the aisle, squinting thoughtfully at Stephen King's pen, Trailer sitting faithfully by his heel – just in case. It's likely that he has memorized the entire mood-to-colour chart, just to embarrass her at inopportune moments.
She double takes. "Pete! Don't let Trailer anywhere near that pen! We do not need a Cujo running around."
To his credit, Pete catches himself before he can fall over in shock. "You know Cujo? How do you know Cujo!" He points an accusing finger at her. "You quoted Spider-Man without realizing it once." His eyebrows have almost disappeared into his hairline.
Myka blinks, genuinely perplexed. "When did I do that?"
Pete's eye twitches. He works his mouth and both Myka and Trailer lean forward expectantly, but he doesn't quite manage words.
Shrugging, Myka turns back to her inventory. They work in silence for a few minutes until Pete starts glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Myka's inclined to ignore it because Helena said she'd drop by and visit her sometime before lunch - "Perhaps break up the monotony of endless inventory, darling" - and she'd like to take this time to replay every single second she and Helena shared since her return to the Warehouse last night.
"Hey, Mykes?"
Of course, ignoring Pete isn't an option when he sidles up so close it's possible to smell the meat lover's pizza he had as a brunch snack.
"Myka!"
"I'm listening, Pete." She's not, really. She's thinking about Helena's newfound proclivity to hugs – surprising not only because of her English heritage, but because she's Helena and the woman simply didn't do hugs. But a lot of things have changed and not all of it is bad, especially if it involves Helena's touch. She smiles dreamily, remembering the way she'd wrapped her arms around Myka after her ferret had scampered out into the hall, then later, the feel of Helena pressed up against her, hair still damp from her shower. Myka doesn't even know what she said to deserve it – the last thing she remembers is grumbling about Helena using up all the hot water.
"...but I mean if you two have talked the thing out, that's...well, that's great."
She snaps back to the present. "Talked what thing out?"
Pete looks surprised. "Uh, the disappearing for weeks and weeks without a phone call? That thing?"
"Oh, right. That." Myka shrugs helplessly. "Well, I mean, no. But Pete, I'm just glad to have her back."
"Oh." He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. "Just enjoying her, huh?"
Heat floods Myka's face. "Pete!" She can hear the squeak in her voice and hates herself for it. "It's not...we haven't...this is so none of your business!"
"Aha! You are lying!" Pete is almost dancing. "How do I know this, you may ask?" Myka opens her mouth to say she'd never ask, but he talks over her. "She spent all night in your room!" He looks around like he'd like a cigar to puff on.
"Well, where else would she sleep?" Myka cries in exasperation. "Her room is still here!"
This stumps him. "Well. I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway," he mutters sulkily.
"What does that mean?" Myka demands.
"Nothing!" He looks at her, wide-eyed. "I just...y'know. It's cool that you don't need to beat the horse to death."
"The horse representing what, exactly in this metaphor?
Myka has never enjoyed it when people look at her as though she has a screw loose. She's gotten used to it since she started to work for the Warehouse, but that look coming from the man who is her partner in this madness is disconcerting, to say the least.
"How important it is to not keep secrets between," he makes an elaborate motion with his hands. He probably thinks he's said all he needs to, Myka thinks with exasperation. "Y'know. 'specially when – oh hey, H.G.!"
Myka spins around to see Helena saunter into their aisle, a familiar half-grin stretching her lips. She stops just shy of Myka, perpetually scorning the concept of personal space, and they share a smile. Myka misses the feel of Helena's eyes on her when she turns to greet Pete, and promptly feels stupid for it.
"Say, Pete. I understand Leena has cooked up –" Helena's cut off by a coughing fit from the dust Pete kicks up as he races out of the aisle. Myka rubs her back absentmindedly. Waving away the last of the dust, Helena chuckles. She moves even closer to Myka, so that their bodies brush with every breath they take. She's looking at Myka with a positively salacious smirk and it's a little too much for Myka's suddenly fragile state.
"Did Leena really make food?" Myka blurts. It's a stupid question, but if she didn't say it something else would have come out, something no doubt mortifying.
"I'm sure she has something ready in case of a Pete emergency." Helena pouts at Myka's raised eyebrow. "You're not cross, are you darling? I only wanted to talk in private."
She can't even pretend to be angry in the face of that. She suspects Helena knows it too, the way she preens under Myka's eye roll.
"Marvellous. Now, I have been wondering something." There's a pause wherein Helena scrutinizes Myka's expression.
"Go on," Myka says.
"Ah, yes. I've been wondering, might I have your permission to..." She wraps a hand around the lapel on Myka's jacket and tugs. "Try this?"
"Try wha –?" She's cut off by the shock of Helena's mouth against hers.
After a surprised second in which Myka's arms do a sort of controlled flail at her sides, she gathers up enough brain cells to respond.
Helena's hardly exerting any pressure at all on her lips – constant touches, featherlight – and it's already almost more than Myka can handle. She's getting dizzy at the thought of Helena's tongue in her mouth. She's worried she might die if it happens.
Helena pulls back before Myka gets a chance to test her theory, looking uncharacteristically shy. Myka's heart does a little skip in her chest. Something of what she's feeling must show on her face, because Helena laughs a little and steps forward again, resting her forehead against Myka's.
It's a perfect moment, even if Myka can't quite figure out what brought it on in the first place.
Disappearing for weeks and weeks without a phone call.
How typical. Pete's not even here, but he's still annoying Myka.
I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway.
Myka grits her teeth against the nagging in her head. Helena shifts closer as her body tenses, nuzzling into her neck. "All right?" she murmurs.
I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway. I guess she wouldn't have wanted to tell you anyway. I guess she wouldn't have –
"Helena, where were you?"
The woman in question pulls back, smiling quizzically. Her hands stay on Myka's arms, rubbing little circles into her jacket with her thumbs.
"When you left, after we defused Sykes's bomb. We all went back to Leena's but you left. Where'd you go?" She feels awkward just asking. It's something that is probably better left untouched, that she was happy leaving untouched because she's scared. She's scared that she's going to push too hard and Helena will have to go away again.
Pete better appreciate this.
The circles stop. "Darling, what's bringing this on?"
Myka frowns. "Well, I was just curious. I mean," she laughs a little, hopes the nervousness isn't too noticeable. "You disappeared for weeks, Helena."
"I did," Helena says, her expression carefully neutral. "The Regents had some errands, and elected me to do them."
That's a rather bland explanation. Helena makes a face and Myka can't shake the feeling she's being lied to.
"Well," Helena smiles brightly, breaking the stretching silence. She pats Myka's shoulders awkwardly. "Inventory never ceases to call, you know as well as I do." Myka watches her leave, slightly stunned.
It's much later when Myka finishes inventory for the day. She's tired as she heads out of the aisles, but her mind hasn't stopped working since Helena left earlier with that ridiculous excuse. It feels like the whole world knows what is going on except her. Needless to say, she's not pleased.
As she gets closer to Artie's office, she begins to hear muffled shouts and – is that Helena's voice?
Her stomach churns – all the oddness in the air has her on edge, and now this? She quickens her step, until she's almost sprinting into Artie's office.
"What's wrong?" She asks breathlessly, looking around for an intruder, a flashing light on the security system, anything out of place.
Helena and Artie stare back at her, looking like they've been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. They'd obviously been fighting; Helena's back is stiff and her jaw tight, the way she always looks when she's unhappy. Artie seems like he was playing the role of the defendant, placating but insistent. Myka's eyes narrow as she tries to figure this out. Helena is upset. At Artie?But why?
"Artie, what were you two fighting about? I could hear it all the way - "
"Oh, nothing, nothing, don't worry about it." Artie waves his hand and bustles to the other end of the office. Myka trails after him, biting her lip in concern.
"But, Artie it seemed kind of serious. Are you sure you don't want to – "
He's rummaging through a drawer in the file cabinet and doesn't appear to be listening. "Oh, Myka, perfect. Here, I need you to go over this file, summarize and submit it to the Regents by the end of the week. I'd get Claudia to do it but she's gone back to Leena's, something about Mario's princess whatever that means, and I – aha! Thought you could hide from me, did you?" He glares at the file as he pulls it out. The file looks properly chastised. "So you're my only option. Shouldn't take too long, here you go."
How is she supposed to help if she doesn't know what's going on? she wants to scream. Instead Myka runs a hand through her hair, tamping down on the frustration. "I, uh, all right. I'll get Helena to help me." Which also conveniently affords her time in private to interrogate her about her fight with Artie. She suspects that if she had vibes like Pete, she'd be doubled over with one right now. As it is, all she has are furtive looks, evasive colleagues and a sinking feeling that something isn't adding up. The sooner she finds what it is, the better.
"Helena?" Artie asks, blinking at her.
"Yes, you know, H.G. Wells?" She glances up from the file to roll her eyes with Helena but she's not in the office. Myka gawps, then turns a full 180 degrees.
Nothing. No sign of her.
"Where – ?" Myka starts.
"Hm." Artie adjusts his glasses. "Mrs Frederic did say she wanted H.G. for some assignments. Maybe they just left."
Just left? Just left? She couldn't just leave! Who would just leave?
"Yes, but we would've heard them leave, Artie!" He looks skeptical. Myka pauses, remembering Mrs. Frederic's penchant for silent entrances and exits. "Uh. Well. Probably. We probably would have heard them leave."
He shrugs. "Just get that done, okay? You can deal with H.G. later, if you need to."
If Helena doesn't want to be found, Myka won't find her. The last few months have been proof enough of that. Frustration and confusion war for dominance within her and all she can think to do is write the report Artie gave to her. Myka sits, seething.
This probably isn't the best way to deal with frustration and confusion.
She presses Helena harder against the door and her hormones decide she doesn't care. Helena moans into her mouth and they decide she really doesn't care. Myka rakes her hands over Helena's shirt, fingers stumbling and catching against the wool. Helena tightens a hand in Myka's hair, pulling her closer still.
Jackets are unceremoniously tugged off. Hands wander and mouths seek skin as yet unexplored, trailing hotly from jaw to earlobe and down smooth necks eagerly bared. One or both of them moans, Myka's not too sure. She's too busy trying to sate her hunger for Helena's skin. A leg slips in between Myka's and the moan that escapes is all hers.
Helena smirks against her mouth and now Myka is the one pressed hard against the door. A good thing too, because her knees might have given out otherwise. It's as though the change in position has robbed her of the ability to move her hands, so she just clings tightly to Helena's hips. She's sure she's leaving bruises.
It's so, so good to have Helena back, real and warm against her, and God, it's like she never left, all she can feel is Helena's tongue twisting past Myka's teeth, playful and assertive.
But she did leave. She did, and she went away for weeks and weeks, leaving Myka to fret for days, and now she refuses to talk about it.
Myka pushes against Helena and tries to ignore the way the muscles of Helena's stomach twitch in response. The Victorian seems to misinterpret the action and she presses even closer, scratching at Myka's shoulders. Myka loses herself in the way the hardness of the door at her back contrasts with the yielding softness of the woman at her front, also Helena's tongue is doing this flicking thing she must have learned here because there is no way anyone born in the 1800s knows how to do...this.
"Stop," Myka mumbles, regaining equilibrium. "Stop, H.G., stop."
"Myka," Helena sighs, a gust of breath against her lips.
"No, we've been waiting for this for way too long – "
"So you propose to postpone it further?" Helena moves closer impatiently, only to be held back at arm's length.
Myka shakes her head. That's the last thing she wants. Helena softens, thumbing along Myka's jaw.
"Tell me where you were. Tell me why you didn't call, or leave a message or something." Helena pulls back almost instantly and Myka grits her teeth because it so figures. This evasion is ridiculous – Myka needs to be kept in the loop or else she loses her mind, and Helena knows that. It is so reminiscent of last year, with the weighted words and thick air between them, Myka wants to break something.
"Please," Myka whispers, and Helena's eyes fall shut like the word was a physical blow. Myka studies her, fascinated despite herself. The blouse Helena's wearing is wrinkled, with a few more buttons unfastened – had she done that? Myka can't quite remember. Helena's pursing her lips, dark eyes looking up at her almost pleadingly. She's soft in this light; vulnerable, even. It makes Myka wish she could just let go of the compulsion to know every detail of Helena's extended leave. Helena looks like she might finally open up to Myka, so of course that's when the Farnsworth goes off.