Disclaimer: I own nothing relating from Warehouse 13 etc.

A/N: Warning: I do not wish to deter reader away. However, I believe it is only fair to warn anyone that has read any of my earlier stories that this is a complete 180. The happy-go-lucky, quirky, get a chuckle, sometimes twisted sense of humor does not exist. I am Gemini and reserve the right to explore a darker side of my personality, especially when I spend an exorbitant amount of time in my head, which is probably more often than not. Consider yourself forewarned. As a special note thank you to shelbell1001 for the painful job of reviewing the first rough draft and encouraging me to continue with this. It has been a long emotional journey and it's time to put this to rest.

"I have studied many philosophers and many cats. The wisdom of cats is infinitely superior."

– Hippolyte Taine

Chapter 1

She didn't know. She didn't know how much she cared. Neither did I. We didn't know that he wiggled his way into our hearts in the short time he was with us. That's real magic. No artifact has the power he had. Maybe it hurts more when you don't know. You don't expect to feel empty. He was Emily's. He wasn't hers. He wasn't mine. He wasn't ours. We were his chosen ones. We belonged to him. We loved him and we didn't know.

He was sick. Kidney failure they told us. They said there was nothing more they could do. Sometimes they just can't be fixed. "There is nothing more we can do. We can't fix him." That's all I hear. My heart breaks and my stomach drops. She can always fix things; bring them back to life. "Twist this and turn that. This wire goes from here to there. That bolt goes there; tighten it just a little... a little more… that's just right." How many times did I play the part of her assistant to hand her tools and parts? Sometimes it required the slightest jiggle here and a bang over there. It could always be fixed. In her mind it had life. This time it couldn't be fixed. This time there are no more tools or parts. Like her sweet Christina. This is something that could not be fixed. She had tried once before to fix what could not be fixed…repeatedly.

Despite all of our efforts he declined quickly. We did everything they instructed us to do. We tried to keep him comfortable. Our whole blessed family took turns taking care of him. Claudia had a bed for him at the warehouse for those last few days, but more often than not one would find him curled up in her lap when she worked at the computer, taking him for a ride as she rolled from one place to another in her chair. Artie too, when he thought no one was looking.

They showed such understanding and sympathy when they tell her… no, tell told US. A decision needed to be made. They leave the room to give us privacy. She doesn't understand what they are saying. I have to explain it to her. It is heart wrenching to watch her as she stands there stroking his wasting body with such tenderness. How do I even begin to explain this? Her face twists into anguish when she finally comprehends what decision we must make. We agree what is best for him. She leaves to wait in the car. She can't bear to stay and be witness, yet she doesn't want him left alone. I understand. I love her and I stay, stroking him as tenderly as she had.

They are preparing for this dreaded duty of theirs. How do they do this every day; watch a life quietly slip through their fingers? How can they bear to witness that last gasp, over and over again? Helena is too familiar with that sight. Are they immune to it now; the pain and suffering of the innocent lives surrounding them? They know sometimes their efforts are just a patch. But life, by nature, is ultimately unfixable. Do they cry too after weeks of care and attention, patching their patients up and sending them home? Do they get attached too? Did he weasel his way into their hearts like he did all of ours? Do they cry for what they can't fix? How do they manage this every day? Do they still cry? It makes my job look easy.

The ride home is unbearable, the silence drowning out all other sound. Who knew that silence could be so loud? She's sitting in the passenger seat, tears dripping off her chin to her lap. She gave up wiping them from her face a long time ago, the tissues now crumpled and forgotten in her hand. Drip, drip, drip. They have no rhythm. Funny, how I never thought about tears having rhythm before. Now I see her tears and I think about that. I just wish they didn't have to exist. They must be there. She needs those tears. I need mine.

I pull off the road three times because I can't see the road. She stares out the window in front of her. She doesn't notice when I pull off the road, or maybe she does. I lean against the car door and try to pull myself together. My tears have no rhythm either. Why don't they have a rhythm? Doesn't all life have a sense of internal rhythm? I get in the car and I reach over the middle console for her hand and feel a strong pulse in her wrist. Ah, finally a rhythm! I grasp those long, slender fingers seeking solidity and warmth and squeeze her smaller hand softly. I desperately need this from her. She needs it from me. I know because she squeezes back and doesn't let go. We aren't ready to let go. Maybe you never really let go. So I hold tight, never wanting to let go.

I'm supposed to feel something, aren't I? I don't feel anything. I want to ask her if she feels anything, but I'm afraid to. She sits so still and stares blankly out the window. She's lost so much already. "But, love, I've gained so much in return," she's reminded me in the heaviness of night so many times. What will the dark be like when the light is already so heavy?

She didn't want him. The regents said he was Emily's so now he is Helena's. This must be another one of their twisted jokes. She'd never had a cat before, and couldn't comprehend having one. "A cat? Why would I want a cat?" She was bewildered. She insisted he was not hers. He was Emily's and they could bloody well find another Emily in their bag of tricks for him. Oh, she sputtered for weeks.

He was a sly one. She ignored him, but he didn't give up. He claimed her as his. He followed her around everywhere. Claudia suggested that we rename him Velcro. How confused he must have been. She smelled like his, but she didn't act like his. He persevered.

He slept with Emily. He never had to share before. That first night he insisted on sleeping on my side of the bed, and then by her head. She locked him out of the room, but he protested loudly. He ended up at our feet. He knew how to compromise. She tried once to push him off, but he had staying power. He never let go of the covers, rocking like a boat with the waves. She finally gave up. She was never one to just give up. He rewarded her by purring while making happy paws. Oh, the changes he would bring. We didn't know.

Soon he was curling up in her lap on the sofa or in a chair when she read. He didn't give her a choice. She pushed him off and he jumped right back. Once again, she finally gave up. She stroked his fur absent-mindedly. She didn't know she sought out his warmth and the music of his voice as he purred. No one said anything, not daring to bring attention to it. I didn't realize that he and I mirrored that sight as well. Steve calmly pointed that fact out with that knowing smile of his. Our routine soon evolved into the three of us all wrapped together with our books and our morning snuggle time in the early dawn as he nudged each of our hands in turn for a few more chin rubs.

He brought us closer together during those early days of transition from the "you and me" into "us". During arguments he stood between us with a watchful eye, never taking sides. When one or the other of us was on a mission, we knew the other was not alone, but safe under the watchful eye of our little protector. When I'd get home in the middle of the night, he'd always be sitting close to her head, her hand lying on his silky fur, seeking the security lost in the temporarily vacated bed. One day she said the same of me. "I know you're safe," she said "I always come home to find him sitting by your head until I get in and crawl into your arms. Then he moves to the foot of the bed and falls asleep." I didn't know.

I didn't know what it meant.

Steve and Claudia are on a mission. No one will tell them until they get home. I texted Pete before I left the building: 'gone.' It was all I could type. He'll know what I mean. I know he'll be waiting on the porch, pacing.

We are finally home. Her tears have stopped for now. What do I do now?

Pete meets us at the car. When we get out I feel the tears fighting to appear again. She doesn't say anything as she walks into his arms and buries her head in his chest and sobs. Looking at me in surprise, tears in his own eyes, he gently closes his arms around her and holds her close, not saying a thing. Despite the bickering and his initial distrust, they have formed a bond. We didn't know.

She has calmed and he whispers in her ear. She nods slightly and releases her new found big teddy bear and heads to our now empty bedroom.

"Pete, what do I do?" I ask, once again in tears myself. "Dickens is gone, and I don't know what to do for her? I don't even know what I need for myself?" I'm now sobbing in his warm embrace. "We loved him and didn't even know. What happens now?"

"It's simple, Myka. You do what he would have done. Just be with her and hold each other. You'll figure it out together."

If only we had known.

Maybe we did.