A/N: This is pretty dark, take that angst thing seriously. Reviews would be lovely.
Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13, anything associated with it, and I am making no profit from this work.
She walks through her dreams, and haunts her thoughts, and that goddamned smile every goddamn time she can't take it anymore and twists that damned dial. She's there again, but she's not. She laughs and sighs and does everything the real Helena would, but she's not. There are no teasing touches, pushing hair out of eyes, shoulders to lean on. Instead, there's thin air and longing and heartbreak. Because it hurts so badly, but it feels too good to hear her voice even for even the shortest amount of time, and Myka is desperate for anything. The ball sits on a bookshelf, next to worn copies of novels that will never be the same again. Helena laughs at the irony that one day after Denver when all she wanted was Helena to hold her close and whisper for hours thareally, everything would be okay. She didn't want to believe it without Helena's form wrapped around hers. So she didn't.
At least then it was possible to see her, possible to have a laughingly easy conversation through red eyes and dropping tears. Now, it's lost moments that haunt the most. That one kiss in the chamber, naively thinking there would be so much more time for more of those. And hurry up Helena, we have to go be heroines and save the day. She smiled and gave her a small hug with a whispered promise of forever before they ran off to the Warehouse and that damned bomb with that damned force field. And the promises did last forever, for Helena's forever, and that's all Myka has left.
An old locket, and the image of Helena at peace thanking her and loving scars her mind and permanently etches itself into her soul.
Some days she wants to quit it all, like before. Simply pack up, leaving her books, her belongings, and go off to see whatever it is that people with nothing left go off to see. She pushes those thoughts aside most days, stops her quivering lip and wipes her eyes on whatever sweater she's wearing that day. She's taken to wearing the clothes that Helena left behind, and Myka could not bring herself to part with for so long. She slept in them before, she wore them constantly now.
Some days she would lay in her bed and sob, letting everything out that she was too much of a coward to say when things were okay and when she felt like her heart was still part of her body. Pete would come in sometimes and hold her; she would try to fight him off. But she needed it, someone who cared about her. Claudia would come in some days, and the trio would lie in Myka's bed and sob and do their best to remind the others of why they should go on. It almost always worked.
Artie wouldn't talk about it; the new look in Myka's eyes and the way Claudia no longer smiled and how Pete stopped trying to help, and just sat there.
Most days the team would sit in the living room. Until one day when Pete accidentally mentioned that trip to Moscow, that one damned trip that changed everything.
Brought everything and lost everything and was the catalyst for everything.
("I don't think you understand, Pete, I would do anything to be with her again.")