In a nutshell:
Four months in.
Helena begins to struggle and question her holding back, and Myka lets show more than she intends to when she meets Helena's friends from Portland.
We wind up exhausting the rental market in Featherhead. There is, after all, only so much a small University town, and the only claim to fame of this part of the flats of Dakotas, can offer; so I decide to buy a house. For many reasons, it is a rather logical thing to do: the investment is reasonable, the return is decent for the market.
Furthermore, having one's name on a title deed of a property carries a notion that forces one to acknowledge they are of this time, a notion of one placing roots. If only by bureaucratic standards.
I spend a great deal of time considering this notion, for I find myself conflicted. As comforting as roots may be, they may be placed in error.
There is something deeply tenuous about being considered an artefact, about being associated with the Warehouse. I could be sent on a mission that will tear me from my home for months; I could be moved from South Dakota altogether in the face of a threat. Dangers occur on a daily basis in this world of endless wonder, matters and priorities change constantly.
At a place where change is the only constant, pardon the cliché, roots – a binding, constricting element – are rarely a wise strategy.
Based on my experiences in Warehouse 12 as well as those at 13, every few months an arch-enemy reveals themselves and agents' lives are thrown into chaos in an attempt to undo an impending catastrophe soon to be unleashed. I can only hypothesise what that will mean to my attempt at having a normal life on the outskirts of this threatening madness.
I can only hypothesise what that will mean to Myka's.
It has been a little over four months since she had been assigned to be my caretaker and we are yet to learn about the nature of this assignment. As we lack guidance from the Regents, she and I have invented our own means of managing our relationship as artefact and caretaker, although I suspect Myka may be using it as a means to manage the personal aspect of her relationship with me as well.
At the end of each day she considers priorities and potential issues in the day (or days) to come, and every morning she reviews those with me, discusses them with me, plans them with me; 'with' being an operative word. This is the first time in two years that I have a sense of – perhaps not control, as such, but at the very least contribution – to Warehouse involvement in my life. The Regents and their aides were not in the habit of engaging with me. In their mind, I was meant to be secured from afar, a task they executed poorly time and time again.
While Myka and I shared many moments, perilous and pleasurable alike, I was never aware of her abilities as 'personal security' – I believe that is the current term applied to her position. She is very personal indeed. I realise my taking a liking to her professional stance is tinted with my affection for her, but one can hardly ignore how personable she is, even when she is a silent totem encased in a dark suit just behind my left shoulder.
But those moments are rare. Our conversations are easy these days. We have grown back into our old habit of conducting long, heated debates about history, literature, science and philosophy. Banter has been allowed back into our exchanges.
We have certainly found our footing in friendship once more – and a wonderful feeling it is, to be back in each other's graces. Occasionally, however, I am overcome with the sensation I felt when we stood by her car that first evening. The weight and thickness of words we are yet to speak, emotions we are yet to express and needs we are yet to fully explore.
And when I am overcome by them, my memory throws me back to that lunchtime walk.
She looks me in the eye, back straight, knees slightly bent, so that we are of equal height. It's the first time I had seen the golden rings that encircle her pupils. They fascinate me so, those rings, that I am almost rendered unable to process what she says to me, but then she speaks: "…and honesty only works when we trust each other."
There are times when I consider indulging myself in those unspoken words, unexpressed emotions and unexplored needs under the guise of submitting to the trust and honesty she spoke of. There are times when our emotions almost show, when needs dare to peek from behind the curtain of control with an errant breath or a smile or a touch.
It would be so easy to indulge. It is so hard to not.
She and I have been dancing at the foothills of this precarious peak for so long, I often fear we have made it sacred ground. But when one of us sets foot on the forbidden path that might lead us up this mountain, we blush or chide ourselves or fail to rally the courage needed to take another step that may – or may not – bring us closer to the summit.
The past few hours have been filled with such wayward, regretful first steps. Myka and I are in my storage unit in Portland, sorting through my belongings, packing them up, readying them for shipment to my new home in Featherhead. The space in the unit is tight. Moving around it is challenging. Having its contents open to her forces us to review topics we still struggle to discuss freely.
I am so grateful for the sound of an approaching car.
I walk out of the storage unit to meet the invited intruder – a girl who reminded me so much of Claudia, I could not help but fall into her friendship.
"Helena," I hear my name, lilted in a thick, Glaswegian accent from the small featured, yet largely tattooed girl who steps out of the car.
"Rachel, darling," I beam at her and rush to give her a hug.
/ /
I take two steps to the left so I can maintain line of sight of her. But I'm also just downright curious to see who her friends are. I know better than to make myself obvious, so I keep doing what I was doing – putting books into the moving company's boxes.
But then she calls her 'darling' and my gut twinges and I have to look.
She's hugging a small-ish girl who looks a bit like Claudia, but is a little rounder. And older. She's also pierced to the hilt and covered in tattoos.
She rarely calls anyone darling.
Well… anyone but me.
I bite the inside of my cheek and go back to the books and the boxes.
/ /
"We were all wee bit worried for you," she chuckles, "being whisked away like that… by suits."
"I had warned you in the past, did I not?" I share her mischievous smile.
"What? That you used to work for a secret government organisation?" she whispers in an ominous tone, but then laughs heartily. "And you thought we believed you?"
My jaw drops in shock. The smattering of times I had divulged details about my life to Rachel, I had been nothing but honest and true.
"You?" her pierced eyebrows shoot up. "The great granddaughter of the father of science fiction?" she laughs again. "I think the word I'm looking for, Helena, is irony."
I sigh and dart an incredulous look towards her. "Well, do you believe me now?"
"I do," she smiles and looks into my storage unit, where Myka is inconspicuously monitoring the situation while repacking my books. Rachel eyes Myka appreciatively for a moment. "Is hottie-in-a-pantsuit over there your bodyguard?"
"She is," I share her leering gaze onto the tall woman handling my personal belongings. I take a moment to appreciate the subtle arc of Myka's jawline, how her hair falls below it and rests behind the curve of her shoulder; I'm considering how successful she thinks she is in appearing to be absorbed in sorting my books; and I feel a bit of pride that she is my bodyguard; my friend; the keeper of my affections.
Rachel purses her lips and hums her recognition, then looks at me with glinting, playful eyes. "And whatever happened to the lucky one? The one who stole your heart?"
My smile widens and mere seconds later it is time for Rachel's jaw to drop.
"No!" she gasps, "That's her?" then whispers, "That's Myka?"
I keep my lips pressed tightly as my smile grows.
"You… dirty dog, Helena Wells," she says quietly. "You are just awash with irony, aren't you?"
While I do not consider myself a dishevelled pet of any sorts, I revel in Rachel's term of endearment. Irrespective to my canine likeness, she is correct. My apparent closeness to Myka compared with what Rachel knows of my feelings for her has an irony that cannot be lost on even the most obtuse a person.
She nudges me with her elbow. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" she laces her arm in mine.
"If I must," I look back at her and we walk towards the unit.
Myka looks up at us, straightens her stance, holds her head up and places a hand on her hip.
"Myka, this is Rachel," I gesture towards my peer, "a dear friend and a local."
"Hi," Myka responds laconically with a sharp smile and cautious eyes, scrutinising Rachel and how familiar she is with me, then extends her hand forward.
"Nice to meet you, pantsuit," she responds and shakes Myka's hand firmly, still wearing the smile of a devil. "Helena told me a lot about you."
As untrue as that is, I choose not to react. I never explicitly discussed my feelings for Myka (or anyone or thing) with Rachel. It was Rachel's sensitivity (or imagination) that filled my silences so perfectly, I always felt there was little need for me to confirm or deny.
If only Rachel knew that any fiction she may find in me was of her own making.
Upon reflection, I am, perhaps, steeped in irony.
"Really?" Myka takes a small step back, adopting the stance of a Secret Service agent: tall, striking, stiff, aloof.
"Let's just say that she told me a lot by saying absolutely nothing," Rachel throws, then walks into me as she steps into the unit. She inches past Myka while smiling broadly up at her, doing her best to minimise contact as she walks past a tiny space. Myka smiles awkwardly back at her.
Rachels makes her way towards a poster I had acquired shortly before leaving Boone, one that depicts four sketches of Mattise's Blue Nude. She picks it up, and spends a few minutes studying it. She then turns to look at me, then Myka, then the poster again. "Have I ever told you you've got great taste, Helena?"
I look at Myka and smile.
Myka appears tense. Her lips are pressed shut and her eyes are wide. She breathes slowly through her nose. The few times I had seen her like this, she was angry and often pointing a gun at me.
Yet, I cannot pin what it is about this situation that would anger her. Fluster, perhaps. But not anger.
"Not lately, dear one," I say and walk towards her, "see something you like?" I say while looking into Myka's eyes.
Myka's lips part and her cheeks redden ever so slightly.
I smirk as I wrap my arm around Rachel's shoulder as she begins to stake her claims over my small art collection.
/ /
I don't know why this is bothering me so much.
No. That's not true. I know why.
I know why, and it's stupid.
Okay. Maybe not stupid. Just… I don't know... Hard to admit.
I see her with them, with her friends from Oregon. She just fits in with them in a way she never fit in with us.
It's so easy for them. She is so easy with them in a way she was never easy with me.
On our last evening in Portland, Rachel sees Helena off with a party that feels a lot like that crowd: no plan or structure, off the beaten track and very close together.
We drove out to a beach near Wheeler with a great big bunch of them and their guitars and bongos and stereos and alcohol and weed, and I feel just as out of place now as I would have felt in one of these parties when I was 16.
Not that I was ever invited.
Helena seems so relaxed with them. She laughs and drinks and jokes and just looks… Normal.
They treat her as their own even though she looks nothing like they do – she dresses well, keeps her hair tidy, has no tattoos. Anthropologically speaking, she bears no markings of their tribe. But they accept her as one of them, she is one of them.
She is so tactile and affectionate. She hugs and punches and play-wrestles.
I'm uncomfortable and out of place and jealous.
Rachel comes up to me for the hundredth time. "Come on, pantsuit," she squeezes my shoulders like she knows how uptight I am, like she's a friend who cares, "loosen up a bit."
I take a breath to say that I can't, that I'm on duty.
"Oh don't even bother blaming your job," she sings before I get a word in, and shoves a bottle of beer in my hand. "It's only one beer, and I'll consider it a personal favour," she sits down next to me. She's quiet for a little while. "You're taking away our beloved daughter, don't you know," she opens her own bottle and holds it up towards me.
I unscrew the cap and click my bottle neck against hers. I never thought of Helena as a daughter. Anyone's daughter. Not just theirs.
I shake my head.
"Aye," she sighs. "Our beloved Helena, who stumbled into our little group only by force of not fitting anywhere else," she sucks beer out of her bottle.
I take a sip out of mine and leave the bottle pressed to my lips. I know I shouldn't be drinking, but it's kind of a peace-pipe moment, and if I don't drink I will probably have to say something, and I really – really – don't want to.
And it hits me, then. That the only place Helena probably ever fit in since the bronze, is with a bunch of people who don't fit in. Probably not even in Portland.
"If you weren't an agent of the law, you'll've probably fit in quite well too," she adds and leans into me with a playful nudge.
I smile. She's probably right. The only reason I am where I am is because I don't fit anywhere. Not even in the Secret Service. Having Mrs. Frederic pull me out of the Service and into the Warehouse was probably the best thing that could've happened.
She chuckles. "I can see why she likes you," she looks out at the group Helena's with. Someone is trying to teach her to play a chord on the guitar, while singing a rock ballad overly dramatically. "You speak just as much as she does. I can imagine the richness of the conversations you two must be having."
If only she knew.
We sit silently, drinking beer, breathing in the ocean air, until someone calls her to take over as Titania in act two in A Midsummer Night's Dream. She asks me if I want to play Demetrius – the irony isn't lost on me – and even though I know the whole thing by heart, I decline politely.
Just before she gets up, she leans over and says "Do take care of her," and her tone sounds different to how she sounded until now. I turn to look at Rachel and she looks serious. In the two and a half days I've known this woman, she never looked serious. "She cares for you more than she dares to admit to anyone," she stands up and shakes sand from her pants, "not even herself."
I have to choke back a lump in my throat, and nod as enthusiastically as I can.
/ /
Myka wakes me just before 6am. "We need to get going. Our flight's at 8," she whispers.
I nod and stretch under the heavy, smoky blankets that envelop me. I love nature wholeheartedly, but cannot contend with how unforgiving it is on one's coccyx and shoulders and neck.
She helps me up and I stretch again.
Myka places hesitant hands on my shoulders, starting a gentle rub. I am so stiff, I cannot contain the euphoric moan her soft touch elicits. She freezes at the sound of it, pauses for a few seconds, then grants me a final squeeze and lets go.
I turn my head towards her, "Thank you," I mouth.
I bid my farewells to the sleeping band on the beach and Myka and I climb up the cliff to reach the car. Our walk is silent, our drive is silent. I reckon her encounter with this unusual bunch will have left her thoughtful.
It leaves me thoughtful as well. How accepted I was by this group, even though they knew nothing of me. They knew nothing of my grief, of my darkness. Perhaps that was the key, knowing nothing. Yet, Myka knows me better than anyone.
Could that be what keeps us so awkwardly apart?
I am standing in the epicentre of Warehouse 2. This is it, Helena. Three cheers. I congratulate myself for a plan well thought out, well executed. Nearly there. Not long now.
I have two minutes before Peter and Myka arrive and I must gather all I have in me to let go of whatever I convinced myself I share with Myka.
I have less than two minutes to let go of all the beauty and wonder and calm and excitement a person could inspire in me; a person who slipped under my skin, behind my defences, into my heart so easily it begs belief in the power of forgiveness. Of Trust.
I have one minute left to remind myself of the wrath and pain and helplessness that are forged by losing a person so close to me.
This minute passes all too quickly.
They are behind me now. Excited, proud, happy.
I do hope she can forgive me.
"Helena?" Myka's voice startles me back into reality. "Are you okay?"
I nod tiredly at her. "I must have fallen asleep," I brush her concern off. I have no real interest in sharing with her this difficult memory without calculating its cost to the newly found balance in our relationship.
She looks at me as if she doesn't quite believe me. "We're at the airport. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Always," I say with a strained smile, stretch again, and get out of the car.
We head towards the terminal. The morning is crisp and clear, daylight firms just enough to remove the grey hue that the pale, autumn dawn left in its wake.
Myka walks in half her usual pace, a fact for which I am grateful as I am still rather stiff from the few hours' sleep I had on cold, packed sand.
"Did you ever…" Myka muses as quietly as aloud can be, "with any of them?" as though she's ashamed or afraid to ask.
I had done many a things with many of them. I assume Myka is likely to be referring to sexual encounters, but she may as well be hinting towards a romantic or emotional involvement. "Darling, I'm afraid you will have to be more specific."
She takes a deep breath. "Did you and Rachel ever sleep…" she starts and trails off.
"Never."
"And Jay?" she asks a few seconds later.
I huff through a dubious smile. To her, Jay and I will have appeared close last night. He has always been very affectionate towards me, and – at times – can be a tad overbearing with his preference for physical closeness. "No."
"And Camille?"
I look at her as she paces, her gaze fixed at her feet. "No," I answer and hasten to ask in return, "Will you be enquiring about each and every one of them? The flight may not be long enough."
She looks up at me briefly and she looks very tired; tired and something else. Rachel's spirit must still be lingering beside me, because I am feeling playful and decide to hazard a guess. "If I didn't know any better, darling, I may suspect you of being jealous."
Her cheeks flush bright red in an instant. Even the thin daylight cannot hide how emotion paints her. I wait for her to say or do something, but she just walks at the same pace, eyes locked to the path.
"Fact of the matter is, Myka, they know very little about me." I try to assuage her jealousy, convince her that the connection she and I share runs deeper, means so much more to me. "I would go so far as to say they don't know me at all, and never wanted to know me," that is a fair and honest assessment of Rachel and her party. "The ease of my relationship with them is anchored by superficiality," I explain.
"None of them know me the way that you do, Myka, none of them know what I had, what I lost. What I am capable of." I speak softly as I rifle through my time with her until our paths parted. "I do not believe I will have saved any lives had it been them on that chair in Hong Kong, nor will my life had been spared had it been them with the Janus coin in their hands," my voice falls quieter. "None of them will have been able to talk me down from–– " my breath falls short of completing the sentence.
She stops and looks at me, her tired eyes burn into me with questions, with statements. But she speaks not a single word.
And here we are again, at the foothills of our holy mountain. I close my eyes and summon all the courage I have in me, all the courage that Rachel and her merry band of misfits planted in me last night. "After Giselle," I stop, because after Giselle there was no one of consequence. After Giselle I moved to Portland, had a handful of adventures which sole purpose were to dispel loneliness. Because I knew.
I knew I missed her. I knew I wanted her.
My time in Portland, as familiar as it would appear to her, was entirely about acceptance. It was my time to journey through everything that had happened since Christina died. Rachel and her troop provided the comfort of unconditional, wholehearted acceptance. They wanted nothing from me and I had nothing to offer. They allowed me to consider who I were, what it was I wanted: a woman torn from her time, lost to her kin, with little to keep her grounded in this world but a secret life of danger which has the tendency to uncover the worst in her. It was their acceptance that allowed me to put my past behind me and look ahead. And what I saw in front of me was Myka.
"After Giselle I moved to Portland, and I knew." That is the best I can volunteer.
"Knew what?" her voice is cold, hurriedly burying what her face was so quick to give away.
I sigh, biding my time. "That you were the one that I missed."
/ /
I walk around in the B&B's garden, cooling down after a run. Helena and I landed from Portland two hours ago, and I just had to go out and release this… energy. It was a good 5 miles, I think as I start to stretch, and the sound of someone clearing their throat makes me jump.
I look behind me and find Mrs. Frederic sitting on the bench by the rose bushes.
"Good morning, Agent Bering," she says calmly.
"'Morning," I reply and straighten, cradling my elbows in my arms.
"Do join me," she gestures to the other side of the bench, next to her.
I sit down.
"How have you been keeping?"
"Okay," I say, then clear my throat. "I'm okay."
"I hear you are still in remission," of course she knows, and it's nice that she's making an effort to make me feel comfortable.
"Yeah," I smile. "Big relief."
"That is truly wonderful news, Myka," she looks almost as relieved as the rest of the team when I told them. I think it surprises me on some level, even though I know she cares. If she hugged me I'd be surprised. "And how has Helena been?"
I take a minute to think about it. "She's okay, I think," I ask as much as I answer.
"Any difficulties adjusting?"
"I don't think so," I think back to the four and a bit months we've spent together. "She feels intense sometimes, you know? Like something is bothering her," I try to see if this resonates in Mrs. Frederic, but she doesn't really show if things resonate. "Like she's in really… you know… Deep thought."
She nods knowingly. "That's one way to describe it."
"You've seen it too?"
"Consider her past, Agent Bering. She had spent much of her life in… deep thought, as you call it."
Of course. Bronzing leaves you aware, leaves you thinking. "So, uhm," I don't know how to broach the subject, "do you want me do anything about it?"
She looks at me with a mysterious smile. "I believe you are doing it already," her smile broadens a touch, I don't think I had ever seen her smile like that. "And what you haven't been doing until now you will probably be doing soon enough."
I nod even though I'm not sure I understand. "So I'm going to continue being her handler, then?"
"So long as glove fits, Agent Bering."
"For how long?"
"So long as the glove fits."
I close my eyes for a second to remember all the questions I have for her, but in the split second my eyes are closed, Mrs. Frederic is gone.
I stay on the bench in the garden and think about Portland. About Rachel and her gang. About Helena when she's with them. I think about what Helena said, that it was because they don't know her that she could just be with them.
I can't undo what I know of her, and I don't want to undo what I know of her. What I know of her is what makes me admire her, proud of her, love her.
But maybe… maybe I can try to not let it govern how I know her now. Maybe I need to get to know her now, the way she is now.
It sounds like a good idea. I just have no idea how to do it.
/ /
Three days after our return from Portland, we are in my newly acquired home. The delivery company arrives late in the afternoon with the boxes that Myka and I had packed in Portland. The driver, who brings the two dozen boxes or so into the house, flirts with Myka unashamedly. I can tell she is a little uncomfortable with his attention by her body language and smile – they are forced and unnatural. She does, however, flirt back.
It surprises me a bit. It also angers me a bit. I had never seen her flirt with others before.
The rational part of me attempts to appease the jealousy with highly reasonable arguments: she is being polite and sociable; it is only flirting; I would have done the same in her position; strike that – I will have flirted more than she does.
I am not entirely sure this is working, so I tend to the boxes, distributing them between the rooms in which their contents belong – kitchen, front room, bedroom.
She signs for the delivery and ushers the driver out, not without him attempting to get her number twice. Both times she refuses – most civilly and elegantly.
She joins me in the kitchen and starts unpacking. She asks me where I would like to have every item placed. After five or six times, I turn to her, somewhat irked. "It isn't as though I am drowning in clutter here, Myka. I am sure that wherever you choose to place my dinner plates, I will manage to find them when the time comes."
Myka smile back at me, amused.
As I turn back to unpack books and trinkets that belong in the dining room, I feel offended on her behalf. She isn't my staff, it isn't her duty to help me settle into my new home. She is doing it because she cares. Because she wants to be here and be helpful.
Angry at my own outburst, I sigh heavily and walk over to the front room. Or the sitting room. I am not sure what to call it as it serves the function of a front room but it faces the rear of the property. Yet another menial detail with which to anger myself.
I try to calm down by finding a meaningful way in which to order my books on the shelves, but instead I am immersed in a ridiculous dialogue with myself about the meaning of manners; the crux of which is a stern telling off not even my worst governess had given me.
I feel deflated at my loss of temper both at Myka and myself. It is time for a break and the first cup of tea brewed in this household.
I go to the kitchen, where Myka is nearly done unpacking. She found the kettle, filled it with water and placed it on the hob. I look towards her to say thank you, but her back is turned, so I smile – to myself as well as her – switch the hob on and look for the teabags.
They are not by the hob, or the drawers adjacent to it – where I would usually keep them. I'm about to ask Myka where she put them and stop myself, realising this is exactly the reason why she had been asking where I wanted things. Another heavy sigh escapes my lips and I brace myself against the worktop.
I'm stirred by her very close physical presence to my left a moment later.
"Are you okay?" she asks and leans into me lightly, placing two mugs on the worktop, in front of me, a teabag in each. She then disappears briefly and comes back, placing the milk – a whole gallon of it, God bless America – next to her, then leans further in to place the teabag tin against the wall, next to the hob. Where I would place it.
"I am sorry, Myka."
"About what?" she is so very calm as she walks away again.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you," I mutter through a disgruntled sigh.
She laughs, "Don't worry about it," it sounds like she's eating something. When she returns, she leans back against the worktop, next to me.
I look up at her from my slump, raising an eyebrow.
She holds a small plastic tray of Kipling's Almond Slices while taking in the last bite of the slice she was eating.
I raise both eyebrows now.
"These are kinda good," she gently prizes the second slice out of the tray with her long, slender fingers. She breaks it in two, offering me the larger portion, which I take from her as I straighten.
I haven't shifted my gaze from her, waiting for her to do something with my apology.
She understands, after a while, that I am waiting for her to respond. "Honestly, Helena, you don't have to apologise," she puts the empty package behind her and turns slightly to face me. "Moving house is stressful," she throws her piece of cake in her mouth, Pete-like, and the kettle whistles.
I switch the hob off and take a bite from my slice. They are nice. Not as nice as proper Almond Cakes, but a kind reminder of the flavour. The cakes were a parting gift from Rachel, who, on top of everything else, played a key role of updating me on many modern British customs and conveniences: Mr. Kipling's, Jaffa Cakes and builders' tea included. "I feel I need to apologise," I pour water into the mugs. "It was terribly unkind of me to speak to you like that."
Her eyes smile at me, kindly and playfully. "I forgive you, Helena," she bends forward slightly, obviously indulging me with something she believes is not necessary.
I bow my head slightly and tend to the brewing tea in the mugs.
She stands next to me, observing my actions. I feel how close she is; a little closer than business decorum dictates. I stir the teabags in the hot water, squeeze them against the side of the mug and dump them in the sink. All the while I feel her gaze on me, the piercing, warm stare of eyes so deep and green I need not see to know their shape and colour.
I top the tea off with a touch of milk and feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at the lingering feel of her inquisitive eyes.
She releases a light, breathy laugh. "Took you long enough…"
Goodness. I can hear the smirk on her lips, but I need to look at it to confirm its presence. It has been a while since I've seen this smirk. A smouldering ember in the pit of my stomach catches fire. "To do what?"
"To react."
My blush deepens. This is utterly unlike me.
She chuckles again.
I am not entirely sure what she is doing. Considering her actions since my return, considering her request for time, her demeanour in Portland – I would not have assumed her to be playing games. Not this game; this game at the foothills of our precarious peak.
That said, she had not been quite her usual, professional self since we came back from Oregon. I wouldn't put it past Myka to be another kind of a dark horse.
I decide to play along, albeit gently. I do not wish to disrupt that careful balance we managed to achieve.
So instead of adopting my usual, cocky, self-assured stance, I wear honesty instead. It is not a new coat for me to wear with Myka, but it tends to be a heavy one, one I struggle to keep on for extended periods of time. It is also a dangerous coat to wear at this moment, given the present mix of agitation, jealousy and her closeness. My want for her is primed and honesty will do nothing to keep it at bay.
"React to what?" I look at her with what I hope she translates is what I am feeling: I want her. I want to touch her, to hold her, to ease her mind. I want to open my whole self to her. I want for her to want me, want to open up to me.
I know it is too soon, I know it is a lot to ask of her. And in spite of knowing all the reasons why I cannot have her, I still want her.
She looks into my eyes for a long moment, and her playful smirk is undone, as if a loose thread is tugged at the seam of her lips, unravelling it, revealing the raw emotion underneath. She takes a breath and straightens in front of me.
Her eyes change colour. From a bright moss green to a deeper shade of green, bordering on grey. She then asks me something and it pulls at every single one of my heartstrings. "You know that I want this, right?" she says, not moving a muscle.
I need her to say what she means, I cannot afford assumptions and misunderstanding. I do not believe she can either. "I'm afraid I will need you to be more—"
"Specific, right," she finishes for me. She takes a deep breath, her eyes fixed in mine, her hand reaches for mine. Her fingers, still sticky from the almond slice, are lightly touching the knuckles of my left hand. "You know that I want…" her voice tapers off, she clears her throat, "you."
I nod, not brazenly, not confidently. It is but a humble acknowledgement.
"I know that I said that I needed time," she starts a thought, and her gaze drops to my shoulder, then down my left arm, to where our fingers are touching. "And I know that what I want right now will make everything more complicated…" she speaks quietly, almost whispering. "But… uhm…."
Her gaze darts back to my eyes and the air between us is thicker than it had ever been. It is so thick is has gravitational pull, I'm sure of it, because I'm pulled closer to her.
"But I want to make sure," she whispers and swallows thickly, "that you…" she tilts her head slightly, leaning in, "know," and she dips her head ever so slightly so her nose brushes mine, until her lips reach mine, and they touch softly, but with great purpose.
And it is that gravitational pull that wins in the end because I lean in, or fall in, rather, bracing myself with my right hand against her shoulder.
This kiss lasts a handful of seconds, and feels like nothing and everything at the same time.
I pull away slightly, reluctantly, holding my head down. I feel as though I wished for this to happen too hard and by that forced her to give in to my will too soon, when she was not yet ready.
She takes a deep breath, her sticky fingers clasping my hand.
I open my eyes and look at my hand in hers. "I know," I whisper, then look up to meet her deep, emerald stare. "I know."
