Disclaimer: I really, really own nothing. Really. Warehouse 13 and its characters belong to Syfy, etc.

Author's Note: This particular chapter also includes some "Bering and Wells" and Sam/Myka, but not much.


Act II

"Wake up, bunny."

Light. Everything feels light as Myka opens her eyes.

"There she is. I told you."

The world comes into focus – a hospital room, a vase full of freshly cut flowers. Sam. Helena.

No …

"Am I … dead?" she asks hesitantly, glancing between her two companions. Everything is peaceful, uncharacteristic for the usual hustle and bustle atmosphere of a hospital. It's then that a feeling of dread begins to set in. "Oh God, I'm dead."

"No," Sam replies, and he seems almost sad.

"Not yet, anyway," says Helena.

"What happened?" Myka asks, because her mind is still a little fuzzy around the edges. She remembers the paint thinner, the pain. And suddenly she's frightened to look under the blankets to find out what she's missing.

But neither answers her question.

"You've got to wake up, bunny," Sam says again.

Myka swallows back a sob, because the weight is slowly returning to her body, and this meeting has been too brief. And though she finds no words, everything – everything – is left unsaid between them.

"Come, darling," Helena says with a smile Myka knows is just a brave face. "Wouldn't want to make Pete worry."

Myka chokes. "What if … what if I don't want to wake up? What if I want to stay here?"

And then she can feel the cool touch of Helena's cheek against hers, the sensation of her breath against her ear. "We'll be here waiting," Helena promises, then presses her lips to Myka's forehead. "But you have so much left to do."

When Myka opens her eyes again, everything is heavy. But the world is in sharp focus around her – the burning itch at her IV port, the pressure of the pulse-ox monitor, the frantic commotion of a code blue in the adjacent room. There are no flowers in this room, or balloons, but through the cold sterility, she feels a firm grasp on her hand, warm and comforting.

Moving her head takes more effort than she'd thought. She finds Pete sitting in a chair at her bedside, asleep, her hand folded in his own. She notices his dirty, rumpled clothes and the mass of stubble on his cheek, and wonders with dread how long she's been out. "Pete," she croaks, and winces at the stabbing pain in her throat.

He gasps awake, and merely stares at her for a moment.

She stares back.

And then he's moving to the edge of the bed, still firmly clasping her hand in his own. "Myks," he soothes, his other hand cupping her cheek. His voice breaks as he whispers, "Thank God."

"Water," she chokes, the burning sensation in her throat suddenly overwhelming.

Pete locates the nearby pitcher and pours her a cup, before slipping an arm around her shoulders to prop her up, pressing the cup against her lips. Despite her independent nature, she's grateful for the help, because the simple act of keeping her eyelids open is taxing enough. The soothing effect of the water seems to go beyond her aching voice, and when he eases her back to the pillow, she's able to reach for his hand.

She closes her eyes for a moment, as if this could protect her from the truth, and finally asks, "Did the artifact … ?"

"Artifact?" Pete frowns. He's still perched on the edge of her bed, and he's clasping her hand within both of his."No, Myka. You were shot." And yet she still feels as if there's something he isn't telling her.

"Shot," she repeats, as if convincing herself. She's been trained to take a bullet, but somehow, after so long chasing artifacts, it's almost a let-down to be taken down by something so normal. "I was … oh, God." And then she's stunned into silence, all the clues falling into place in her mind.

He releases her hand and stands reluctantly, as if she may disappear if he leaves the room, and says, "I'll be back in five, I need to tell Dr. Vanessa that you're-"

She breaks from her trance and frantically grabs for his hand, holding on tightly, because she's never been this afraid before. "Pete," she says, voice dry with horror. "I can't feel my legs."

Myka finds it difficult to focus on Dr. Calder's words. She pinches the skin of her thigh as hard as she can, until she's sure it's purple and swollen, but she feels nothing – nothing at all. Pete's been pacing at the foot of her bed, and she does her best to conceal her jealousy, because it's a comfort she no longer has.

"Your spinal cord is completely in tact," Vanessa explains, showing her the x-ray taken upon her admittance two days ago. She's been out for two days, and all she can think is how Pete must have suffered for those two days. "But the bullet caused a lot of damage, all fixed with surgery of course, but the residual swelling is not responding to medications."

Myka sees the problem area on both x-rays – one two days and the other two hours old – where the surrounding tissue (the meninges, if she remembers her tenth grade biology correctly) is pushing against her spinal cord. "I'm sorry," she says, "but I don't see how this is supposed to be good news."

"It is and it isn't," replies Vanessa. She's all business, clinical, but there's an edge to her, as if she hasn't slept in days. "It means that until that swelling goes down, you will not be able to feel or move your legs, and if it takes too long, there could be … permanent damage."

"Still not seeing the good here," Pete chimes in.

"But," Vanessa says, "It's unlikely to be permanent. Odds are good that you will at least be able to walk again, but it's going to take time." Time they don't have, that is, and Myka knows it.

"Don't you have some sort of artifact-y thingamajig that can fix this?" asks Pete, getting frustrated. "You have all sorts of thingies in that bag of yours."

Vanessa frowns. "Nothing that can fix something of this magnitude," she explains. "And Pete, you know we can't just 'fix' things with artifacts. The only thing that could make Miss Bering walk right now is the Collodi Bracelet."

Myka sighs and adds darkly, "And we've seen how that turns out."

"So there's nothing you can do," Pete says, and it isn't a question. They both know the answer; working in the Secret Service they'd both seen their fair share of this type of debilitating injury. And worse, they've never seen any of those agents return to field duty.

Vanessa shakes her head. "Nothing but wait and see." A death sentence, as far as Myka's concerned.

Pete wipes a hand over his face, frustrated. Myka twists the bedsheets in her fists.

Vanessa closes the door and shuts the blinds. "I'm sorry, but there's more," she says quietly, her face taking on a grim expression. "We have bigger problems right now."

"I don't know about that," Myka murmurs, but she has a feeling that Vanessa may be right because from the look on Pete's face, he already knows.

"You two can't stay here," says Vanessa. "It's too dangerous. No-one can be trusted. Here." She hands Myka a folder – it contains a passport, driver's license, birth certificate and medical records, all with her picture, but all with the name Grace Conley.

"Everyone thinks we're dead," Pete explains. "All of us. Artie, Leena, Claudia and my mom, too."

"And it needs to stay that way," Vanessa adds. "For now, at least."

Myka's mind reels. "Wait, what happened at the B&B? Are they okay?"

"They're fine," Pete assures her.

"Someone delivered a package addressed to Claudia," Vanessa explains. "A bomb. I guess she'd been expecting some parts to work on the Teslas and when she opened it, the bomb was triggered."

"Oh God …" Myka breathes.

"Everyone made it out okay," Vanessa assures her. "But it's obvious now that the Warehouse – or what's left of it – is still under attack."

Myka frowns. "By whom? All of Sykes' men are dead."

Pete exchanges a glance with Vanessa, and Myka realizes how tired she is of being two steps behind. Steps … well now that's just a cruel way to think about it.

"We found this," he says, holding out his hand to show her the little gold object – a lapel pin depicting the Eye of Horus, much like the ones worn by the … no – "in the Archives. I didn't see it when we went in. Did you?"

She knows this is a serious question – photographic memory. Had she seen it? No. She shakes her head. "You can't possibly mean –"

"No-one can be trusted," Vanessa repeats. "We've gathered the information you two managed to save, and assigned everyone aliases. We're doing the only thing we can now – splitting up the information and the agents until we figure out who's behind this."

"We've gotta make it as hard as possible for them," Pete says. "It's the only way to keep everyone safe."

"Artie and Claudia are already en route to DC, Leena's heading south, to Colorado to keep an eye on your parents," Vanessa explains to Myka. "And Jane and her daughter will be backpacking through Europe. I'll continue to treat the Regents."

"What about us?" Myka asks, though she's admittedly a little afraid of the answer. Going undercover tends to mean playing house with Pete, and he always milks it for all it's worth.

"You're stable enough to be moved, so you two leave tonight for Girdwood, Alaska," Vanessa says. "The Alyeska ski resort is just down the street, and there will be a cabin waiting for you. Nothing as unassuming as a couple on their honeymoon."

Myka sighs and covers her face with her pillow, joking with herself that maybe she'd have been better off dead. Not this ruse again.

Artie fought the implication that he was Claudia's father figure for a long time, and he wonders if it's a coincidence that as soon as he accepts this label, she becomes a sullen, rebellious teenager. Perhaps he is being too hard on her, because he knows the loss she's endured, the abandonment she's felt her whole life, but the fight isn't over, and if they're going to win, he needs all his people focused.

And what a mess they are, with Myka temporarily paralyzed, Pete playing nursemaid, and only one Regent they can trust. The odds are certainly not in their favor, and the last thing he needs to concern himself with is an inconsolable teenager.

But he can't help it, because he loves her, and she's in pain. He understands – he holds some of the responsibility for Steve's death, for Helena's, for Mrs. Frederic's.

And he's been ripped from his life as well. He misses Vanessa, even though he's loathe to admit it.

"Got a ping," Claudia says from across the room.

"What is it?" he asks, slipping onto the couch beside her to see what she's found.

"This Regent. Name's … Douglas Westcott." She takes a long drink of her soda and pulls up several windows, listing credit card transactions and bank statements. "He's been falling off the grid a lot lately."

"Well do you blame him?" Artie asks skeptically. "Look what else has happened lately."

Claudia rolls her eyes. "Yeah, Gramps, but take a look at this." She moves the cursor to the space between two dates. "What happened this day?"

Artie's eyes widen, but he's still skeptical. "Claudia, that doesn't necessarily mean-" But then he sees it – a large (very, very large) sum of money withdrawn from his savings account only a week before the attack. In cash. "That is kinda fishy," he agrees.

"But that's where the paper trail ends for him," she says.

"It's a start," he replies. He can't help but notice how she's changed – the dark circles under her eyes, the way her ribs are prominent even through her shirt. She's breaking, and he doesn't know how to fix it, because he isn't a father.

And he thinks how much harder this would be if he was.

Myka wakes to a scream.

She isn't sure where it came from, or who it was, but it fills her with a sense of twisted terror. She recognizes her hospital room – the clean, unfeeling white walls – and watches the lights flicker.

"Pete!" she calls. "Dr. Calder?"

No response.

There's no wheelchair and her legs are dead weight, useless lumps of flesh, so she does her best to lessen the fall as she slips out of bed onto the cold, linoleum floor and drags herself out into the hallway. She catches sight of the blood only a few yards away – a trickling trail winding through the hospital.

"Is anyone here?" she tries again, and she wonders if this is what Pete's vibes feel like, because she feels sick to her stomach.

Her elbows are a bloodied mess and she thinks the blood might be her own, and she's certain she's ripped open a few of her stitches. She turns a corner and she sees it – a man lying in a pool of blood, unmoving.

She reaches him, her hospital gown soaked through.

"You were late, bunny."

Myka yelps as she scrambles away, her deadened legs slipping in all the blood. "No, Sam," she says firmly, but she can feel the tears soaking her cheeks. "You're dead. You've been dead a long time."

His dead eyes are staring at her.

It's then that Myka sees her, lying in a heap of ashes a few yards away. Her skin is charred, burned through to muscle, to bone, and her eyes aren't even there anymore, just ashen, empty sockets.

"Helena?" Myka whispers, but she's suddenly finding it hard to fill her lungs with air, and she wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like.

"Please, help me," Helena whispers, and she reaches a hand toward Myka, still smoldering and reeking of burnt flesh.

But there's nothing to be done. "I'm sorry," Myka sobs. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

"Myka!"

It's Pete.

"Pete!" she yells, scrambling down the hallway as fast as she can, her arms nearly giving out from under her. It's only then that she realizes that the hallway is endless, disappearing at infinity in both directions, and Pete is still screaming in pain. But she can't reach him.

"Myka!"

She'll never reach him in time.

"Myka, wake up!

Myka wakes to find her skin slick with sweat, her breath coming in short ragged gasps as if she's been crying for hours. "It's okay," Pete breathes against her ear, and it takes a few moments to register the unfamiliar walls of the cabin, the daylight spilling in from the windows and his hands stroking soothingly over the tense muscles in her back. "I've got you. It's okay."

She tries to calm her breathing, and settles her head against the flat plain of his chest, listening to the steady pounding of his heart, doing everything she can to convince herself that he's still alive; that she had not failed him too. There are no words to describe what she's experiencing, that her medications cause vivid nightmares and hallucinations, that she feels like she's falling and helpless to stop it.

Myka finally settles, breathing deeply against his shoulder, but her fingers are still clenched around his bicep, because letting go right now is more terrifying than anything. When she's finally brave enough to look up at him, he's staring back with pure concern and empathy. She realizes at once that he is the most important person in her life now.

But more importantly, she realizes that there's no point in hiding anymore. Never before has she felt that there is nothing at all and yet everything left to lose; because they have narrowly avoided death (again) and who knows if they'll be so lucky the next time.

And she's not sure, but she thinks he's meeting her halfway, his fingers tangling in her hair as their lips meet. There's no magic, no fireworks bursting above their heads, but he's kissing her back and she hasn't felt this content since … ever.

There is a long silence when she pulls away (but she doesn't move more than an inch because he may very well disappear or try to make a break for it). "Myks," he says, and though his voice breaks, his fingers are still caught up in her hair.

"Yeah?" she whispers, her lips a breath from his.

"I'm sorry," he says, and that isn't really what she was hoping to hear. "I'll, uh," and he clears his throat, pulling away. "I'll be in the other room, if you need me."

And the moment is gone.

And then so is he.

Vanessa is accustomed to making house calls for Regents, and as often as they manage to fall ill, one would think it impossible for her to a hold a staff position at the CDC as well. But Switzerland had not been on her vacation list.

"What seems to be the problem?" she asks, a little annoyed that the man hadn't been very forthcoming over the phone, and she would be particularly peeved if she flew all this way for the sniffles.

"It's a shame," the man says, "about those agents. How did they die again?"

Vanessa frowns, because her 'autopsy reports' had been sent via courier to all Regents, and there's something edgy in his tone that she doesn't like. She's known all along that she'd be in the most danger, interacting with the Regents with no indication as to which one may be the mole, but she hadn't expected to stumble so blindly into what she's beginning to think is a trap. "Which ones? There were two incidents."

Her cell phone vibrates against her hip, and she takes a glance at it, because this is all about acting natural, right?

Douglas Westcott

-Claudia

Well, that's a little too late.

"I think you know what I'm talking about," says Westcott.

"No, actually," Vanessa replies, because she isn't going down without her dignity, "I'm afraid I don't."

She's seen many artifacts in her time at the Warehouse, and occasionally been affected by them, so deep down she curses herself for having not come more prepared, because she's already felt the shift in her mind, and knows an artifact is in play, words threatening to spill from her mouth without even so much as a question. She covers her mouth with her hands.

"Now, let's try that again," he says. "But this time, how about the truth?"

"They're alive," she blurts through her fingers, and wishes she could reach her pistol, but the artifact is in her mind now, taking root first in her temporal lobes then her motor cortex. She chokes back a sob and breathes, "God forgive me."

"Good, good," Westcott nods. "Now, tell me where they are right now."