"Hey there Trouble." She barely looks up to say it, barely glances in her direction while tilt rolling an empty barrel. So that first time, Helena looks around unsure as she finds her customary seat. The merest hint of a smirk flits across the bartender's lips. The former Warehouse agent arches her eyebrows when she understands that yes some progress has been made after five weeks of relentlessly flirting with the woman behind the bar.

Trouble. She likes it. She likes the ease of this recognition. She likes the pang and the ache it elicits. Somehow she finds it suits her. It is a form of reciprocation. It is something. It is also acknowledgement that despite the unpleasantness of the incident last week, the girl is okay and more importantly, the girl doesn't think Helena is the wrong kind of trouble. And that is somehow terribly significant.

Trouble. But this time Helena is not running away, it's what she's telling herself at least. She's not running away to lessen the weight of loss and recrimination that hang from her shoulders. She's running headlong towards a point in the universe that seems to promise the balm of forgetting.

The girl has already peeled back one mask, has already rejected the lie that was Emily Lake with an arching of a brow that spoke volumes of disbelief. "Pretty." Eyes narrowed and gin poured. "Very pretty."

She says nothing else, but does not call her by that name, dismissing it entirely as a falsehood that she will not entertain. And thus introductions are not properly made. Giselle remains a name stitched in silver against white, while echoes of Sophia sung affectionately linger in the air around her.

She knows that Winston only ever calls her Sophia or Beautiful. She knows that Zane calls her Bells and Maddy who works weekends knows her as Ellie but teases her with Ella Bella. She sees her tense her jaw whenever one of the regulars call her Doll. She hears everyone else call her Elle.

Giselle remains a name that she never hears.

The girl will not offer anything of herself after hearing the name Emily Lake. Helena for her part, is glad of it, of being found out. Relieved even. It is uncanny to be sure that this woman has discerned more in half an hour behind a bar than Nate did in an entire year of living together. It is uncanny, this. Being seen again after hiding in plain sight for so long. She cannot help but think of Myka then. She does not flinch from allowing her thoughts to rest on the memory of unfathomable green eyes. Those eyes had seen into her very depths, had exposed all the pieces of herself that she had tried to neatly tuck away in the safe monotony of suburbia. But nothing in her life has every been neat or safe. Though she had coveted it for herself, telling herself it was for the best. Her disappearing act, her cosy lie.

The bitterness still rises like bile when she thinks now on the truth of it. It had been a wreckage from the beginning, smash and grab not elegant retreat. There was nothing noble in the wreckage she had caused. All paths had ultimately led to a destruction of her own making. When she remembers the hurt in a pair of relentless green eyes, the devastation in a valiant smile, endless wonder reluctantly receding away from her into the darkness, bile rises.

She allowed herself to remain behind, a coward in the darkness of suburbia, no longer safe or neat, no longer a cosy lie.

Myka was brave. Is brave she thinks. Myka, Myka. Myka is. So many things to her, and then she flinches. Will not allow herself to taint her anymore. Helena thinks of death and darkness, she thinks of a child long since turned to earth, near cataclysms, a gun in her hand, a trigger she cannot pull.

But this time honeyed brown skin reaches out to pull her back. Silently placing a cup of tea before her. Helena does not smile, or nod or mouth thank you. She starts to ask her how she knew and thinks better of it. But there is a question in her eyes that remains for a ghost of a second though her face is impassive. "I hope it's not a tired cliche. You looked like you could use a warm drink. And well, you are English." She says almost apologetically, swiping a shock of hair away from her face, no longer obscuring the extraordinary colour of her eyes. In this light they are a vivid turquoise. "There's milk and sugar. Or cream if you want it." That's all she says and leaves her to it. Leaves her to her tea. And Helena finds some comfort when she catches the bartender's eyes rest on her silent figure every so often, those eyes unobtrusively making sure that she is alright. Something within her unfurls beneath that gentle gaze, a release. She is right about this one, this one is brave like Myka. But she, she is not alright. Not for more than a century. She has been walking broken, running damaged. Not alright by far. But she finishes her tea. Tries to pay for it but is stopped by a soft shake of the head, "You're good. It's on the house."

"Thank you darling. It was just what I needed." She tips her head towards her in silent thanks, a smile gracing her lips.

"You're welcome- Trouble." (Because Giselle can't bring herself to say Emily.)

She laughs then. "It's Helena. My name. It's actually Helena, darling." This offering rewards her with an unreserved smile, full and bright and just for her.

"Ellie Bellafonte." She pauses. It's actually Giselle." She rolls her eyes when she says Giselle.

"It's nice to finally meet you. Properly." Helena winks. She reaches out and squeezes the woman's forearm in goodbye. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Giselle."

FOOTNOTE:

Because last week was the wrong kind of trouble. Drawing attention to herself in a way that she had been trying to avoid. But it was almost impossible for the dark-haired woman to go unnoticed. And this man. The wrong kind of man, had taken notice. There was something sinister in his eyes. Roaming as they were, their gaze felt like a violation of her being. The bar had been quieter than usual and the man's very presence seemed to disturb the atmosphere. Behind his outwardly collected exterior, was thinly veiled rage, contempt bubbling beneath a facade of calculated coolness. Almost as if the paleness of his skin and his washed-out nearly colourless icy blue eyes could disguise the heat of anger bristling beneath his skin.

Helena had recoiled instinctively as he edged near her, invading her space. Giselle had been watching him discretely as she carefully poured a glass of Westvleteren 12 for another patron, watching beneath hooded eyes. And although she could not hear the exchange, saw the look of affronted disgust on the brunette's face. That's all she needed to see. She'd already reached for the bat she kept behind the bar before she heard Helena's voice rising,"That's quite enough." She'd already grabbed it tight before she heard him spit, "Cunt."

"You need to leave now. You need to apologise to the lady. And you need to leave."

"Fuck you." He made as if to lay hands on Giselle who had quietly made her way and stood between them, effectively shielding Helena.

"No." She tilted her head almost thoughtfully. As if weighing her words. Measuring them so they conveyed the correct weight of force. She said the words low, but clear and with a menace so real it hung to every word like a deadly promise. "No, not that. But if you don't lower your hands I will fuck you up. So badly you won't recognise your own reflection. Please believe me when I say, you don't want to test me."

And almost unaccountably he backed down. Helena couldn't understand how this petite young woman had defused the situation with such a threat. Physically she was clearly no match for him. Yet he did as he was told after throwing out an impotent, "Fuck you, you fucking dyke."