She wasn't certain how long after O'Neill's departure it was that she woke up. All she knew was that the shaft of light poking in through some crack in the curtained windows refused to let her fall back into the oblivion of sleep. But as soon as she was awake enough to think past the surprisingly painful nuisance, she was taken aback that she didn't know how much time had passed.
Time was something she always felt keenly—sometimes painfully so. Being unaware of it… it unsettled her more than she thought it should. Sitting up, she allowed the duvet to pool around her waist, revealing rumpled silk pajamas she didn't remember getting into.
But her further discomfiture was dispelled by the realization that she should be in a black dress—the dress she wore to the memorial. Ashley's memorial.
Ashley was dead.
Her gut clenched so tightly she swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. Guilt, remorse, horror, and grief all roiled in her chest, each fighting for dominance in her narrowed awareness. For a long, dizzying moment, the overwhelming loss threatened to pull her back under, back into the infinite abyss she'd been floating in for the past… unknown number of days.
This time, though, a deep breath filled her lungs, buoying her back up to the surface. Her eyes opened, and she was once again faced with the shadowed interior of her bedchamber, quiet and lifeless. Unable to bear the sight of it any longer, she swung her legs out over the hardwood floor and forced herself out from under the now-stifling heat of the bedclothes.
She crossed the distance to the window on surprisingly shaky feet, and flung the curtains open. The stubborn sunlight now flooded the room, blinding her in its intensity. The physical pain was welcome, and she waited patiently for her vision to clear. When it did, she saw that it was late afternoon. Below, the rest of the world continued—cars moved steadily along the road, and more than a few people were out and about, enjoying the beautiful weather.
The world kept turning, though hers had ended.
You will survive this.
The words sounded unbidden in her ears. She barely remembered hearing them, but knew instinctively that O'Neill had spoken them. Had they come from anyone else, they would have been disregarded as so much noise from well-meaning empathizers. But O'Neill…
O'Neill knew. That was why she'd called him. She needed to make some sort of sense from this, and knew that he had found it in regards to his own son.
And now, she felt a certain peace. Maybe because of O'Neill. Maybe because of the ghostly apparition she'd seen in the temple. It had undoubtedly been a result of poor eating habits and even poorer sleep, but the image of Ashley's smiling face put her soul at ease. A little.
Abandoning the window, she moved with purpose to the bathroom. A shower first, then… Then she'd think of the next step. Food, probably, if she could keep it down.
Being clean for the first time in days made a world of difference, she learned a short time later. Her movements became sharper, and no longer feeling as though she were swimming in cotton. And the last of the cobwebs cleared from her mind, allowing her to think unhindered. Of course, with that came all the duties she'd been neglecting—she barely noticed that her bed had been made in the time she'd been showering, so intent was she in moving into the sitting room.
She found food waiting for her there, and she realized then that her old friend had been hovering, just waiting for a chance to care for her. The cracker and cheese she nibbled on was fresh, and her stomach growled in anticipation of the needed sustenance. Continuing to snack in small bites, she moved to her study, intent on finding the radio she kept the top drawer.
Upon finding it, she brought the microphone to her lips.
"All staff be advised," she said, her voice clear and more stable than she could have thought possible. "There will be a staff meeting in my office, in one hour."
The words sounded sharp even to her ears, but she decided it was better than breaking down. It also precluded her usual warning to not be late. It was a well-known peeve of hers, but she was sure the shock of hearing her returning to business would have them in her office well before the appointed time.
In the meantime, though, she had other things to tend to.
Leaving the radio and her office behind, her feet traced the familiar steps down the hall, which loomed dark and silent in front of her. The route is as ingrained as her daily routine, and she is standing at the threshold of her destination, trepidation roiling in her gut. She didn't want to enter the room before her, but she knew she had to.
She needed to.
She twisted the heavy knob and slowly pushed the door open. Within, the interior was shadowed, dull and lifeless—just as its inhabitant now was. Swallowing painfully, Helen stepped inside, facing the abandoned belongings with more courage than she actually felt. Her legs shook as she moved deeper into the room, her eyes adjusting to reveal an unmade bed and a clutter that spoke of impatience rather than slovenly tendencies.
Helen had raised her daughter in a world where order was key to maintaining harmony. Her upbringing had stuck with Ashley, she knew, but she knew it took an act of God to keep her in one place for more than five minutes. The clutter wasn't trash, but rather tasks that Ashley hadn't completed yet.
Yet.
Helen bit her lip, realizing that yet was now never. Ashley would never piece together the old Colt .45 she'd found in the catacombs. She would never flip through the rest of the magazine splayed open across her desk. She would never finish typing the report saved on the laptop still whirring away. She would never load the clip that sat on the window seat, next to the ammo can of 9mm rounds. She would never fold the jumbled pile of clean clothes lying in the bin—she would never pick up the few dirty items from the floor.
Setting her lips in a grim line, Helen felt her heart rip open a little more. But her eyes remained dry; she doubted she had any tears left.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she moved briskly to the bed. With gentle efficiency she straightened the sheets, tucking in corners and edges before pulling the quilt tight across the mattress. The pillows got fluffed, and the afghan got folded and draped across the end of the bed.
She picked up the laundry, put away the fresh clothes. She shut down the laptop, closed it up, and settled on the shelf above the desk. She would have time to look through it later, transfer anything pertaining to the Sanctuary to the mainframe. Anything personal would remain locked within—she would respect her daughter's privacy, even in death.
And the rest—the rest of the clutter would stay where it was. Helen knows that her heart would skip every time she caught a glimpse at the room, with so much of her daughter's life just waiting for Ashley to come back and pick up where she left off. It would hurt, but the thought of changing anything at this point hurt even more.
A scuffle of sound from the doorway startled her, setting her pulse racing. But instead of an angry blonde shouting at her about shattered privacy, Helen found the tall form of her manservant lingering nervously in the hall. He was wary of her, she knew, and a spark of guilt flashed through her.
"How long?" she asked softly. She meant to clarify, but her voice left her before she could. Luckily, her old friend knew her mind.
He took a step forward, not quite breaching the threshold of the room. "Colonel O'Neill left yesterday afternoon," he huffed quietly in return.
Helen nodded, hiding her surprise by gazing around the room. She'd thought it had been longer than that. She was glad it hadn't been.
"The others got my message, then?"
He grunted in affirmation. "We were all glad to hear it."
She turned to face him, remorse in her heart. "I'm sorry, old friend… for being so selfish." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "I know I'm not the only one hurting."
She did know—she just hadn't been able to see it through her own grief. But her old friend had been there for her through everything, starting from the moment that James helped transfer the embryo from its cryostasis to her womb. He had been there through the hormone changes, and the cravings, and it had been his hand she crushed during the near 36 hours of childbirth. He'd held Ashley, helped care for her. Ashley had always known love from both of them, and had loved them both in return.
Now, that bond had been severed, for both of them.
But her old friend shrugged away his own pain. There was a sadness in his gaze, but not for himself—for her. For all that she'd lost.
Helen could only find herself envious of his calm acceptance of this new, dark reality.
"You want the room kept the way it is." His rumbling voice stated a fact, rather than posed a question.
She nodded, her chin quivering despite her efforts to remain as calm as her companion. "Keep it clean, but please… don't move anything?"
"Of course…"
The words hung in the air, and eventually, she simply nodded in thanks. Giving the room one last look, she eventually glanced at her watch. "It's nearly time," she observed carefully. She moved towards the door, but when her friend moved to make space for her to pass by unhindered, she paused.
Reaching out, she laid a hand on his forearm, the muscle heavy beneath her fingers. He returned the gesture, resting his palm on her shoulder. He squeezed, gently, a gesture she returned with a squeeze of her own.
After a moment, he nodded. "I'll meet you there." With that, he let her be, allowing her a moment to herself.
Once he was gone, she debated whether to turn around or not. She'd finally decided on not, only to have her attention grabbed by a glint of metal out of the corner of her eye. Looking more closely, she saw that the glint was light reflecting off a gold-plated Jericho resting abandoned on a nearby shelf.
With a sharp pang of remembrance, Helen recognized it. It was one of a pair, the one that Ashley kept in her room for personal protection. At least, that was what Ashley had attested. With two, there had been one for her to take into the field, and one to keep her safe should the unthinkable happen, and she needed protection in her bedchamber. But Helen figured it was so she would always have a back up, should one be lost in the field.
And one had been—this one's mate had never been recovered from the belly of the Cabal.
Lost, as Ashley had been.
Instinctively, not pausing long enough to think about it, Helen gripped the gun, gently lifting it from its resting place. She cradled it in both hands, hefting its weight with care. She let her fingers run along its length, tracing the details and edges. When her fingers curled around its grip, she could almost feel the warmth of Ashley's hand against the plastic molding.
All it took was a thought, and then she was heading back down the hall to her own chambers. Holding the weapon close, she moved dispassionately through the sitting room, and the through the door to her bedroom.
She knew she had only a few short minutes before she needed to go to the meeting she'd called herself, but she took a moment to consider the moment once more. Her thoughts raced, bouncing from Ashley to rules of propriety to practicality and then back round to Ashley. In the end, the need to keep her daughter close overrode all other sense.
With a decisive nod, she slid the weapon home, beneath her pillow. Her old friend would know better than to move it—and she took pride in making her own bed most days in any case. It would remain there, out of sight, until she was alone. Then, on the verge of sleep, she could reach out and grasp onto the last shred of her daughter she could find.
It felt appropriate—it felt right.
One more deep breath passed her lips, and then Helen left her bedchamber, closing the door on the treasure inside. She locked the turmoil shifting and growling in her mind away, behind the same door that safeguarded the weapon now more precious than any other arms on Earth.
But as soon as the door clicked shut, the pain had subsided to a dull ache in her chest. It was persistent, but she could think now. She could function. She could answer to her responsibilities, care for the others under her care.
She could survive.
She could deal with the pain as it waxed and waned, as she knew it would. But for now…
For now, she had a Sanctuary to run.
FIN
