Author: Kloperslegend
Pairing: Myka Bering & HG Wells
Rating: PG
Spoiler: Season 2
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, but some days I sure do wish I did.

Summary: After Myka's furious rebuttal, they both need a little processing time. This is nearly pure fluff.

11/19/12

Helena had been sorely discouraged and somewhat lost after Myka's ferocious rebuttal. She hired a manager for her recovered assets, and he had suggested she purchase some property in both London and the states, simply because she seemed to be travelling so much. It had been a wise suggestion. She already had a small house in London (one that hadn't been turned into a tourist attraction), so that was simple. In the states, she opted for Seattle. It was, after all, notorious for its rain. Anything that made this new world feel more like home was a small blessing.

While she had been sorely tempted to buy a home in South Dakota, she refrained. There she would be too tempted to contact the warehouse again, or God forbid, Myka.

Tonight Helena was attempting to learn the machinations of her kitchen. Knowing how an oven worked was completely different than knowing how to use one, and the more she failed the more her admiration for Sophie and the rest of her serving-women grew. The microwave was even worse: it was bad enough that microwaveable dinners were so terribly convenient; the fact that they were horrible for you was worse. One look at the ingredients had convinced Helena of that.

Helena looked sourly at the variety of vegetable sautéing in pan before her. She was sure she remembered to put the carrots in first – as they took longer to soften – and every other important detail regarding stir-fry, but couldn't help being pessimistic. It was, after all, cooking: perhaps the one thing Helena wells couldn't do well with her hands.

A pop of hot oil struck her skin and she swore before nursing her finger into her mouth. The onions were almost golden enough to be done, she thought, so she could finally escape her dismal performance in the kitchen.

It was raining tonight in Seattle, per usual. She had thought about going to the bar not far from her flat for the last few nights and had resisted the urge. Helena detested those who drowned their problems in substance abuse, harming not only themselves but everyone around them. Charles had always said a drink oft helped to clear the mind. Right now, Helena didn't want a single 'drink.' She wanted to disappear.

Writing usually allowed her that luxury, but for some reason she was completely blocked lately. There hadn't been much time to write since she had been debronzed, and now that she had the time, all she could bring herself to write about were brunette curls, and the determined look Agent Bering gave her down the barrel of a gun. The way she stood when she was resolute, and how long her legs looked from a distance; the way her eyes narrowed when you said something she had no mind in hearing…

Agent Myka Bering would not let Helena be. And every time she thought of the agent, she thought of her predicament, and every time she thought of her predicament, she thought of how aimless her life was at this point. Not to mention her disgust at her inability to think of anyone else. She was like a girl with a silly schoolhouse infatuation. It was completely juvenile.

As she sat watching the rain, munching her cooked vegetables, those drinks were starting to sound better and better. Alright. She had had dinner. She was a responsible adult. The bar was only across the way. Surely, no harm could be done.

"You look like you got a bit of a problem you wanna share with me." The overweight bartender slid towards Helena, tired blue eyes looking up from under sleepy lids.

"I have a problem?" she asked, taking her beer from her lips.

"Sure do."

Helena chuckled. "And I ought to share this hypothesized problem with you?"

"I am a bartender." His blue eyes sparkled.

"I'm assuming that title holds something more to it in America than it does in London?"

He looked up, shining a glass as he replied, "Ahh, don't think so. But maybe. Just means that I have to listen to a lot of miserable people tell me a lot of miserable tales. Means I know when someone's got something on their mind. Means I keep secrets real good."

Despite his obvious need of a proper English lesson, Helena was charmed. She took another drink of her beer, finishing it off, just as the bartender set another one in front of her.

"Name's Jack."

"Lovely to meet you."

"And you are?"

She paused, stopping before realizing that no, she wasn't on a mission, and yes, that meant she could answer with absolute clarity.

"Helena," she said, nursing her new beer.

"Nice to meet ya.'" He offered a callused hand and she took it firmly. He chuckled. "Good to meet a gal with a firm shake."

She scoffed. "Is that really so uncommon?"

He puckered a lip, thinking. "Not all that much. But here –" he tipped his hand toward the window, indicating the busy streets, "—with this city being all business-like and all, might be the expectation." He moved to put the cleaned glass on a shelf behind him. "But ya' ain't here on business, are ya?"

"No." she replied, intent on letting the man do her talking for her.

He turned, his face stern. "Now, ya know, I ain't going to getcha another beer until I get some kind of keys. You aware of how many you've had tonight, Helena?"

She looked over at the pile of empty bottles Jack has yet to remove. "Quite."

"Then ya' know why I'm concerned."

Helena sighed, pushed the half-consumed beer away from her, and rubbed her temples. "I'm afraid the only keys I have are the keys to my home, Mister Jack. Those I shan't be giving away any time soon."

"Ya live near here then?"

"Yes."

"Recently moved here I take, or I'd 'ave seen you 'round here afore."

"Correct."

"Ya' gonna give me one-word answers all night, miss, or ya' gonna let me help ya' with your problem?"

"You're rather relentless, aren't you?"

His smile reached his eyes. "Now, now, that's a good start. That was five words outta ya. But remember I'm the one asking the questions, Miss Helena. You'll be talkin.'"

Helena snorted. "Righty ho, then. Fire away."

"What's got ya in the dumps, darlin'?"

She flinched at the term of endearment, one she used far too often, and one she had hoped to use far more – regarding a certain brunette agent.

Jack's grin grew. "So it's a man, then."

Helena barked a laugh. "Partially, yes, but not in the way you're thinking."

"Enlighten me."

She reached for her beer to finish it off and a flicker of concern flashed over the bartenders face. Helena ignored it. "It's rather complicated. But in a gist, I was recently… unwillingly released… from a form of incarceration. The officials in charge of the situation were unaware I had been broken out, and I was ignorant that those who released me weren't there in an official capacity. The man who set me free was only doing so to use me for some specialized information I possess regarding a very dangerous…" she hesitated, trying to think of any other word besides artifact or weapon. She laughed. It was fruitless. "…. A very dangerous artifact. I turned myself in to the agents in charge of the situation, but they didn't believe my innocence. I ended up ridding them of the man who set me free, a complete and utter villain, and am now hunted for it." Here she paused again, drinking her beer, debating whether or not to continue. Ah, well. It was inane to finish halfway. "On top of it all," she added mutedly, "I believe I have developed feelings for one of the agents trying to capture me."

Jack kept the disbelief off his face with ease, having literally heard most everything before. "So, that was it in a gist."

"In a gist, yes."

"So you're tellin' me you were sent to jail –"

"Actually," she interrupted, "I opted to be there."

He furrowed his brows at her, quirking an eyebrow, "So ya' volunteered to go ta jail, then this imposter broke ya' out and tried to use ya,' but ya' tried to turn ya'self back in, and they didn't believe ya."

"Right."

"And then ya' killed the man who broke ya' out, 'cause he had some nasty plot or somethin,' and now they're after ya' for killing him?"

"That's correct."

"And ya' say you got 'feelin's' for the guy who's after ya'?"

"Girl. Woman. But yes. That's correct."

The gay community was large enough in Seattle that he was unphased by her admission. "Damn, woman. Ya really ought to write some of this shit down."

Helena laughed, somewhat astonished he hadn't commented on the oddity of her interest in a woman. Then, realizing exactly how loose the alcohol had made her tongue, she became very sheepish. "You aren't… planning to call the authorities, are you?"

It was Jack's turn to laugh, and he did, hands holding his beer-belly as his roar echoed through the mostly empty bar. "Naw. Most of em' are pricks anyway. So you tryin' to escape or somethin'?"

She shook her head, adding the empty bottle to the pile. Jack began collecting them. "No. I want to prove my innocence, or rather, prove my actions were in their best interest. Prove to her that I'm not a villain. That I can be trusted." Her empty hands fiddled now – she had previously taken a sip from her beer when finished talking. Now it seemed her hands didn't know what to do. "Might I have a glass of water, by chance?"

Jack nodded, grabbing the glass he just finished cleaning and walking down the bar to the tap. "Seems like ya' got yourself in quite a pickle. But here's my thoughts: Fix one problem, and ya' can fix t' other. Start by proving that ya' ain't no threat to these people, whoever they are. Help 'em from the sidelines, or somethin.' Then when ya' finally shown 'em you ain't no harm, you'll get a shot at that gal yer so fond of." He set the glass of icewater directly in front of Helena. "You know?"

She took the glass gratefully and sipped. Without the warehouse resources it would be difficult to locate the artifacts, but she had never had any problems collecting them herself. It wouldn't do any harm to try. If she actually did collect any artifacts it would be simple enough procedure to send them to the warehouse anonymously. Then it would be simple deduction on their part. Helena was trying to help.

"Fine advice," she concluded.

"That's whatcha'll do, then?"

Helena nodded, sliding off the barstool with remarkably less poise than usual. "That is exactly what I intend to do." She pulled her wallet out of her back pocket – purses were just so large and unwieldy these days – and paid for her alcohol in addition to a generous tip. "You've been very helpful, Jack."

"That's my job."

Her amused chortle was interrupted by the tiniest feminine hiccup, and her hand flew over her mouth in surprise. Jack barked a laugh, and then gestured to the door with his drying rag. "Get outta here, girl. Get some sleep. And I don't want to see ya' back in here 'till ya' got that other gal with ya.'"

Myka was fuming, and no one in the B & B could figure out why. Even Leena, typically intuitive, could only tell the others she was experiencing a great deal of internal indecision and repressed desires. What the desires entailed, she left out; Myka was entitled to a small amount of privacy, no matter the conflict.

It was the morning after the debacle with Robert Louis Stevenson's bookends, and Myka was grumpy despite Artie giving them the day off. The boys and Claudia had decided on going to Denny's for some of their peanut-butter breakfast balls (a grossly inappropriate title for an item both Myka and Leena agreed could not possibly be breakfast) leaving the two ladies alone for a quiet morning of coffee and scones.

At the moment, Myka was perusing the local paper (a habit only recently developed, Leena noted) while sipping lightly at her coffee; a thick, black, viscous substance Pete previously thought only cowboys could consume.

Leena was in the middle of crocheting a new doily for the kitchen counter when she realized it was an opportune time to try to open Myka up. Glancing over, she examined Myka's aura. Swirling, upset, dark, then suddenly light; yes, the agent was still wrestling with something unresolved.

She lowered her project and blatantly looked over. "Whatever it is, it'll be alright, Myka. You have friends here."

Myka looked up from the paper, somewhat surprised. "Huh?"

Leena looked back, undeterred. "Whatever it is you're struggling with. You have friends here. No matter what you decide, it'll be alright."

Myka looked down, the fraying ends of her sweater suddenly becoming very interesting. She was tempted to say, I don't know what you're talking about, but stopped. She knew better than to lie to Leena, but didn't want her silence to be misinterpreted. She compromised with, "I don't think that's entirely true."

Leena nodded; she couldn't see the future. She couldn't even completely understand the things she read in people's auras, but that didn't prevent her from trying. "That may be so. But the people here care for you, Myka. Even if you do make the wrong decision, how we feel about you won't just disappear."

She couldn't meet Leena's eyes. "How I'm feeling is just so wrong."

The young woman across the table paused, mulling this newest comment over. Finally, she leaned in, placing her hand gently over Myka's. The agent looked up guiltily. "If it is felt honestly, plainly, instantly; without spite, without hatred, without an outside influence asserting its will over your own, it can never be wrong." Leena looked in Myka's eyes and aura, searching for any clue that would help her friend decode herself. "Life circumstance can only influence how you interpret your emotions, not the authenticity of the emotions themselves."

Myka looked down again and bit her lip. "But Leena," she said, nearing tears, "that's what I'm afraid of." She frowned, pulling her legs close to her body and clenching her cup of coffee. "I can't act on how I feel because I'll be throwing away everything I know and betraying everyone I love… and that's wrong."

"If you don't act on how feel, you're betraying yourself, Myka. That, more than anything, is wrong."

At that, the tears started silently rolling down Myka's cheeks. The brunette bit her lip and looked away, pulling her hand out from under Leena's to hold her coffee cup closer to her chest.

"This isn't some sort ultimatum, Myka – nothing is simply either wrong or right. Maybe there will come a time where you can face how you're feeling without having to worry about the rest of the warehouse gang. Maybe how you feel will just fade away," Leena continued, gesticulating with her hands, "or maybe it won't. Maybe it will become undeniable." Leena leaned back, picking up her crocheted doily again. "But ignoring how you feel hasn't been good for you." Myka opened her mouth to protest, and was silenced by a stern but gentle look. Leena continued crocheting. "Just don't be so hard on yourself. The solution will come."

"The solution will come."

I know, not so much action this chapter. I promise there will be more action/ interaction next chapter. I just didn't feel comfortable moving on without allowing the character to mull over things.

Critique appreciated. I always want to hear what readers have to say about character portrayal, or where they hope the story will go. I do this as much for your enjoyment as I do it for mine! Cheers,

kl