Myka wasn't even sure what had just happened.
All she knew was that the expression on the face of the woman before her—the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen, not just in looks or personality or charisma, but sure, those too, Myka had no problem conceding, albeit a tad deliriously now—a frightening combination of alarm and uncertainty and a burst of anger and something that looked dangerously like disbelief, was, even if she closed her eyes right this moment, forever burned into her mind, shelved in her mental library of perfect recall, and that even if she did live through this moment, which was blind optimism at best, that expression would always be there. The most fearful face on the most fearsome person she'd ever known and actually thoroughly liked being in general proximity of, and it was now a memory that belonged to her forever.
It was worse than Helena's clearly defined rage against the universe. It was worse than every expression she partially obscured with every gun she'd ever pointed at Myka while begging her to change the rules. It was worse than the tears that had involuntarily spilled after the too-brief spell of sheer delight in seeing Christina again, only to have the memory cruelly yanked away. It was worse than the wistfulness that had flickered across her face after their last hug, an expression Helena had swiftly replaced with something nearing anticipation, which Myka drove away from with something akin to remorse in her gut, leaving Helena on a driveway in the middle of suburbia. It was worse than all of these, because for the first time, Helena didn't know what to do, and it showed.
Helena looked helpless.
And for the first time in years, Myka panicked.
Part of her wished she could just die already. Because if whatever the hell had just happened was something the cosmos had intended for her to survive, there was no guarantee she'd pull through and emerge someone whole. Not anymore. Not with that image burned into her head.
She knew she'd survived a whole hell of a lot in the past year alone, her time as a warehouse agent notwithstanding, but this?
Helena pushed an errant strand of her own hair behind her ear and Myka only mostly noticed, blinking heavily against black spots in her vision, because of the scarlet that had flashed into her hazy view, redness which stuck to Helena's hair after her shaky hand resumed putting pressure on Myka's shoulder.
Myka wasn't entirely certain she still had a shoulder, and maybe by the end of all this, she wouldn't, but if the hazy pain was any indication, she knew now she certainly had more than a few things on her plate to worry about later. To think she'd been doing so well with her iron supplements this month…
Myka wondered two things as she debated closing her eyes against the sight of her own blood dashed against Helena's cheekbone: first, the extent to which Artie would convey his regret of letting her back in the field and how such regret would manifest (Myka decided here and now she would push for reorganizing the warehouse library's catalog if it all came down to field probation; besides, it wasn't like anyone else had ever been keen on crossing that particular task off the never-ending to-do list. Addendum, Myka thought while ignoring the cold that steadily filled her limbs, anyone besides Helena) and second, if she did survive this, how often this scene would haunt her. It felt so…silly, all of a sudden. Would she be like the dramatic heroes in the books she'd devoted her childhood to reading? Would she close her eyes at night or in an aisle of the warehouse during what she sincerely hoped was library reorganization, not inventory, and see the blood or Helena's face or maybe hear the scream, that utterly inhuman vocalization that had shocked Myka back into the present after hitting her head on the pavement?
God, she hoped not.
She wanted to laugh. In the game of roulette that was each warehouse agent's fate, would Crazy be her lucky number? Would she go black in the eyes over supper at the bed and breakfast if Pete happened to look at her with casual uncertainty over the fact that her shoulder was hurting again? Would she break down in tears every time she saw blood? Would her arm pain her for the rest of her life, chest tugging with scar tissue every time she drew her gun—if she would even be able to do that again, she thought miserably—a grim reminder that would immediately call to mind Helena's expression of utter helplessness?
The aroma of blood—her blood, the very thing she'd worked so hard to replenish in the past year—was thick in the air.
Myka shook her mental head—she'd already tried shaking her actual head as she lay there in the middle of the street, and the gaping maw of pain that had opened up in the muscle was all the encouragement she needed to promptly give up on that—and acknowledged she wasn't much of a crier. Not really. Myka felt another urge to laugh. It was like a painful tickle, something deep and perverse and excruciating as hell.
She really was going crazy.
If anything, Myka hoped to survive this just long enough to stick it to Helena, that of all the things that had ever happened to the two of them, it took a traumatic event and more blood loss than could be deemed strictly necessary in order for Helena to wind up on top of her.
Silver linings.
Myka watched as Helena, whose face was now distorted by increasingly-large black circles, started to speak. She wanted to stay awake, needed to, but—
She breathed hard, desperate to pull some air into her lungs, and immediately regretted doing so, grimacing as an agonizing pain ripped across her chest.
I didn't even get to say...
Myka groaned and closed her eyes.