Chapter Three: Husband
By the time March rolls in, we are at a disused NATO base in Mid-Wales, a place sufficiently secluded to keep Warehouse operations out of the public eye yet close enough to main lines and infrastructure.
Myka settled into a routine very quickly: up at half five in the morning, jog, shower. Then breakfast and catching up on news inside the Warehouse and out, then a first bout of objectives for the day from her office in our cottage. She makes her way to the substation mid-morning, often not to be seen until late afternoon, depending on what the day holds. Late afternoon is her time to catch up with the Mothership, as Claudia fondly analogised the Warehouse, and much of it is for her personal benefit as it is the substation's. Most evenings she will walk back into the cottage between six or seven in the evening; but on half of them, she will go back into her office for conference calls with partners west of the Atlantic, lasting well into the night.
My routine is less intense, and – in fact – less of a routine altogether. I was officially instated as a Warehouse Adjunct in January, a position created especially for me, which endows me with the responsibilities of structuring and maintaining the substation under Myka's purview and watchful eye. Nothing more. I was allowed to, and even encouraged, to keep my practice. So on occasion I leave the peaceful nothingness that surrounds our residence in the wild valleys of Wales and live the high city life for a few days at the time, distracting myself with the normality of business life.
Over the past few weeks, however, I work almost exclusively with Myka, the Warehouse and the substation. Some of my days are busier than others. A few weeks ago, when we were testing the data and power grids of the substation and gateway, I worked solidly for 5 days without sleeping, coordinating exhaustive complex simulations with Claudia and the Eurika team in South Dakota and a handful of MI5 engineers here. Our tests pushed the systems to their absolute limit and were lauded a huge success.
On other days - today, for example - there is no sense of urgency about my work, no real pressure. So, I allow myself the luxury of waking up when daylight is a firmly established fact, stroll leisurely into the kitchen and brew Myka and myself proper coffee and proper tea: a white Americano (minus the extra shot – this isn't her first coffee of the day and she needs to mind her caffeine consumption) and a traditional, loose-leaf, white-no-sugar. I collect the two steamy mugs and make my way to her office.
I knock gingerly on the doorframe. Myka mutters from her desk.
"Good morning, darling," I usher myself in, place the coffee on her desk. There are two freshly emptied mugs on it already.
"Hey," she hums, on autopilot, not registering my presence fully.
"Busy day?" I place a kiss at the top of her head.
"Hmmmmph," she hums again, still on autopilot. She is typing and retyping furiously, flicking between several reports on the three screens and two computers she is in front of.
I watch her as she summarises complex information concisely in seconds. "This is truly an admirable talent you have," I muse aloud and lay my hand on her shoulder. I'm a fast reader, but Myka has transcended speed reading to an art form of analysis and synthesis. I stand over her for another minute then rub her shoulder lightly before turning to head out of her office.
My touch shifts her consciousness from her work to the room.
"Hey, wait," she reaches her hand backwards, towards me, her other hand finishes typing with a vengeance. "Come back."
I grab hold of her hand and she pulls me towards her, turning away from her desk, wrapping both her arms around my waist. "Good morning," she lingers against me.
"I wouldn't want to be a distraction, you know," I place my tea on her desk.
"This isn't a distraction," her response is a soft murmur.
I cradle her face in my palms and pull it up towards me, she is sporting a pair sleepy eyes and a contented smile. "Really?" I raise an eyebrow.
She hums her agreement. "This," she pushes her chair back a bit and pulls me into her lap "is a methodical break."
A light chuckle escapes my lips as I land on her.
"How busy is your day?" her question indicates she wasn't entirely engulfed by her work a few moments ago.
I place an arm around her shoulder, to busy my fingers with the warmth at the back of her neck. "Not as busy as yours," I know she knows my day's agenda better than I do.
"Yeah," she exhales. "Big week, right?"
I nod and look at her screens. "Are these the applications for the experiment?"
"Yes. There was a last minute request for some extra figures and another risk assessment," she rolls her eyes.
I scan her additions to the already draconian document and sigh. Bureaucracy seems to have become the bane of her existence. This is complicated in the nonsensical way, even for me. "Is it about done?"
"Nearly," her sleepy eyes glint with a hidden smile and she tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear, exposing my neck and jawline. She then leans in for light kisses, travelling from my clavicle up towards my ear.
I release a soft sigh, relenting to her touch initially, but then pulling away. On one hand, I do not want this to stop; on the other, this will extend far beyond Myka's idea of a methodical break. I know full well that she does not wish to start today – of all days – behind schedule, not matter how relaxed or radiant she may feel afterwards. She tightens her hold on me, her lips firming around my earlobe. I swallow the wanton gasp bubbling through me. There is a way to dampen the spirits, and as reluctant as I am to use it… "Isn't Pete landing about now?"
She ceases her caress and exhales, admitting defeat. "You're evil," she growls.
I place a gentle kiss on her lips. "Tonight," I promise.
/ /
Helena leaves me in my office slightly light headed to finish up this morning's orders. I reverted to a military style if management because there is too much to do, not enough time and far too many parts. Plus, actual army folks are involved, and they seem to work better when you speak their language.
I spend a few more minutes tidying up the risk assessment that will – hopefully – allow us to open the gateway to the Warehouse for the first time. No simulations, no scenarios. The real deal. Come to think of it, this will be the first time a substation will have opened a gateway to the Warehouse. I can't help but smile and feel a little bit proud at this thought. And then – with three clicks – it's submitted to the committee of Generals and elected officials that will sign it off.
I breathe out to mark the completion of this milestone and think about what's about to happen. I'm terrified and excited and stressed and exhilarated because this is what we have been working towards over the past three years. This is what I have been working towards over the past three years.
Not that I need the added pressure, really, but this feels like a defining moment. For me, for Helena, for the team, for the Warehouse: for everyone and everything I've come to know and love over the past, holy crap, nearly twenty years.
I take a minute to appreciate everything that led to this.
I feel a sharp twitch in my left palm and it seizes, a reminder of an old injury. I push my thumb into my curled, stiff fist and rub my clenched palm harshly, adding pressure from my fingers to the back of my hand. This is a humbling reminder of how fragile everything is, in this life I've come to know and love.
It takes me a few moments to work the knots out from my hand and I spend another minute stretching my palm out and back, exercising it, tensing and releasing in preparation for the next few days, like it's a proxy to the whole of me.
I head upstairs to change into something that will suit today's challenges: while we wait for the thumbs up from the British and European authorities, we have final checks and tests, final tightening of ropes and cables – literal and figurative. This means running and crawling and reaching. With and without tools. Today's attire is cargos and a synthetic running long-sleeve.
On my way out the cottage, I notice Helena curled on the sofa, reading. I rush over to her, bend over the back of the sofa, pressing a kiss on her cheek and leaning my chin on her shoulder.
"Hello there," she coos, not lifting her eyes from her tablet, reaching for her tea.
"I just wanted to wish you a wonderful day," I say.
"You'll see me soon enough," she rubs her cheek against mine and sips her tea.
"I also wanted to say thank you," I don't mean for it to, but it comes as a whisper.
She swallows a mouthful of tea a bit too quickly, my comment taking her by surprise. "Whatever for, darling?"
"For knowing me better than anyone else," it's a rich admission for a lightly made comment.
I can feel her cheek stretching with a smile against mine. "The pleasure is all mine."
I push myself up from her and head off to the substation – a quick and muddy, ten-minute drive from our cottage. The substation is inside an old NATO base, which means there is a secure perimeter around it. So unlike the Warehouse, we have a hydraulic gate and barbed wire fences hidden within hedges. And a minefield. There is even a minefield.
We had to amp security up considerably – mostly because there are far more people per square mile in Wales than there are in South Dakota, but also because we don't have the backing of the Secret Service. Or any agency, in fact. We are pretty much on our own out here, so we made sure that the substation is harder to find, harder to get in to and harder to get out of.
As I drive up the access road, the substation looks surreal. It's a bit like the Warehouse, but much smaller: it's carved into the side of a mountain, and rusted enough to blend into the rocks behind it. On the inside, there are five man-made halls and about twenty natural caves dotted around them. A perfect setting to house the technology for the gateway, and secure artefacts until they can be moved to the Warehouse.
I get past a number of secure doors and reach the Helm, our equivalent of Artie's Office. It's a lot more hi-tech and a lot less steampunk. Claudia certainly had a field day kitting us out. I'm greeted by the team of agents who were selected to join us – the first European Warehouse team in over a century.
I have three MI5 engineers, whom I know by first name and surname initial only: Marianne C, Jason D and Sue O. We call to each other by initials: Mac, Jade, So, Mob. They are – what I, as a foreigner, would describe as quintessentially British: they drink nothing but tea, are obsessed with their pets, have the driest, most ironic sense of humour and they do unthinkable things with their fries: cover them in vinegar or cheese or Chinese food or curry. Or – something I don't quite understand why, but is really delicious – have thick cut fries between two slices of buttered, white bread.
There are also the mainland folks, Karl and Martin, The Swiss and The Swede; and not forgetting Helena. Seven of us, in total, in rather closed quarters, in the middle of nowhere. Much like Pete and I had to get used to each other pretty quickly, these guys did a great job at becoming a great team very fast.
I have to hand it to Mrs. Frederic, she sure knows how to pick 'em.
We prep for the morning staff meeting and pull readings from sensors, double checking all the protocols for overnight activity and security. Helena arrives in time for the start of the meeting and we plot the day and the week out. I get an email halfway through with an initial confirmation for the gateway experiment to go ahead in 48 hours. We are expecting final confirmation to arrive later today.
The team is excited and noticeably nervous. I snap out of my newly found military precision mode to have a more personable conversation with them. We go through concerns, issues, even fears. They each say something, even Karl. Even Helena. Even me.
We write them on the whiteboards and agree to check in on them every six to eight hours. I suppose I can't snap out of military precision mode so easily – it's just so comforting…
Jade hands us each a three-paged a check list for the final diagnostic and we set off to go through them. I've barely started on mine when my Farnsworth blares. It's Pete. I check my watch – he should be close by.
"Hey!" I greet him. I realise now how excited I am to know I'm about to see him in a few minutes.
"Hey," he says, holding is Farnsworth while looking around. "I don't know where I am anymore," he says. "There is no cell reception. My car's navigation is not working because it's too friggin' cloudy, and I don't think the signs are in English."
"Welcome to Wales," I say.
"Some welcome," he says, now looking at the screen. I smile at him. I missed him. "I followed your instructions, but I wound up on this tiny road I wasn't sure I should be on, so I went back to this…" he goes silent for a minute. "What is it? Village? Settlement?... This tiny place with an inn and a church and roads with no names, and too many numbers."
"What's the inn called?"
"The Lan-Wide-Inn-Ee-Coh-Ed Inn?" he struggles to pronounce the Welsh name.
"Yup. I know the place. Wait for me, I'll come and get you. Give me ten," I close the Farnsworth and sit at the main console at the Helm. "Track team," I say.
A small window lights up on the screen, tracking the signals of all six team members on a blueprint of the substation. So and Jade are closest. "Page So. Page Jade," two windows open, showing me a live cast from a protective helmet fitted with two cameras, a bunch of sensors and mics, all broadcasting on Farnsworth frequencies. One of Claudia's developments, of course, which she dubbed HeadGear (she thought it would be funny if everyone had their own, personal HG).
"Mob, this is So," she acknowledges my virtual presence.
"Mob, this is Jade," he picks up a second later.
"Pete got lost and I need to pick him up from the village. I'm leaving my checklist at the Helm, in case either of you fancies getting a head start for me," I say.
"Slacker," Jade says.
"Do you want to go get him?" I give him an alternative and a crooked smile.
"Nope," he is quick to respond. "I prefer the company of wires. I also think he will be devastated if it weren't you who picks him up."
I chuckle. They got to know us so well so quickly.
"No worries, boss, we've got you," So signs the conversation off, and I go to get Pete.
Part of adjusting to this new reality was not seeing the South Dakota team so often. We catch up every day (and more than once a day), but having spent over 15 years with them, through thick and thin, in very close proximity, and even closer with Pete – not having them physically around is hard. It was a relief to begin with, but then it got hard.
My relationship with Pete has and its ups and downs, given the amount of baggage he and I share. We got together after the Paracelsus ordeal, but it took us about eight months to find ourselves settling into a cushy, predictable life as a couple, the kind of life we would expect to have when we are seventy (if we are lucky to reach seventy). It was very comfortable and very vanilla.
It took us just under another year to agree that this isn't what we wanted, and another few months to declare our romantic involvement as a worthwhile experiment that reached its end. Sometimes I wonder how come we have an amazing partnership and friendship, but when we threw in romance and sex, we became the dullest couple.
I still love him and probably always will. I think he loves me too. This causes a few awkward moments every once in a while, the most awkward were around the time of my incident, but we work through them as they come up. I work hard when they come up because he means so much to me. He can influence me more than anyone, even more than Helena does. I really missed him over the past six months.
I reach Llanwddyn-y-Coed, the closest village to the substation. The Inn, which is also the local pub and the only place you could get a drink, a meal or a bed within the 30 mile radius, is on the junction between two minor A roads, the streets with no names and too many numbers, as Pete so aptly described.
Pete's SUV, a shiny rental made for suburban soccer moms, sticks out like a sore thumb. Mine, on the other hand, a rugged old Land Rover with more mud on it than metal, fits right in. He is standing by the car, in a suit, holding his phone up, trying to get a signal.
He obviously doesn't clock me, in my rusty car and mountaineering outfit. I look more like a farmer than I do a member of a secret non-government organisation.
I sneak up behind him. "Don't bother," I say when I'm close enough to give him a scare.
He jumps, clutches his phone to his chest and turns around. "Mykes! Don't do that," he wraps me in a hug.
I laugh and hug him tightly back.
He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me backwards he can take a good look at me, head to toe. "Lookin' good, Missus. Country life suits you better than an Italian suit."
"It's not been that long," I say and play-punch his arm.
"Funny how I didn't miss that so much," he says.
I hug him again. "It's so great to have you here," I say. "Come on," I grab his arm and pull him towards my car.
"Wait, what about mine?" he gestures towards his shiny, black beast.
"Trust me, it's better off staying here." I say, and hold my passenger door open for him.
He runs to his car, takes out his travel bag and runs back towards me. He motions towards my Rover "Is this a budget thing? Because I'm sure we can afford something nicer for you to roll around in, you know…"
I laugh. "Just you wait."
We stop at the cottage to get him changed before we head to the substation. He is more than impressed with the work Claudia and Helena had done with fitting the Helm and the substation.
I take him through our gadgets and he cannot help but be his Pete-self, getting excited, touching every single thing within his reach. At the end of the tour I hand him an HG, and ask him to follow me. I page So as we walk, and we catch up with her.
"Boss," she says when she notices us.
"So, this is Pete; Pete – So." I introduce them.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, sir," she shakes his hand.
"Sir…" he gives me a sideways glance. "My pleasure," he puts on a charm offensive.
She hands me my checklist and I take Pete with me on the day's duties.
When we are sufficiently far from her, he asks, very very quietly, "I thought her name was Sue, not So. Is that also a Welsh thing?"
I smile. "No, that's a team thing. We call each other by our initials. She's Sue O. So."
He mock gasps, "Do they know your secret?!"
"If by 'secret' you mean my middle name, then, yes, they do."
"Cool," he nods. "Mob," he ponders this further, "Mob and Boss." He says it a few times, enjoying the ring of it. "That's a whole other calling, Mykes."
I roll my eyes. "You'll probably wind up Peel or something," I think out loud. "It's just a callsign."
We walk into the hall that houses the computing mainframe, and start working through the checklist. Pete is coming up with alternative callsigns for himself, then moves on to make some up for the rest of the team. He postulates Steve as "Siege", and Claudia as "Seed". Artie is "Anne", which starts a whole set of one liners.
"What's HG's callsign?" his question drips with innuendo.
"Helena."
"That's not a callsign, that's her name," he's obviously disappointed.
"Pete…" I'm beginning to lose my temper.
"Okay, okay..." he lets off.
For the rest of the day we make a bit of small talk, but mostly I show him around the mainframe, explain how things work, where things have gone wrong in simulations, things to pay attention to.
He finally loses his ability to concentrate at 4pm. I send him back to the Helm to check in with the Karl, who is prepping evening handover. I get paged to the Helm at 6:30 for a team meeting. Pete has already made himself at home with the team. I check emails once I'm there and find that the application has been approved and we are cleared to open the gateway for the first time in 45 hours and 22 minutes.
Martin brings out a bottle of a locally brewed cider (the only thing they would let him walk out of the pub with while it is still capped) that we share between us. It's a good thing it's only one bottle, because – even for the experienced cider drinkers among us – this is strong stuff.
We run through the list of worries from the morning, make amendments, pool results from the checklists, and hand the nightshift over to Mac and Martin.
When Pete, Helena and I walk out we realise it has been raining most of the afternoon and the access road has become a crosshatch of muddy streams. The three of us head back to the cottage in my Rover which proves – once more – its worth as a proper utility vehicle.
Pete is happily sharing his impressions of the team from the back, but pipes down once the terrain gets so uneven, his head hits the roof of the car as I traverse a pothole or two. I may have also done that on purpose to shut him up.
Helena is quiet, sitting next to me. We exchange a quick glance, I grin crookedly at her, her smile back is aloof. This confirms the nature of the silence: she has a promise to keep tonight.
She opens up a bit when we get home, engages Pete to help out with dinner. I go to make his bed in the guest room downstairs. At dinner we catch up on gossip, and Pete goes to bed early – still refusing to sleep on planes.
I start clearing the dishes from the table, stacking them on the counter. Helena steps up behind me, her body flush against mine.
"Stop," she orders, her voice is a light whisper, and she pushes her hands into the front pockets of my cargos. Her palms are outstretched inside them, she is running her hands up and down my thighs.
My lips fall open with a quiet moan that quickly turns into a harsh breath as she rakes her nails on the way up, through the fabric. I gasp her name.
"Quiet," she whispers into my ear just before kissing it, then running her tongue along its shell.
I am struggling to keep quiet between what her hands and lips are doing. Her left hand stays in my pocket, alternating smooth touches and slight scrapes while her right creeps up. I try to turn my head, to kiss her or return a touch, but she holds her right hand against my lower abdomen, keeping my body right where it is. She pushes herself harder against me, her front to my back. She uses her hand on my core as leverage, and as she presses it, my lungs empty of air.
"Keep still."
When she releases me, I breathe in an urgent but silent breath, and she uses that second to unfasten my button and zipper, her fingers lingering at the top of my underwear, threatening an imminent descent.
She brushes the tips of her fingers lightly under the hem of my shirt while her lips trail silent and idle kisses up and down my neck, between my shoulder and my ear, her left hand grazing the inside of my thigh – as far as the pocket would allow.
Then her right hand pushes downwards until she cups me lightly over my underwear, without urgency, without pressure. Just holds. Her left hand's touch turns softer as well. She starts a slow and gentle, almost ghosting rhythm against me, her hand in my pants and her core against my backside.
Slowly but surely her touch hardens, her breath against my ear turns harsher, her pelvis grinding harder into me.
I want to whisper her name, I want to ask her not to stop, but I don't. I obey.
She doesn't need to be asked to not stop. She reaches a speed – neither fast nor slow – and keeps it, never faltering, not missing a beat.
I can feel her trembling behind me and against my neck and I shudder, against her, with her – quietly, as I was ordered.
We stand still for another minute, catching our breath and I turn around to face her, reaching for her lips with mine for a slow kiss. My fingers tug at the belt loops of her work pants. "You promised," I whisper against her.
"I promised," she echoes.
I take her to our bedroom, upstairs, for a night that has very little sleep but leaves us both rested and content.
When my alarm goes off in the morning, she decides to join me on my run. I take her to on a short three mile loop that takes us to past the village, to an old mill by the river. It's a beautiful time of year out here and reminds me of Colorado – nature waking up into spring. The leaves are starting to grow on the trees, flowers beginning to bloom. Daffodils popping up everywhere, crocuses already out in force.
"How are you liking it so far?" she asks as we walk back towards the cottage, cooling down.
"Liking what?" I try to clarify. "There are plenty of 'it's to consider," I say.
"Okay," she answers, her tone suggesting we're playing a game, and she'll play along. "How are you liking Wales?"
I am giving the part of Wales we live in thorough consideration. "You couldn't possibly tell that it is less densely populated than South Dakota; not where we are, anyway," I muse, "and it's much greener. There's also the added bonus of a new language." I've reached a conclusion: "Yeah, I'd say I like it."
"And your new position?"
I angle a look at her and sigh, only she will ask me questions I'm not comfortable answering, but need to be honest about. "It's very demanding. I am enjoying it, but it's so intense," I sigh again. "And it's not sustainable. I'll be able to keep this pace up for another six…" I weigh it, "eight months, tops."
"How are you liking the cottage?"
I smile. I love our cottage. "It's a welcome change to Univille and Featherhead," I'm referring to our living arrangement in the US: my apartment and Helena's house. Neither were as comfortable as the cottage. Helena and I always kept our own places – either I was travelling, or she was, or we were travelling together. When we were stateside, I had to stay close to the Warehouse and work long hours there; she needed her own space. All those practicalities were topped off by the fact that we never knew when she (or I) will be moved on to another assignment. So now, that we actually occupy the same household… "It's very domestic," I say. I don't mean it to be good or bad. It just is. "How are you liking it?" I check back with her.
She is quiet for a moment, thinking in, like she does, and then chuckles lightly. "Our grandfather had a summer house in the Peaks, a lovely little stone cottage," she recalls with a gentle smile. "Damp in summer, freezing in winter. It felt sturdy. As a child I believed it had grown out of the rock it was built on and nothing could tear it down. It always inspired such a sense of calm in me. I have such happy memories from there," she falls silent again, contemplating. "Our cottage feels the same," she says, quietly, hushed.
I don't know why, but I blush and smile back at her. "And what about work?"
"Who wants to know?" she checks.
"What do you mean?"
"Who is asking: is it Substation Head of Operations Bering, or Myka?"
It's been a long time since Helena separated the professional me from the personal me. Not since when she first came back, which was just as Pete and I were making sense of how to not be together anymore. Part of my way to deal with the break up was to have a clear and well defined line between who I was at work and who I was outside it.
She landed into a time when everything was difficult for pretty much everyone. Both Pete and I were heartbroken. I don't ever remember Pete being as quiet as he had been over those few months. And while we were trying really hard to find a way to be around each other without it being awkward, everyone else was also learning how to not be awkward around us.
It's so ironic that the less awkward we try to be, the more awkward we become, exponentially.
In the middle of all this, Mrs. Frederic debriefed us about the situation with Helena and I volunteered. Everyone made the assumption that bones will be jumped instantaneously. But no bones were jumped. In fact, it took Helena and I almost a year to get involved. Not for lack of want or lust, but for lack of coordination. She and I had to learn how to be around each other, trust each other.
During that first year with Helena, having that clear, well defined line between the professional me and the personal me was most difficult because of the nature of my relationship with her. Agent Bering was her body guard, round-the-clock presence. Agent Bering was spending a lot of time with her, talking to her, being with her, keeping her safe. Myka loved her for who she was, darkness and all, and all Myka wanted to do was spend time with her and talk to her and be with her.
I felt I had to work extra hard to keep the personal me from her, because I didn't want to have another messy relationship. Because I couldn't deal with another heartbreak. But as we got used to being around each other, as we trusted each other more and more, as we established a life for her away from the Warehouse, it became easier to balance the personal and professional.
But now Helena works with me, at the Warehouse. The vast majority of the time she and I spend together these days is about being a great professional team. Love has no official room in this dynamic. It's always there. It underlines everything we do because it's the reason we work together so well. But it's not explicitly expressed at work. Never at work, but pretty much anywhere else.
"It's Myka," I answer her question.
"Work is interesting. It's involving and intense," she gestures towards me, having picked the same word. "I have a great team of people with whom I work, the technical challenges are immense and truly mind boggling at times. It is hugely exciting."
"I sense a but," I say as we reach the front door.
"I sometimes worry that the uniqueness of the challenge is unparalleled," she says. "Right now, I cannot think what could ever be more exciting than what will happen in thirty three hours and," she grabs my arm to look at my watch "forty minutes."
I chuckle. "Neither can I, except my excitement is matched with sheer terror."
She leans into me for a tentative hug and stays there for a moment. "I tell you what else I like about my job," she pulls away and a devilish grin creeps up her cheeks.
"What?" I indulge her.
"My boss has a gorgeous ass," she pinches my backside and walks in.
I knew this was coming and yet, it still surprises me.
We walk into the kitchen and tag-team making breakfast. We do this in busy mornings. We have been doing it for a really long time, actually. We have a pace for making pancakes together while we take turns taking showers and getting dressed. I know this is idiotic and girly to be excited about having an efficient morning routine, but this is beyond good orchestration, this is a thing of beauty.
By the time Pete strolls in, we are work-ready and breakfast is served. Helena puts her special in front of him. She calls it "The Pete Special" (even though he never tried it), because she is convinced it's a dish made just for him. I told her it misses bacon to pass his scrutiny. We finally get to put our theories to the test.
He eyes his stack of pancakes suspiciously, it looks a bit unorthodox for what he'd expect. In between layers of pancake are mushy fillings of odd colours – mostly shades of brown. He scrunches his nose at it. "I would never turn down a pancake, and Myka always says your pancakes are legendary, HG, which I don't think she meant as a euphemism, but I am not sure about all the brown."
"Try it," she eggs him on. He slices into the top three layers and balances the small wedge on his fork. He touches the tip of his tongue to it, like a fussy child. "Oh, come on," Helena says dismissively. He looks her square in the eye as he takes the forkful in.
"If something happens to me—" he starts with his mouth full, "Oh my god, Helena," he finishes chewing and swallows. "This is amazing," he takes another bite. "What is it? PB&J?"
"And B and C," I say. "With Maple of top".
"Banana and chocolate? This is genius," he acknowledges with his mouth full.
Helena darts a victorious look towards me. I smile back at her, a small, satisfied smile.
"You know what would make it perfect?" he says, shovelling another slice in.
I raise an eyebrow at her, then look at him "What, Pete?"
"Bacon," He says and I smile broadly at Helena.
"Smug never looked good on you, darling," she says.
Pete finishes his breakfast utterly unaware of my epic win, and we head off for another gruelling day of systems diagnosis and a few final simulations. By the time we finish everything that needs doing before the E Day, as Jade calls it, it's nearly midnight.
Then there is a set of calls with the Mothership and the Pentagon and Langley and when we finally leave the substation it is zero one thirty of E Day, and the E is due to happen in 14 hours and thirty minutes, give or take.
I'm wired and nervous, my brain can't stop running through all the things that we'd already done, all the things that still need doing. Helena takes the keys to the Rover from my pocket and settles behind the wheel. As we approach the main gate, we notice a small crate marked "WH13" on the outside of the gate. It's relatively small, about the same size of a fruit crate.
Helena slams the breaks.
"I've got a weird feeling about this," Pete says and climbs out of the car.
"Get your ass back into the car, Lattimer!" I yell after him and reach for my Farnsworth. He makes a slow approach to the crate, Tesla and flashlight drawn.
Helena has her phone out and is paging So and Karl. "Code 21, I repeat, code 21. Unidentified immobile object."
I get Artie on the Farnsworth. "There is a box out here, it looks like a Warehouse box," I open the car door and jump out, "Pete, get back here right now!" I yell at him again, "It's about two by two by one feet, wooden," I describe it to Artie.
"The crate is marked with the Regent's sigil," he yells.
I pass that on to Artie and look to where Pete is. He is nearly twenty feet away from crate, moving slowly towards it. I am twenty feet behind him, Helena is still in the car another twenty feet behind me. I hear the whirring of the substation's jeep approaching behind us. "Pete, stop. Now. We have protocols for this."
"It's glowing on the inside," he shouts back to me and takes another step forward.
At that exact same moment Artie informs me "There has been a breach, nobody move or touch anything," and I feel a sudden and almighty gust of air lashing across me a like a whip, like an explosion, but without fire. It rips through my stomach and I can feel myself being thrown up and backwards.
/ /
There is nothing but a high pitched sound and darkness.
The darkness fades out slowly and there are faint white dots moving around in a rather blurry field of vision.
I climb out of the Land Rover – it is turned over, leaning comfortably on the passenger side. I falter on my way down and collapse at the bottom of the vehicle.
Someone runs up to me. By features and size I reckon it's Mac. She is shouting. I can only hear her when she is inches away from me. "Helena, wait right there!" she prompts me up pats me down. "Thank heavens you're fine," she says.
"What happened?" I ask.
"There was an explosion of sorts," she says.
The last two minutes of my consciousness snap back into my recollection. I become hyper alert. "Myka? Pete?"
"Pete has been air lifted, Myka is over there," she points towards the gate, blown open, two ambulances parked outside it.
"Anyone else?" I ask.
"So has a bruised arm on account of debris. Karl's hair is messed up it may take him an hour to put it right again," she is smiling.
Mac's a good egg. I smile back.
She helps me gain my balance and we rush to the ambulance Myka is at. She is conscious, covered in blood, strapped to a stretcher that is being hauled onto the ambulance. She is protesting: "I am fine! See? It's not mine. Let me..." she tugs at the cannula under her nose.
The paramedic is having none of it, placing the plastic tubing where it ought to be. "Your friend said you were hurled across the length of a rugby pitch, love, like you were converting a try. You are not fine until we say you are."
I squeeze Mac's arm and push myself towards the ambulance's doors. "Let the poor man do his job, Myka," I climb up and look at the paramedic. "I'll take care of her, you drive."
She looks at me, rests her head back on the stretcher and I reach to pick debris from her hair. The engine of the ambulance rumbles, we lurch forward and she closes her eyes.
I hear a dull thud and a faint cracking sound from the next aisle over. I cannot make myself run any faster than I already am, rushing towards the end of the stack to back up the other side of it.
I know they would be there, I know they would both be there, but I can't calculate who had hurt whom. From a distance, in the dim light of the Warehouse, while galloping forward, I can see her on the floor, on her back, no one else around.
Of all the things that could be running through me now, I feel anger and pain. They are rising within me like a raging tide, pulsing through my veins like amphetamine, tensing my muscles, sharpening my vision, tunnelling my intentions – until all I can see is what is directly in front of me and absolutely nothing else.
I recognise this feeling all too well. Its rush, its exhilaration, its single-mindedness. Its danger.
I reach her and I look her over from head to toe. Her breathing is shallow. Her eyes torn open. A drop of blood draws a red trail from her nose down her cheek.
"Myka.." I pant as I fall to my knees next to her.
Her eyes are darting quickly, unfocused, her pupils uneven. She exerts herself to try and say something, but all I hear are shallow exhales. I cast a glance down her body, for signs of injuries. Her left hand is trembling, clenched tightly on her hip, her right hand is limp, her tesla barely in her grip. There are no obvious signs of external trauma.
I change my angle above her so I mirror her position and reach for her head, and then I feel it – a pronounced depression in her skull above her right ear. I gasp at the feel of her, deformed, cracked; my fingers pull away of their own volition, shocked. They twitch. There is something on them - warm, slick. I turn my hand over - it's blood. Her blood.
"Hold on," I try to say, all that comes out is a muted whisper.
I look up and around, ears and eyes perked for signs of someone coming to her rescue. I have no time to wait, so I pat her down, rummage through her pockets to find her Farnsworth. I crack it open and hail on all frequencies.
The screen switches on, there is a blurry image of what looks like stacks flashing by.
"Where are you?" I hear Steve's voice from the speaker.
"Sedona South Nineteen," I say, my voice cracking.
"Sedona South Nineteen," he repeats and the screen goes blank.
There is a crate behind me which can be fashioned into a stretcher fairly easily, so I take it apart with my bare hands. I bend the planks of soft pine on top of and under one another until a frame is formed. I then push shorter planks into it, creating a supportive surface.
The only thing holding this structure together is pressure and pressure alone. It must feel a lot like I feel right now – its insides pressing its frame so hard it could explode and fall to all the pieces it is made of; and no one will be able to put it together in the exact same way again.
This thought burns through me like a bullet and I clench my teeth tightly to swallow any sounds that will give away the pain.
A hand is placed on my back, between my shoulders and shakes me into reality, it owner out of breath, but not out of his senses.
"Stretcher, good thinking," Steve speaks in short, sharp bursts, what his breath allows him.
"Head injury," I say, coldly.
He leans over her to check her and I feel my eyes welling up. I raise my hand to wipe the dampness at my cheeks, and feel a harsh scratch. I look at my hands and they are cut in several places, splinters of wood stuck in them, soaking up my blood. There is no sensation, though. I cannot feel my hands.
He takes his jacket and shirt off, remaining in a light, short sleeved tee. He says something to me, I can tell by his lips' movement, but I don't hear it. I don't understand.
"Helena," he repeats, his voice sounds like it is echoing from the bottom of a ravine, coming out long seconds after his lips move. "I need your jacket, and your shirt if you can, uhm, spare it."
I oblige, but my body remains stiff with the pain and the anger.
"I need your help," he points to the other side of Myka to where he is.
Sound and vision have caught up to each other and I am snapped back into single-mindedness. "Support her head. Her neck mustn't move," I instruct.
"On my count," his eyes find mine. "One, two…" We pull her up onto the stretcher on three, and secure her head with my jacket and Steve's shirt.
He throws his jacket over her, tucking the sleeves under her arms, securing her to the makeshift frame. He takes position at her head and looks at me again. "Ready?"
I nod firmly. "On three," I say and we nod to each other once, twice and on the third we stand up and make haste towards the security post, four aisles over.
The next few hours are a blur of sight and sound, until Kevin, Steve's partner, shoves a can of an abomination of a soft drink into my hands and forces me to drink it.
"This is truly vile," I say with utter disdain, the whole of my being is shaken with disgust at this chemical concoction that I cannot believe is mass marketed to living things, let alone children.
"And we're not leaving here until you down the whole thing," his voice is gentle and soft.
I do my best to do as I am told. As I tighten my grip around the can, I feel a sting of pain in my hands. I look down and notice my hands have been treated and are in bandages.
"Myka?" I whisper.
"She's still in surgery," he answers and I realise we are at a hospital. I look around and they are all there: Claudia is sitting on the row of chairs perpendicular to the one Kevin and I are on, Steve is to her left and they are working - papers strewn on the table in front of them, computers set up. Arthur is standing away from us all, looking out the doors of the waiting room.
"Where's Pete?" I ask.
Kevin raises his eyebrows in what I could only interpret as surprise or disbelief. Claudia and Steve turn their heads towards us, I obviously spoke louder than I thought I had.
"Pete is downstairs in the ER, getting his arm cast," Claudia states.
I suddenly recall a fragment of a memory from before I caught up to a bludgeoned Myka. I remember thinking that theboth of them were there. Myka being one, Pete being the other.
My heart stops for a moment.
Pete.
I feel blood draining from my face and extremities, a cold sweat washes over me as an acute sensation of nausea takes hold. Kevin reaches for a bin and places it between my knees. I drop the can as I heave into the bin.
Claudia walks out of the room and comes back a minute later with a towel. She sits down in front of me just in time for me to regain enough stability to sit up straight.
"We don't blame ya, H.," she says and hands me to towel.
"It was Pete," I say, or ask, trying to fully fathom what had happened.
She nods, lips pressed sternly together. "We're sure something whammied him, because he was behaving very un-Pete-like for a couple of days now," she continues. "But we don't know what it was that whammied him, except we know it was inside the Warehouse," she pauses. "Which makes this a lot more fun, because who doesn't like searching for a needle in a ginormous warehouse of needles?"
I press the towel to my temple, it feels sore, and I wince. I look at Claudia, puzzled.
"Yup, you two duked it out," she narrates.
Kevin cracks another can of the abomination.
"No more, please," I say.
"I'll just get you a coke, then," he says, and gives my shoulder a small squeeze as he gets up.
Claudia takes his seat next to me.
"I cannot recall a damn thing," I whisper to her.
"We all clocked Pete was being baddie-of-the day around the same time, but you were closest to where he was," She says.
"I remember…" I mutter. "I remember until the security post."
"Ah," Claudia looks up. "We got Myka out of the Warehouse and into the chopper, and by the time the chopper was gone, you were too."
I look at her bemusedly. This is not helpful.
"The next thing that happens – All Farnsworths go off with Pete's signal, but it's you on the screen saying you found him."
I try to locate anything within me that will help them; us; me find the missing pieces. I find nothing.
"We rush over to where you tell us to find you, Pete is knocked out and his arm is in, erm... an unnatural position."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. "I am truly sorry," I say softly.
"You don't need to be, H. Like I've already said a bunch of times – absolutely no blame here. Any one of us would have done the same thing."
The waiting room doors open and Kevin walks in with Vanessa.
She confides with Arthur near the doors, they speak quietly and none of us can hear them. Kevin walks over with a can of Coca Cola, which I still find rather revolting, but is far better than the alleged energy drink he gave me earlier.
I sip it gently, now feeling an ache in my jaw.
Arthur turns and looks at me while talking to Vanessa, then turns back to her. On top of the pain and anger, a new emotion joins the concoction within me. It does not flood me like the other two did, it trickles, drips. I recognise it from a handful of times in my life. Remorse.
A few moments later Vanessa walks up to me and sits on the table, where Claudia was a few moments ago.
"How are you doing, Helena?" she asks.
"I reckon I had been better," I answer, and it is the most honest answer I have.
She smiles a gentle Doctor's smile. "Myka is still in surgery, and the doctors believe they can repair the damage."
I understand. I remind myself I need to give Vanessa indication to that fact so I nod.
"Because it is head trauma, we are not sure what state she'll be in when she wakes up."
Claudia bites her lip next to me and grabs my hand. I blink and nod.
"We will know more in a couple of days, when the swelling goes down." She is searching my eyes, and I nod again, rather stiffly.
"I want you to call me at any time if your situation changes," she says. "You look like you've been through the ringer yourself."
I wish I knew.
She starts to get up and I reach out to her.
"What about Pete?" I ask.
"Pete's humerus was fractured and both is ulna and radius were broken in two places." She answers.
I wince, my jaw radiates pain and wince again. Claudia joins me empathetically.
"It's a nasty injury, but the breaks were clean. He should heal soon enough."
Arthur joins us. "He is being moved to a secure Regent facility, until we find what did this to him and neutralise it," he says.
Oh, I know that facility well.
"I better get to it," Claudia says and gets back to Steve.
I want to help, I want to offer my help, but I can't seem to bring myself to say or do anything. As the reality of the situation catches up with me, I grow more tired, more aching, more stiff. I start to feel all the places I had sustained impact, as though I feel the bruises forming: my jaw, my left temple and brow, left shoulder, left arm, sternum, right thigh and shin.
"Can I do anything?" I say after a few minutes.
Steve and Claudia look at me, wearing pitiful expressions.
"Don't you want to rest?" Claudia asks. "You really don't look too well."
"I don't know…" my answer trails off. I try to lean my forehead in my right palm, but the bruises at my brow and temple remind me that this is not a favourable position at this moment. "For pity's sake," I spit out.
For a few hours Kevin is being the doting husband I will never have: feeding and watering me, distracting me with idle chitchat. At some point a doctor enters the room and repeats what Vanessa explained a few hours back. The only difference being, Myka is out of surgery and is in an intensive care unit in the floor above us.
For the following three days I do not sleep at all. Time I am not at Myka's bedside – reading books and newspapers to her, distracting her and myself with idle chitchat (inspired by Kevin) – I spend with Steve and Claudia, sifting through hours' worth of security footage and data from Warehouse systems, trying to locate what it was that affected Pete.
On the fourth day, Myka slurs some words towards me while I read to her (and commentate on) the works of Lord Byron. I can't make out what she says, but simply knowing she is awake makes the whole of me lighten, as if the weight of a hundred worlds has been lifted. I stay with her the whole day.
On the fifth day she recognises me, Claudia, Steve and Arthur. She asks after Pete, and Claudia has the wits about her to say he was fighting with the vending machine.
On the sixth day, Steve calibrates energy readings with minor disturbance data which provide the location of the artefact that affected Pete. A thorough search of the Greek section of the Warehouse reveals a misplaced object hidden in plain sight: what we had suspected to be a protective screen, was – in fact – a misplaced cape, believed to have been Apollo's, an inheritance from Warehouse two. An attempt to neutralise with traditional means results in Pete passing out for a few minutes, but not exhibiting lasting change thereafter.
Myka moves both her arms and manages to hold a pen in her right hand and doodle.
On the seventh day, we locate several Warehouse two records which contain information about the cape. They provides little insight into our research, which currently focuses on narrowing down the pools of legend referring to Apollo. We begin the backbreaking task of reviewing Greek Mythology with a fine toothcomb, along with volumes of Greek Art, attempting to identify the garment.
Claudia and Steve run out of cape jokes.
Myka's speech is improving, but it is still difficult to decipher. She begins intensive therapy on the muscles of her left hand.
On the eighth day we agree that the Greek Art review is pointless (because when a cape has absolutely no distinguishing marks, it looks much like any other cape, when carved in marble or etched on a vase), and continue reviewing myth.
Myka jots me a note during my morning visit to her: 'stop w/classics bring smut'. When I arrive for my evening visit bearing Fingersmith and Lady Chatterley's Lover she smiles and, by all the gods, she is so beautiful.
On the ninth day, upon realising we are clutching at straws, we start to seek themes in the piles of mythology we have been scouring. It is a laborious task that we all wish we had Myka for.
She, on the other hand, is busying herself with a gruelling therapy regime. Speech, upper and lower body, gentle motorics.
On the tenth day we have a few theories about the cape, given available documentation: attire cursed by war, attire cursed by music, attire cursed by unrequited love. The second phase of research begins: identifying techniques for neutralising the artefact. As traditional neutraliser did not work, we split our technique research into two groups: artefacts that share similar attributes of creation and artefacts that share similar affects.
Myka speaks. A laboured stammer, but she sounds so much more like herself than she had done over the past week. She asks me how I am doing and jokes about role reversal. "How do you like my darkness now?" I joke back, and she laughs, a little bit, appreciating the fact I made a pop culture reference. Possibly the first in my life.
On the eleventh day we narrow down five ways to neutralise the cape. By process of elimination, we come to the conclusion that the cape is cursed by unrequited love, after the fourth method bears fruit: crackle and fizz, and an immediate report that Pete lost consciousness in the Regent's cells.
Myka sits up, holds a book, a remote control, a short conversation. She takes three or four steps between a few moments' rest. She cannot sustain activity for too long, and not without discernible effort, but she is getting better. By all accounts, her recovery is staggeringly fast.
On the twelfth day Pete wakes up from his artefact-withdrawal-induced-coma with what he calls "the worst emotional hangover ever".
The doctors clear Myka to leave the hospital, so long as she remains close by and attends physiotherapy daily.
On the thirteenth day the Regents agree to release Pete to the custody of the Warehouse. Seeing as Myka is due to be released as well, the team and I agree that Myka will stay at my house in Featherhead and Pete will stay at the bed & breakfast.
Claudia drives Myka and me to my house and we settle her in my bedroom. While she rests after the upheaval, I walk in to collect beddings for the guest room and the sofa, for Claudia and myself, respectively.
"What are you up to?" she asks, and if I didn't know any better, she could just be waking up from an afternoon nap on a day off, sleepily calling to me from my bed.
"Plotting to make Claudia comfortable in the guest bedroom."
She exhales a light laugh. "I want to ask you something when you're done".
I come back after making the bed for Claudia, who has already made herself comfortable with my wired network and smart TV. "What can I do you for?" I walk in and sit atop the chest at the foot of the bed.
"I remember—," she starts. "Is Pete—," and pauses, "Did you ki—" she can't bring herself to finish.
"No, I did not," I answer.
Her face lights up with relief and she looks up, as if to thank a deity. She pats the bed next to her gently, beaconing me towards her with a slight nudge.
I walk up to the side of the bed and sit down on its very edge, trying not to disturb it or her.
"Closer," she whispers, and I lean gently onto my elbow and stretch towards her, our faces now a mere few inches apart. She raises her left hand, still stiff and a bit coarse, and presses it to my cheek. We exchange an intense gaze that speaks volumes of relief and pride, happiness and fortune but utter not a single word.
She closes her eyes, eventually. "Were you going to be all gentlemanly and chivalrous and sleep on the couch?"
"I was."
"Please don't," she says.
Her voice still lacks tonality, I'm not sure if she requests, commands or pleads. "I'd like that very much," I say, but she has already drifted to sleep.
On the thirteenth night since Myka's injury I sleep a full night for the first time in two weeks.
It takes us another week to get to the bottom of this incident, not without a great deal of awkwardness.
"What in the name of frack happened?" Claudia asks Pete, who sits opposite her at the dining room table of the bed and breakfast.
"I don't know!" he shrugs. "I just started to miss her, you know?" his voice tapers off after his eyes catch mine. "Does she really have to be here for this?" he points in my direction, but looks at Arthur, who is sitting next to Claudia. "She's making this super awkward," he mouths the last two words.
I leave them to continue the conversation-come-interrogation, and go out to the porch. I text Steve and Kevin who are in charge of ferrying Myka to the hospital today, and then go to sit in the garden.
Pete joins me a short while later.
"Hey," he says, with a bashful, boyish smile.
I stand up. "Pete."
"Sorry about back there," he points to the house and then looks at me. "There is some stuff I didn't want to put on the record before I talked to you."
"I am sorry about your arm," I offer a heartfelt apology.
"You should have seen the other guy," he laughs nervously and walks towards me. "I, uh," he shuffles his feet against the grass, "I never got to talk to you about what happened after you came back."
I sit down and he sits next to me.
"Look, I knew that if you ever came back into her life, I didn't stand a chance," he says, and moves his broken arm so it rests in his lap more comfortably. "I always knew that. I suppose what I didn't know…" he takes a breath, "I didn't know that I didn't stand a chance from the get go."
"You may be judging yourself harshly," I look at him, "and I hope that you know that I am truly sorry," less because I believe this was my fault, and more because I feel for him, I sympathise.
We sit quietly for a moment.
"She and I fizzled out long before you came back," he said. "I was hoping we will find some way to spark it up again, but then you came back and I knew there was no point. I gave her up. I gave her up and didn't let go," he looks down, hurt. "I gave her up and didn't let go for six years and that's on me."
I am wondering what I should to say to him. "I think this might be a conversation you need to have with her."
"There are times, you know, that I wake up in the morning thinking how big an idiot I am for letting her go," he says and looks straight into me.
I cannot believe his candour, how easily he speaks of his emotions, how he wears his heart on his sleeve. It is disarmingly charming. I might be falling in love with him a little bit.
"So I couldn't tell I got whammied because it started out feeling like one of those days. Like," he pouts and drops his tone "'Pete is having another droopy day when he misses Myka'," he changes his tone again, "and then it's all just a blur."
That is another feeling with which I truly sympathise. "I still think this is a conversation to be had with Myka."
"I will talk to her. I just want to start, uhm, making amends, clearing the air, turning over a new leaf."
"Tabula rasa," I look at him and smile.
He looks at me quizzically.
"Clean slate," I translate.
He nods emphatically, "Is my tabula rasa-ed, then?" he asks.
I chuckle at his abuse of the term. "It is, indeed," I pause for a moment. "Is mine?"
He wraps his arm around my shoulder. "Sure thing, HG. Sure thing."
The team is unable to determine what released the cape's effects, as there is no evidence of Pete – or anyone – touching it. It appears to have remained untouched and undisturbed since before Agent Lattimer's arrival at the Warehouse.
In the dossier we put together about the cape, we list its effects: possessive bouts towards objects of unrequited love; increased emotional instability; projection and manifestation of blame towards said object; physical expression of pent up emotions, possibly presented as attempts to incapacitate or disable said object.
The cape is placed in the ovoid quarantine with a special set of sensors Claudia designs.
Myka takes seven months to regain her full strength, but it transpires she sustained permanent damage to her right inner ear and her optic nerve. The Secret Service deems her no longer fit for active duty and she is released from service.
Irene confides with the Regents and retains Myka at the Warehouse under an agreement that allows her remain a Warehouse Agent, without an association to a specific government agency.
Pete does not approach Myka until after she is fully recovered and has regained some stability at work. They go through a terribly awkward phase in their friendship following this incident, understandably, as parts of their untold history is ruffled through.
We are sitting in a waiting room now, similarly to then, but oh so differently: it's only Myka and myself, Pete is the one in surgery. I'm the doting husband, the helpful friend, the collected supervisor. Myka is the battered warrior in shock: her face is streaked with mud and blood, she has a gash on her forehead, and another one on her left cheek. One bruise is now visible along her right jawline and another is forming above her right brow, complimenting a bloodshot eye. The front of her shirt is stained with blood, her trousers are too.
She is extremely lucky. Other than the superficial injuries to her face and arms – minor cuts and bruises caused by debris and the shrubs she landed in – she is fine. The blood she is stained with is Pete's.
Two hours from when we arrive at the hospital, the first doctor emerges from surgery to say it is likely to be a long procedure. He suggests that we avail ourselves, but remain close by and make ourselves comfortable for the night.
Myka is holding back tears, wiping the few that escape with the back of her hand and on her muddy sleeve. She can't keep still, her shock isn't stiff like mine. She seeks to release the pressure within, whereas mine paralysed me. "I need to take a walk," she states, grabs her blood-stained jacket and walks out of the waiting room.
In her hurry, she forgets her phone and Farnsworth on the table and I collect them. I email Claudia an update and she informs me they are due to land in three hours, and should be at the hospital in five.
Forty five minutes after Myka leaves, I go after her. I walk out of the sliding doors to A&E to find her crouched on the sidewalk opposite, her back against a stone wall, knees bent to her chest, head slumped between them.
The air has a distinct chill in it, an early morning breeze is picking up, a tell-tale sign that the sun will be up soon. I tuck my hands in my pockets, straighten my shoulders and take in full lungs' worth of air. Myka looks up and notices me.
Of all the things that could be running through me – right here, right now – I am feeling grateful and lucky. It is selfish, I know. But I cannot help it.
/ /
I look up and I see Helena on the other side of the road. She's standing tall, her hair shifts in the light breeze. She's looking up at the sky, probably calculating the number of minutes till sunrise.
I'm trying to understand what I'm feeling right now, but I can't. It's not even like there's a mess of stuff to sort through, it's the opposite. It's like there's nothing to feel.
The only thing I do feel is how heavy it is to breathe. Heavy and hard and repetitive. In and out. And in. And out.
She walks down the short flight of stairs that lead away from the ambulance ramp and crosses the road. She reaches my side and leans against the stone wall behind me. I can't see her anymore, she's outside my peripheral vision. My head slumps between my knees again.
Helena reaches her hand to me, lets it hang above the back of my neck, fingertips grazing against it. I know I should be feeling them, but I'm not.
"Darling, you must be freezing," she says.
I sniff and sigh heavily. "I can't feel anything," my voice is hoarse and rough. I brace my knees with my hands so I can lean my chin on them. Helena's hand travels up, to touch hair at the nape of my neck. It feels like she is touching a part of me that isn't mine.
"Will you come in?"
I shake my head. "I can't stand hospital waiting rooms," I sniff again.
Her touch firms slightly, I can feel the whole of her palm against the back of my neck now. She is drawing small circles, comforting me. "Can I get you anything?" she asks.
I look up at her. I feel defeated. She winces slightly, either at my wounds or my surrender. I well up and start crying.
She sits herself down, next to me, her hand stretching over my shoulder to pull me to her. It's even harder to breathe now that I'm crying.
I cry for what feels like hours. My eyes and mouth and face just hurt. I cry until I don't know what I'm crying about anymore. But she doesn't let go. She just holds me. After a while, the crying subsides and I breathe – heavily, still whimpering against her. She still doesn't let go.
I unfold my hands from my knees and reach for her, wrapping my arms around her neck and shoulders, holding her tightly. I lift my head up and she greets my bruised temple with a gentle kiss. I well up again.
I can't stop crying again, but I want to – I want to stop so badly. It hurts so much to cry, I can't take the pain for much longer.
Helena cradles my head in her palm. She brushes her fingers against the scar above my ear, where Pete struck me with the butt of his side arm nearly four years ago, and leans forward to press her lips to it. I tighten my hold and she tightens hers.
She pushes herself upwards, forcing me to rise with her. The sky above the hospital is turning a pale blue. She adjusts her hands around me and drags me across the road, back into to the hospital, back to the waiting room. She sits me down and rummages in her pockets for a pack of tissues. She then walks to the far corner of the room, to the water dispenser, and gets three cups full.
She hands me one and places the other two on the small table in front of us. She takes out one tissue, unfolds it and re-folds it diagonally, then dips its corner in one of the cups. She reaches for my chin with her left hand, turning my face to her, and ever so gently starts cleaning it.
She starts around my eyes, which I can only guess are red and puffed. Her touch and chill of the water ease the stinging. After my eyes, she cleans my scrapes on my forehead and cheek. She then uses her last tissue to rub off the last of the dried mud, blood and tears from my face and neck.
When she finishes, she inspects her work and smiles to herself at first, but then she searches my eyes and her smile deepens with affection. I can't help but smile back.
"Drink up," she says, pointing at the cup of water I've held for the past thirty minutes.
I do as she tells me. I can feel the water travelling down as I swallow.
She heads to the dispenser to get more and a Doctor enters the room. I get up and walk towards him, nervously.
"Are you the family?" he asks.
Helena turns around and joins me.
"Yeah," I say. "We're family."
"The damage was severe. He suffered extreme trauma," I guess that's how doctors try to cushion a blow. "We managed to reattach the limbs," he says and I well up again, "and stop the internal bleeding from the sheer force of the explosion," I understand the words, but they don't make sense.
"So what's the prognosis?" I clear my throat and ask, matter-of-factly, afraid I will start crying again.
"We believe he will live through this," the doctor says, "but we can't tell whether he regain full use of his leg."
Helena places her hand on my back and I exhale what feels like a breath I've been holding on to for the past seven hours.
"Is he out of surgery? When can we see him?" I ask.
"They are finishing up now. You should be able to see him once they put him in the intensive care unit within the hour. I'll ask a nurse to show you."
I smile and cry at the same time. I don't know if I had ever felt so relieved.
The doctor turns to leave the room, but comes back in. "Which one of you tended to his wounds in the field?"
I am not really listening, still in a world of relief, where Pete is still alive. So I simply nod at him.
"Dare I say you saved his life," he squeezes my shoulder with a reaffirming nod.
I continue standing there for another moment, until my Farnsworth goes off and Helena's phone rings. She walks away to answer it, I crack the Farnsworth open, it's Claudia.
"What's going on?" she asks.
"Pete's alive," I say and push some tears back, "he's alive."
"Lucky son of a biscuit," she says. "You and H?"
"We're okay. Where are you guys?"
"We just landed in Heathrow, Jinksy is getting a car. We should be there in a couple of hours."
"Thanks for –" I don't have a chance to finish.
"Wait, Myka, someone here wants to…" she says and hands the Farnsworth over.
Jane Lattimer looks at me from the round screen, and I can't hold the tears back anymore. "Jane," I say quietly, "they say he'll be okay."
"Is there anything I need to know before I get there?" she asks, her voice tired and frayed.
I shake my head, "We should be able to see him in an hour. I'll let you know as soon as we know."
She's welling up too. "Thank you, Myka," she says and closes the call.
Helena walks over to me and we sit back down.
"Was Steve okay?" I ask her.
"He is. He wanted coordinates for the hospital and the substation, then said they should be here in a few hours, traffic willing," she gives me the gist of the conversation with Steve. She is looking at me as though she wants to ask something but doesn't dare.
"How are you?" She musters, eventually, after a few moments of silence.
"I think I'm better now, knowing he'll make it." I say, "What about you?"
She sighs heavily. "This brought back many memories. Many of which are not particularly pleasant."
"The incident?" I confirm with her.
She nods. "I cannot help but feel so incredibly lucky, Myka," she's the one who wells up now. "Lucky and grateful," she pauses for a minute, "and very, very selfish."
Me too, I think. Or say. I'm not sure which, but I feel it. I feel.