End to Begin

by sistersin7

A type of "what happened next", in 6 parts (but 7 chapters). Starts in the not-too-distant-future and is canon compliant. This is a B&W, so there be angst. But there also be good times (and some fluff, too). Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy the ride. (Huge thanks to Roadie and Rachel452 for all the feedback and support, and Redlance for the good intentions).

7. Chapter 7: Eden

Jane never gets contacted by the rogue Regents. That's not strictly true… I'm saying 'never' and I can't promise they ever will, but eight months down the line and Jane hasn't been contacted.

Everyone stopped thinking about whether or not Jane will be contacted about four months ago. We are still on some level of alert, we are still spying on the rogue Regents, but since The Babel Incident there were no other remote activations and since Karl's death chatter between suspected dissidents has gone very quiet. Between us, we agree that the network has gone underground, and we are still trying to track down the remote control of artefacts.

That's not strictly true either. I'm saying 'we', but that's very much a royal we. I'm not really involved.

For me, the past eight months at the substation have been very different from the first eight months. The Babel Incident did something to me, it pushed me over a line I wasn't ready to cross just yet. It made me spend a lot of times thinking about being crazy, evil or dead – because these are the options, right?

Well... Crazy, evil, dead or Artie. And with utmost love and respect to the man, I don't like any of these options. Not for Helena. Not for me.

It's like something in me broke over those three days. Like I got to a crossroad and I had to pick: 'crazy, evil, dead or Artie?'. Maybe it was the whole of the first eight months' building up. Maybe it was the intensity and solitude of the three days and the choices I had to make. Maybe it was the fact that I doubted Helena, that the professional me had to go against the grain of the personal me. Maybe this conflict of interests is just not working itself out, between the professional and the personal.

They train you in the Secret Service. They train you to make decisions on instinct, they teach you trust yourself. They teach you to assess a situation and act in a split second when the potential consequences are devastating.

What they don't train you on is how to deal with it once it happened. They don't teach you to reconcile your actions with your beliefs and your values. And that's where I'm struggling.

I talked to Abigail a lot. I talked to Helena a lot. Both of them (swearing they weren't coordinating) recommended I took some time off. Both of them recommended I started carving time in my schedule for reflection, to acknowledge what I'm going through, especially when the stakes are high.

And the stakes did run very high the first eight months. We were attacked twice, infiltrated by a spy, Pete nearly died. I held the lives of seven of my fellow agents in my hands and lost two. I held Helena's trust in my hands, and betrayed it. I'm counting myself lucky I haven't lost it, that she hasn't lost it.

I have a really bad track record when it comes to dealing with loss or betrayal. As Claud, Pete and Abigail pointed out to me, I'm great at assuming the fault and removing myself from the situation.

So I tried something different this time. In the first few weeks after the incident, I read and re-read everyone's statements including mine. I reviewed all of our protocols, took apart every possible thing I could take apart to see where the weaknesses are. Including all of us.

All that made me realise is that I developed a weakness. I call it weakness. Abigail calls it revised priorities: I don't ever want to have my friends' lives in my hands. I don't ever want to doubt the people I love. I can do it, I know I can. I have an exemplary track record showing that I can. But just because I can, doesn't mean I should. Doesn't mean I want to.

I don't want to because I think that I am (or have become) the sort of person who will wind up crazy or evil or dead if I need to do it again. And frankly, I don't want to stick around to find out if I'm right.

Luckily though, the past eight months have been fairly lightweight. In fact – life has become very much business as usual. Things get sticky on occasion, but they are the garden variety snag, bag, and tags. The substation is up and running again, we run diagnostics regularly and upgrade security all the time.

We have two new local agents, Git (Gillian T, a friend of Mac's from her old SAS troop, who picked her own callsign, which made the rest of the locals laugh) and Rave (Richard V, the officer who helped me that night on the mountain who struck the cutest bromance with Pete). We also have a resident team from South Dakota who go out across Europe on retrievals and change every four weeks.

I moved on to the next phase of establishing the substation. My job now is to get more countries on board and secure more manpower. So for the past six months I spent most my time plane hopping all over Europe, schmoozing security agencies with a new proposition of working with the Warehouse: five and eight-year long tours with the substation. No more.

Given everything that's happened I don't want to get people involved on the basis of a lifelong commitment. I can't recruit people with the promise that their ultimate options are crazy, evil, dead or Artie. I don't want to make that choice, and I'm not going to force it on anyone else.

We've had arguments about this, the old team and I. We are a secret organisation, having lots of people involved sounds counter intuitive. But I really believe that finding the right people doesn't happen by chance. And sometimes the right people need to be let go of so that they can continue being right people.

And maybe I'm biased by my own agenda. And that's why I'm going to South Dakota tomorrow.

I get off the evening commuter flight from Prague and am surprised to see Helena at Arrivals, waiting for me. She's leaning against a bar of a coffee place, answering emails at 8pm on a Friday night. She must have had a busy week if she's answering emails on her phone.

Her being so engrossed gives me an advantage – she doesn't even notice me and I don't need to creep up behind her because Heathrow at 8pm on a Friday is loud and messy enough. As I approach her I'm thinking - shall I let her just finish this…? Maybe not. I walk up into the space behind her and wrap my arms around her waist.

She is startled but relaxes into me in an instant. "Let me just finish this…" she says distractedly, "It's been such a busy week…" she taps her screen for a few more seconds, and turns around in my arms, switching her phone off and slipping it into her pocket.

I'm guessing she was held up. A meeting must have overran and she thought -

"I thought I should catch up with you here and we could travel home together, given a meeting overran and I was held up in town," she speaks through a bright smile and leans into me.

Did she just…? It feels like she's saying what I'm thinking. Almost verbatim. I must be tired. I shake my head lightly. "Good thinking. It's so good to see you," I look into her eyes. I missed her this week.

She smiles coyly up at me, turns around to grab her bag, takes one of my hands from her waist and drags me towards an exit.

"How was Prague?" she asks when it's only the two of us in the elevator to the parking lot.

"You know, I want to say 'pretty'…" I scrunch my nose up and let her finish my thought.

"You didn't get to see much of it this time either?" she scrunches her nose in sympathy.

"No," I shake my head with discernible disappointment, but maybe soon.

"Maybe soon," she smiles as the elevator stops at our level.

She follows me to the car while telling me about her week and the project she has been scoping for a healthcare company. The words she uses to describe them is 'a group of yoga enthusiasts who are planning to take over the world'. As I unlock the car and we throw our cases on the back seat, I wonder if plotting world domination on behalf of -

"I realise that plotting world domination on behalf of a corporate, albeit one with the intention of eradicating obesity and heart disease , is possibly not the best activity for someone with my somewhat chequered past," she says as we get into the car, "but this is rather good fun."

"Okay," I place both my hands on the wheel, "this is creepy."

"What is?"

"It's the fourth time in less than fifteen minutes that you've said exactly what I'm thinking."

She raises both her eyebrows, giving me a questioning look.

"What?" I think I sound annoyed.

"I don't understand, Myka" she looks baffled.

There is a tense silence between us. I look at her blankly, and she looks blankly back at me. I'm trying to not think about anything and see what she says. I'm also trying to detect the smell of fudge, and start recalling odd objects I've come into contact with in Prague.

This is stupid.

"Ugh," I exhale, "I don't know," it comes out as a whine. I put the keys in the ignition and start the car. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid because I'm worried about tomorrow."

"Oh," she nods slowly and looks at me.

I put the car in gear and drive us off, saying nothing. My mind starts racing. I'm thinking about the purpose of tomorrow. Of the weekend. At the Warehouse. I'm running through everything I've done to deal with that's happened, how different that is from the past.

I start breathing more deeply to try and stop the mayhem in my mind and Helena notices.

"Do you want me to drive?" Helena offers.

I shake my head. "No, thanks. I think I need this to clear my head."

For the first fifteen minutes of the drive I'm just focusing on getting us on the M25. Getting out of Heathrow is a freakin' nightmare. No matter how many times I do this, I can't seem to get it. And that says something – when the person with the eidetic memory can't remember how to get out of an airport.

"Fancy sharing?" she asks when we're on the highway.

Oh, what can I be sharing? That I'm becoming one these yo-yo agents who has a love/hate relationship with the Warehouse? That I can't help but compare the reasons for wanting to leave this time to the reasons that made me leave last time? Is it any different this time? Am I really going to consult with my best friends, or am I going to make an announcement? Because I think my mind is already made up. Mostly.

I'm going to the Warehouse tomorrow to tell Pete and Claudia that I want to leave.

"Am I doing the right thing, Helena?"

/ /

I want to say 'you are, Myka', but I know better. I reckon that in her current frame of mind, anything I say will be met with resistance. Over the past eight months she has been working very hard to come to terms with what has happened in the eight months that preceded them, as well as residual emotional fallout from past losses and pains.

She has changed quite a bit during the time we had spent in the UK together. Given all she has been through, I am hardly surprised. Yet, occasionally she will say or do something that will make me remember another Myka, to whom such words or actions would be foreign.

I find myself studying her when she's not looking. My mind backtracks through all the Mykas I've known. The suited-and-booted Agent Bering I met at my residence in London, whose hand I brushed with the back of mine as she secured me to a chair; Agent Myka Bering who took a punt and placed her trust in me to help her save the life of Ms. Donovan; Myka who noticed me noticing her, who rewarded me with her idle glances and timid smiles for accidental, fleeting touches; Myka whose heart-breaking honesty and trust stopped me from thrusting a trident into the earth a third time. My Myka, just out of my reach, slightly more confident and slightly less stiff in her manner; my Myka who placed her stock in me time and again; my Myka, whose life hung on my ability to recall my time with an old man; my Myka who would not give up on me. Myka Bering who came at my request to Boone; Myka Bering whom I had attempted to convince to leave and forget me; Myka Bering who became a friend.

Then there was Myka Bering who volunteered to be my handler, who I got to know anew, the same Myka, but different. She was Myka Bering who had a commanding air of silent confidence; Myka Bering who could turn any situation in her favour; Myka Bering who was honest and trusting; Myka Bering who had suffered enough heartbreak to last her a lifetime.

I fell in love with her all over again, and she grew to become my Myka: the one who kissed me in the kitchen of my newly acquired home in Featherhead; the one who found me in a van in a Boston Supermarket car park; the one who negotiated my passage out of Turkey; the one who supported my consultancy practice in any way imaginable; the one who met me in airports and hotels for an hour or a night or two of stability; the one who healed so beautifully from injury; the one who dreamed of and built the substation.

My study of her consists of comparing this Myka to the Mykas of the past and I am in awe of the changes in her. This Myka had risen above a struggle I had succumbed to.

There was a time, after the Babel incident, when she was riddled with guilt and anger; they sunk their fangs in her like venomous reptiles and delivered a dose of their poison. Guilt haunted her over her team's death and her mistrust in me. Anger plagued her for doubting me, but also echoed in her against me, for being who I am, for my darkness.

Our bedroom dons a warm glow of a February sunset, pink and orange clouds cast fading sunlight onto white washed walls in the final moments before the sun sinks beyond the Cambrian Mountains. The air is thick with the scents of a winter stew slow-cooking downstairs. The only sounds are the clock in the hallway and our breathing.

I can hear her heartbeat, but that is because my ear is directly above where her heart is. I feel her chest rising and falling and her heart reverberates faintly against me. I can also feel her pulse, thrumming gently through her femoral artery because my fingers, still warm and slick from their exploits not a handful of moments ago, rest on the inside of her thigh.

I am expecting her to fall asleep – she and I had worked hard over the past few hours – but her breathing is not slowing. Her body remains alert.

"What is it, darling?" I ask without moving.

"It's six months today," she answers calmly.

Of course it is. Six months ago, at about this time, Myka arrived at the substation after a train journey fraught with angst to find us in lockdown speaking dead Mediterranean languages. I move my hand from her thigh gently and slowly, until it rests across her abdomen.

There are still many things she – and I – are yet to fully come to terms with. We work through them in a different order and at a different pace, which makes for a confusing healing process. We often find that there are things that I have already dealt with that she hasn't, and vice versa. As such, wounds are revisited, perhaps, all too frequently.

I am giving her the time and space she needs to articulate what she is thinking while remaining physically close to her. I am adamant that we remain close through this.

"I'm still so angry," she is choking tears, and pauses.

I'm contemplating whether to ask what or who with.

"I'm still angry at myself," she augments, "and you," she inhales loudly and holds her breath. "I don't know what to do with all this anger," she says, finally, and exhales slowly.

"Why are you angry?"

"That's what's bugging me, you know? This anger goes around in circles. I'm angry at myself for suspecting you, but then I'm angry at you for being suspect material," her voice is ringing with her frustration. "But then it's up to me to stop making you into suspect material, right? I just needed to trust you, to not consider you as a suspect…" she trails off, "and I did trust you, I do trust you, but I still had to consider you," she sighs in defeat.

"Because I was a suspect, Myka," my fingers smooth her skin, "everyone in that room was a suspect."

Her heartbeats quicken and her breathing is louder. This tells me her senses and thinking are fully active, sharpened. "Aren't you angry?"

"I am," I still haven't moved from her, "but less so."

"So if I asked you now if you forgive Artie – will that be any less fake than six month ago?" I feel her fingers touching my temple, caressing my hairline softly.

I take time to think about it. I recall the conversation we had downstairs, his heartfelt apology, the explicit information it delivered, the implicit information it imparted. "Less fake? Certainly. True, heartfelt forgiveness? Not quite."

"And me?" she isn't shy of asking a difficult question, only this question isn't difficult at all.

"What about you?"

"Are you angry with me?"

"Oh, Myka," I push myself up from her and lean my head in my palm so I can look down into her eyes. "I was never angry with you."

She looks into my eyes for a moment, searching for something she cannot find in them. So she closes her eyes and lets her head roll over and away from me.

I will not let her get away with it. I place two fingers under her chin and pull her back towards me. "Look at me, Myka," I command, but delicately.

She sighs as she looks up at me, her expression is that of a petulant child knowing they are about to be told off. I cannot help but smile because it dawns upon me that this is the very thing she finds exasperating in me at times.

"What's funny?" she is annoyed.

"You are so stubborn," I repeat her words to me, words she'd said so many times, "it's tiring."

She recognises my reference and smiles. "Yeah?" her smiles widens, but her tone is steeped in righteousness. "Good."

"I was hurt by the implication, Myka, but I wasn't angry with you," I try to explain. "How could I be? Had I been in your shoes, I'd have suspected me."

"Somehow it's not making me feel any better."

I take a moment to form a better way of explaining this to her. I know the conundrum she is facing well, it is governed by the irrationality of compromised confidence. "Do you remember I once said that whenever the Warehouse and I mix, terrible things happen?"

"You said 'lives are ruined'."

I give her a surprised look. "I stand corrected," I am not sure why I'm surprised she remembers; I shouldn't be, but I am.

"So it's the Warehouse? The Warehouse made me do it?" she teases incredulously.

I sigh. She is right, this is tiring. I apologise to her in my mind for all the times I wore her out with my ill-humour. "Not the Warehouse itself, but rather the necessities of working in it."

She takes a breath and opens her mouth to say something, but stops. She purses her lips and she turns focussed, concentrated. "So it's how we work…" she considers it as she speaks.

I nod in agreement. "In order to do what Warehouse agents do we have to make difficult choices all the time," I look at her, still deep in thought. "So much so that they become habitual, heuristic. We cease to consider their implications in the heat of the moment," I pause. "After a while, we cease to consider implications at all," I add, knowing the weight of the statement I had just made.

It's her turn to nod. After a short silence she exhales a quiet laugh and looks at me again. "It's funny because the whole point of protocols is to simplify complicated stuff. Make things easier, not more difficult."

"Ironic, perhaps. But not funny."

She quirks her eyebrow, "I stand corrected," she echoes me.

"Sometimes stuff cannot be simplified," I still struggle with the use of the word 'stuff' as a generic replacement for nouns, "sometimes it must not be simplified."

She hums in agreement and looks away from me, to the ceiling. She's engaged in thought again. "Helena?" she asks.

"Yes, darling?"

"Do you ever think about the future?" her gaze is still fixed at the ceiling.

"In what way do you mean?"

It takes her a moment to consider the options. "Not in a science fiction, what-will-technology-and-society-be-like-in-a-hundred-years'-time way…" she starts, "but us," she finishes quietly. "Our future."

Now I am truly surprised. Myka and I, since my return to South Dakota, since being placed in her duty and under her care, have not discussed a future. We, upon explicit agreement between us, due to the nature of her impossible job and my impossible life – do not occupy ourselves with possibilities, what ifs and maybes. The both of us, together and apart, have seen and been through too much to contemplate plans of a life together. We take pleasure and joy in every day we spend together and – in hindsight – these days amount to a life when put together, but we have never planned for one. We are grateful for what we have, when we have it, for as long as we do.

Or so I thought.

"I… uhm… Myka…" I stammer.

"That's a no, then?" she is asking with honesty, without spite or annoyance, looking into my eyes, and my breath hitches. Her honesty will be the death of me.

"Do you?" the surprise in my voice is evident.

"I didn't used to," she says. "We agreed, didn't we?"

"We did," I answer.

"And all this time I didn't think about a future. I didn't plan for next week or next year or ten years from now. We know better, right?"

"We do," I chuckle.

"But then I killed two people –"

"Myka," I plead with her.

"No, Helena, they were my team and they died on my watch. I fucking shot one of them," she will not let this go. "I killed two people and all I keep thinking about is that I don't want to die. Not like that. Not on a mission. Not on a retrieval," she closes her eyes and collects her thoughts. "What we do at the Warehouse is important and noble and admirable and amazing," she pauses again. "But it's endless. It will never end. There will always be another artefact, another danger."

I huff a short, sardonic laugh because I said something similar to Irene six months ago.

"But living like this… in danger, all the time… will ruin lives," she looks at me again. "Will ruin my life," she whispers and reaches a hesitant fingertip to my lips which she holds for a long minute.

I know I am arrogant, overly confident, opinionated, somewhat self-absorbed and rather pompous, but I am none of those things when I ask her to complete her thought, "will ruin your life with me?"

She nods and grins, crookedly, coyly. "I don't have a plan for next week or next year. I just want there to be a next year," she stops. "Or ten," she adds quietly, the faintest of whispers.

"So the future you thought of is a future you simply wish to exist?"

"Yes," she is quiet and pensive.

I rest my head back on her bare chest, placing my ear above where her heart is. "Then I thought of this future too," I admit.

Her heartbeat quickens – just – and I cannot help the wide, satisfied smile that shines across my lips.

Her hand returns to my hair, trailing fingers into and out of the hair above my exposed ear. "Looked like I gave you a scare," she says, half amused.

"I dare say you did surprise me," I bring the pads of my fingers to her shoulder, to draw invisible vines on it.

"I think we know each other well enough, Helena," she strains to lift her head and place a kiss at the top of mine.

"One must never assume…" I start without real intent of finishing. It's a lesson learned extensively over my tenure, to never assume one knows another that well.

Our hands remain idly busy in hair and on skin until Myka stops. She places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes it pointedly. "Helena," her tone is serious.

I lift myself up to look at her.

"I think I want to leave the Warehouse," she says. "I think I need to."

This Myka, unlike those who preceded her, looks beyond what is in front of her. This Myka dares to want and then reaches out to explore more and farther than she ever had. This Myka speaks louder and does not seek the approval of others.

How proud I am, how overjoyed - to call this Myka mine.

I love you, Myka. "You know that I love you," I say eventually.

She casts a quick glance over to me, almost as if to say I had not answered her question.

"I do not believe you will find my answer helpful, darling," I start, "for I believe whichever choice you make is the right choice."

She clears her throat in anticipation.

"Stay or leave, now or soon or never – I will stand beside you."

She is breathing slowly and deeply, concentrating, pondering. Her face is illuminated by soft light of the dashboard, casting a pale blue hue on her cheeks. She appears to be suspended in time, frozen. "You're right," she speaks low after a long pause, "it wasn't helpful."

I exhale a light chuckle and she smirks at me.

"But I really appreciate you being here, with me," she purses her lips and nods stiffly. "I really do."

We speed up the M40, lapping miles that bring us closer to our home, battling one or two April showers that pound down so harshly we must slow the car down. It's a dark and difficult drive, especially once we are off the motorway and on to country roads.

I would like to engage her in conversation, I believe it could be helpful to her. She, however, may not see it as such. So I give her room to sulk. And think. And be.

"Helena?" she speaks, emerging from a deep state of absorption.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

We arrive at our cottage late in the night. We are both tired beyond any measurable means, so we leave everything in the car, go inside and collapse.

Although I fall asleep fairly quickly, I feel Myka tossing and turning next to me all night. Given the number of times she wakes me, I reckon she doesn't sleep much at all. When she gets out of bed at five in the morning, I sleepily follow her into the bathroom.

"What are you doing up?" she whispers as she reaches for her toothbrush, as if there is another soul in this house she dares not wake.

I step behind her, lean my head against her back and wrap my right arm around her waist. I want to give her a meaningful answer, but all I can provide her with is a grunt.

She laughs and turns to face me, pulling me into an embrace. My head is now resting atop her breast. It is soft and comforting and I slip into the clutches of sleep easily. "Helena…" she lilts my name as she rocks me side to side, "why don't you go back to bed?"

I grunt again, "Because," I start but cannot finish the sentence. Because I know she is not in a good place, but I am too tired to bring myself to say it, or handle the consequences of challenging her. Instead I squeeze her and sigh.

"What's wrong?" she lets me lean into her for a few moments before attempting to peel me away from her. "Are you worried about something?" her tone is somewhat mocking.

"I am," I bat her hands off of me and tighten my hold on her, trying to make her effort of removing me from her as difficult as possible.

"Helena…" she scolds my passive-aggressive attempt to subdue her, "God, you're worse than Dickens," she mutters.

This piques my attention, I let go of her at once and raise a questioning eyebrow.

She bites her lips, realising she misspoke. "When you get like this…" she is getting defensive, trying to explain her slip of the tongue. "When you cling…" she stops herself before she digs herself even deeper. She turns back to the sink and fiddles with the toothbrush and toothpaste. "You're not clingy, Helena, and I know something is wrong when you get like this," she gestures at me through the mirror with a hint of disdain.

Just like I know something is wrong when she doesn't sleep. "I'm knackered, Myka, knackered and worried," my tone is equally scolding as hers.

"What are you worried about?"

"How much did you sleep last night, exactly?" I confute her apparent lack of concern.

"I dunno," she splutters with a mouthful of toothpaste, uses the time she brushes her teeth to think. She spits and answers "An hour?"

"At best," I say, "if you generously add up the fragments of minutes."

"So?"

"Really, Myka?" I'm not knackered anymore, just worried. "And what about the rest of the week? Not a day went by when you were away in which you did not mention how badly you had slept the night before."

"So?"

"Do not take me for a fool," I do my best to keep my anger at bay. "I know very well what triggers your sleeplessness. I know very well what it turns you into," I am stern and unforgiving.

Myka braces the counter with both her hands, letting her head drop. "What do you want me to say?" she exhales.

"Is coming back to bed not an option?" I reach my hand to the small of her back, my voice as softens to match my caress.

"No," she shakes her head, definitive in her answer, "I'm wired. I need to get this out of my system before I go."

"May I join you, then?"

She lifts her head and eyes me through the mirror again. "Sure," she shrugs with the curt response.

"Hand me my toothbrush, then," I hold my hand out to her.

She smiles at me and hands me both brush and paste. She eyes me carefully, watches my every move as I brush my teeth. Her smile hangs like a crescent moon and her eyes are shrouding a secret.

"What?" I ask her.

"Nothing," her smile deepens and her cheeks round higher. She pushes herself off the counter and walks out the bathroom, not without dragging her fingertips across my backside as she walks past. "Better than anyone else," she mumbles.

I am quick in my preparation to leave, Myka is waiting for me by the door. I rush down the stairs and fumble while putting my trainers on and she is amused by my lack of coordination.

"I take it you find this entertaining," I say, a bit breathlessly as I straighten up when I reach her.

She hands me my windproof. "You are the most graceful woman I know," she says with a big, bright smile, trying to fall back in my good graces after likening me to our very old and very needy cat.

I am not convinced.

"Actually," she corrects herself and opens the door, "you are the most graceful person I know," she tries to squeeze a response from me.

I walk out. "It may be a while before you are forgiven, darling."

"I know," she follows me out and locks the door behind us, "I deserve that."

"Where to, then?" I start stretching.

She heads towards the trail at the back of the cottage, "I should know better than to agitate a dirty old…" she looks over her shoulder towards me, with a devilish grin across her face.

"You did not just…" I mutter under my breath and hurry after her.

She giggles, picks up her speed to gain distance from me up on the trail that will lead us up the mountain.

Soon enough she slows down and I catch up with her. I'm surprised she is in such a good mood. I had anticipated her to be more solemn given her state last night, given her lack of sleep over the past week.

Her sleeplessness has gotten better of late, but in the first few months after the Babel incident, she had been troubled by dreams and thoughts of what she could have done differently to have achieved a better resolution; one that did not involve having our lives in her hands, that did not involve her staring over the bodies of two of her team, that did not involve her suspecting me.

"You're rather chipper," I speak as we reach a steady pace up the hill (which I can now feel why she had described as punishing). "Was your non-sleep conducive?"

She exhales a short laugh, but says nothing.

We jog at a light pace up the mountain and across the farmer's field, where we have the opportunity to scare off some unsuspecting sheep and their young. At the top of the field, just by the tree line, Myka stops, places her hands on her hips and turns around.

I do the same, looking at what she is looking at: the clouds above the mountains are painted in streaks of pink, orange and gold, declaring the rise of the sun over a horizon obscured to us by bold crags. The cliffs loom in stark, grey, silent contrast to the bright orchestra of light and birdsong that echoes throughout the valley, unphased by the sounds of a train going by, a handful of lorries on the road that meanders along the river and the bleating of lambs regaling the tales of two two-legged beasts pounding through their meadow.

I turn to Myka and her face is awash with awe and joy as her breathing steadies. It has been a while since I had seen her like this – beaming in bliss, eyes glistening, wide smile stretched across her lips, revealing her teeth underneath.

"I'm chipper," she is choking – either a breath or a tear, "because I'm ready."

"Ready for what?" I catch my breath and walk up towards her until I am standing by her side, adopting her stance, looking at where she is looking.

She is towering over me, the few inches between us feel more than they usually do. I look up at her as she looks down at me and I realise she is crying.

"To let go," she says, inhales deeply, gestures with her head towards the trees and we walk into the woods.

It has been four weeks since I returned from Turkey, since Myka negotiated my release from the clutches of the secret police there, who arrested me under a ridiculous charge of fraud. Myka's investigation turned out that a presiding professor at the Istanbul Technical University had tipped the secret police off after notes from a lecture I had been asked to deliver about humane practices in global organisations was flagged up as plagiarised – ironically or predictably – from the writings of HG Wells.

What Myka shared with me only after the ferry we were on crossed to Greek territorial waters, is that Claudia identified both the professor and the head of the local secret police office as members of an extreme off-shoot of Anonymous, who had been suspecting my existence (as well as other preposterous conspiracies) for some time.

Between them and in the time they had, Claudia and Myka managed to rather impressively fabricate sufficient evidence to convince authorities that I am, in fact, a legitimate heir of the HG Wells proprietary estate.

I noted to her this was a rather convenient arrangement and that we should, perhaps, consider integrating it into my identity. Ever the cautious pragmatist, she noted that the more one uses fabricated evidence, the more scrutiny it receives – a somewhat unwelcome attention.

She persuades me with the promise that she will carefully consider my suggestion, and requested that for the time being, I refrain from proactively referring to HG Wells and his proprietary estate.

We are home now, in Myka's flat, to be exact, she is in her reading chair and I'm sitting by the window. In my lap I have the report we pulled together about the two week ordeal I had endured in Turkey.

The descriptions in the report do not do the situation justice: "Helena's cell; 6ft x 9ft, 2 aspects – thick stone walls; 1 aspect – natural rockface of cave, 4th aspect – 2 inch galvanised steel bars, no window. Contained: low bunk, 5ft x 2ft; blanket; 1 bucket for waste, refreshed sporadically; 1 bucket of water, refreshed daily;"

Said cell was in an underground cavern used by crusaders in the 12th century to store food and wine. A natural refrigerator, the cavern was dank, dark and damp, its temperature rarely rising above 5 degrees. Needless to say that the blanket provided did little to dispel the chill that – by the time I had been freed – sunk into my bones and gripped me like bindweed.

I spent two weeks locked in that cell, only removed to be interrogated more times than I could count. Two weeks, in which I was deprived of any human contact (bar interrogation in Turkish); deprived of means of telling time – natural or artificial; two weeks in which I could only make three steps at a time; two weeks in which the cold and dark were not a metaphor in the confines of my mind, but an actual physical reality; two weeks of isolation, of helplessness, of fear.

Myka's fingers sweeping my hair from my neck rush me away from the very real dark of the cell to the very real light of her front room. She is standing behind me, gently touching the fingers of her left hand to the base of my neck, and the fingers of her right are stilling mine – clutching my locket.

"Hey," she whispers, and her touch, her voice calm me. I am not alone. I lean into her touch and breathe deeply. "Tell me."

There is little I am yet to have told her. "I do not believe I had ever felt so helpless," I speak softly.

She joins me on the window seat, in front of me, takes away the report and closes it in her lap.

"Did you know you've been worrying the locket for about twenty minutes now?" she looks intently at me.

I shake my head.

"What have you been feeling?" she challenges me.

"I was feeling that cell. I was feeling the isolation, the complete and utter lack of hope," I offer, somewhat despondently.

"And what does the locket feel like when you hold it now?"

I pause to consider her question. My fingers clasp the locket tightly, I feel its edges dig into my fingers. It used to make me remember my daughter, her courage and charm and wit, the warmth of her smiles and embraces, the joy of her laughter.

But since being bronzed and certainly since my return to life in this century, it had increasingly felt like loss. Like loneliness. Like despair. I feel sadness tinted with anger rising within me. Have I lost the last remaining vestige of goodness that Christina gave to me? "Why are you asking me this?"

She reaches both her hands to my cheeks for a gentle caress, then her fingers travel to the back of my neck to unclasp the locket's chain. She drags her fingers softly and pries my hand with the locket from my chest, bringing it down to my lap, to join the other.

She envelops my hands with hers, a light yet warm touch.

She studies our hands in my lap. "I'm asking you this because…" she pauses to take a deep breath, "because I am wondering whether the locket stopped feeling like Christina and started feeling like something else," she says and her eyes burn into mine, "something dark."

Oh, Myka. What did I ever do to deserve you.

I look down at our hands and slowly let go of the locket. It falls into her hands with a soft rattle. I release my hands from hers only to reverse their positions, so my hands envelop hers. I tighten my hold around them and now her hands are the ones cocooning the locket.

"It does feel like something that is not Christina," I whisper shakily. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest with an ache and a longing for my daughter who died a senseless death. I recall the shape of her eyes, the shape of her mouth, her hair. At first, I recall them when she and I were together, playing in the nursery, feeding the waterfowl in St. James Park. But then I recall them, dulled and lifeless, in the dim light of a cellar of a Parisian police station, I recall her pale and still body in a casket.

"Helena," Myka's hand is on my cheek, "Helena. Stop." Her thumb is stoking it gently, tracing my cheek bone.

I blink once. Twice. My lids fall heavy and I struggle to lift them open.

"Tell me her story about the Barbarian Queen," she speaks softly.

I exhale a choked half laugh half cry and open my eyes, which are still fixed at our hands: hers is a loose fist around the locket, mine are cupping hers. I smile a tired smile and tell her of Christina's Barbarian Queen, a fearless leader who ruled Britania's shores from the flats on Anglia to the cliffs of the Northern Moors, who bravely fought Normans and Vikings and Kelts away from her villages.

"Tell me about the time you snuck her into the House of Lords."

So I do.

"Tell me about the flying machine you built with her."

So I do.

"Tell me a story I don't know."

So I tell her about when I taught her to sword fight. I tell her about when Catarunga taught her to play chess. I tell her about the time Wolly had to mind her while I was rushed to retrieve an artefact from a Vaudeville theatre dressing room and when I had returned a day later she had taken to his tuition, and was now speaking German.

I then notice that Myka placed the locket back in my hand, but her palm is pressing into mine – we are both holding it. In this moment we had un-created an artefact, and Christina's memory had ceased to reside within the ornate metal case.

I look at her, at Myka, and she looks at me with patience and love and care, and I feel the memory of my daughter is living not only through me, but through her as well.

"Maybe it is time I stopped wearing it," I say.

"Do you think it'll help?" she asks.

"I do not believe it helps having it on."

"Okay," she nods slowly. "Let's keep it close, though," she tightens her hold on it and my hand, "just in case." Then she gets up and walks to her bedroom. I hear her opening and shutting drawers – she's looking for something.

"Myka," I call to her. I need to ask a favour of her.

She returns and stands beside me, holding out a small, simple wooden box atop her stretched palm.

I take it, hold it, press my fingertips to its surface, feeling its soft curves, its imperfections. I lift the lid – it does not open smoothly, its hinge creaks and sticks. It takes effort to crack the hard shell and get to the soft, red velvet hidden within. It'll do perfectly. "Will you remind me to tell you about her?" my request exposes the soft, red velvet hidden within me.

She nods, "I will."

We reach the substation's perimeter fence in minutes and she heads further up the mountain still, along the fence. After ten minutes of a steady climb she stops. It takes me a few minutes to catch up to her, and she holds her left hand out to me. I take hold of it only once I'm standing next to her.

"Thank you for coming up here with me," she rubs her thumb in my palm. "I'm sorry about before," she says sheepishly, "you're nothing like Dickens."

I smile up at her, "You are forgiven."

"Open your hand," she asks.

I let go of her hand and hold mine up, she brings her left to rest underneath it. She reaches her right hand to the pocket at the back of her running tights and takes something out. She holds her fisted hand above my extended palm and releases her fingers slowly, one by one, and I feel two small, elongated and rounded objects fall into it.

She presses her palm into mine gently and we both feel them – two bullet casings. Her eyes are fixed on her hands, mine and the casings sandwiched between them. I hear her breathing as it slows, as she picks and chooses where to begin, what to say.

She starts with telling me about that night. About the mad run up the mountain, about the HG tracker, about the standoff, how in less than one second four shots were fired and within twenty seconds a fifth had gone off and two people were dead.

She then tells it to me a second time, but now she tells me how she feels in every second. She tells me what passes through her mind, through her heart. She tells me about how empty they both were during that second when she squeezed the trigger.

"I fired a gun a hundred times before. I fired a gun at people before too. But never like that. Never." She sounds at peace as she tells me this. "That day…" she pauses, "It was dark and I was tired and amped up on caffeine and no sleep and worried out of my mind that I will miss, that I will hit him an inch on either side, and a whole other outcome will've transpired. Either one of us could've been dead the second after that."

I look at her expression, honesty and sadness and worry filling it, fleeting across it like brief shadows.

"For so long afterwards I couldn't decide whether Karl had shot himself on purpose or by accident. After a while I couldn't decide if he shot Mac on purpose or by accident too. All I knew was that I didn't shoot him by accident. I shot him on purpose," she pauses and releases her right hand from the top of mine. "But I think – now – that it doesn't really matter, because I'll never know," she furrows her brow, "I will never know what he was thinking."

She looks at the casings and picks them up, weighs them, rattles them in her hand. She places one, lengthways, between her thumb and forefinger, holds it up to the sky, as if she is looking through it. Then she does the same with the other. She palms both of them again before placing them in my hand once more.

"I come up here to feel it again. Every time I come up here, I can feel it," she presses her forefinger onto one of the casings in my palm and rolls it backwards and forwards. "Feel the gun in my grip, and how my grip was still, but my muscles were shaking. Feel very heartbeat, every breath, every blink. Feel the recoil."

She stops rolling the casings and lets her arms fall limp by her sides. She bites her lip and looks up, into my eyes.

"Feel the recoil that released one of these casings because I was less than three feet away from it, and feel the recoil that released the other one, because I fired it."

I look down at the casings with the new knowledge that one is from her gun, the other from Karl's.

"And now two good people are dead," she takes a breath, her eyes well up and she looks down again. "I know that Karl wound up being part of what caused this…" she stops to pick her words, "but I also know that I can never ever presume to know what made him do what he did," she looks up into my eyes now. Whether or not she means to, I do not know, but I feel as though she is comparing Karl's villainy to mine. "And I need to know…" she wipes her eyes and her nose with the back of her hand, "and I need you to know that I can forgive. And trust. That I haven't stopped."

She brings her left hand back under my right and presses my fingers back into my palm so the casings are firmly within my grip.

"I know," I answer. "I know just how capable you are of forgiveness and trust, Myka." I place my left hand on her arm. "Even now."

"Thank you," she mouths. She doesn't cry for long, and when she stops she releases a hard breath and a laugh, albeit somewhat uncomfortable.

We stand in the woods for a while, the light filtering through the branches and leaves slowly changes from the tentative brightness of early morning sunrise, to a distinct and firm glow, as the sun creeps over the crags on the other side of the valley. The orchestra of songbirds dies down as dawn fades into morning, and turns to solo and duet performances of birds alerting their kin to food or predators.

Myka looks around her, taking in the wilderness that surrounds us. She takes deep breaths, closes her eyes and mouths "thank you," to the branches above us. She spends a while longer practicing her breathing and I can see how calm and awe are filling her again, like earlier, at the top of the farmer's field, by the tree line.

"Do you want to go back to bed now?" she asks after a deep sigh, and starts down the mountain.

/ /

At 4pm So and Martin open the gateway and I cross over to the Warehouse. Claudia is waiting for me on the other side.

"You know that ever since we have the gateway, every time I meet you face to face, it feels less of an achievement..." she ponders out loud.

"Is this meant to make me feel worse?" I angle a dubious look at her, "Or better?"

"Argh," she pounces on me with a hug, "who am I kidding?"

I commit to her hug, commit to hugging her back. I know more about the finality of this hug than she does. "Good to see you too, Claud."

"Let us tend to my office," she stiffens her lip and speaks in her posh voice.

She walks us three aisles across and one up, we arrive at a clearing between the stacks, a wide space with desks outlining its borders, work benches criss-crossing the large rectangular floor space. Once we are in, she presses her thumb into what looks like a very small touch screen, and the clearing is boxed with a semi-opaque screen.

"Wow…" I gasp like a kid at a candy store. I can't hide my amazement at a "Force field?"

"Kinda," she blushes. "It's not going to sustain the blast of a photon torpedo or anything," she shakes her head, "but it keeps nosey people out, and noisy people in," she gestures emphatically with her hands.

"Very cool…" I'm impressed. I'm so far beyond impressed and I'm beaming.

"Thanks," she mutters shyly, then shakes off the insecure teenager she will always be and points towards two armchairs in the back of her office.

We sit down, and I'm feeling nervous. So I smile at her. And she smiles back. And pick my fingernails. And she's looking at me.

"What's going on, Myka? You're making me really nervous."

"Huh," I chuckle to myself. "This is just really hard to do."

I go quiet again, and she gives me a lot of time to come up with something. But I'm not really able to.

"You want to leave," she says with what feels like little thought and little emotion.

I look up at her nervously. "I want to leave," I say quietly.

She purses her lips and looks down.

"It's not because of you," I hurry to say. "Or Pete, or Helena or anyone in the team, or… or the substation," I take a breath. "It's because of me, but not like last time."

She looks up at me. She doesn't look hurt, she looks inquisitive. "Not like last time?"

"First of all," my hand gestures turn nervous too, "I am here talking to you about it, rather than leaving a letter with Mrs. Frederic."

She acknowledges with a nod, a pout and a raised eyebrow.

"Also," I can feel my logical side taking up a lot of my brain power right now, "I've taken a lot of time to come to this decision. This is not a knee jerk reaction to a failure."

She nods again.

"More importantly…" I need to be happy with how I say this. It could come out hurtful. I take a deep breath, "I need to know that I have a future," I say and look at her.

She says nothing.

"I need a future where I know I won't be pushed into doubting the people I love, or aim guns at them," I finish the thought in its entirety.

She's completely still.

"After the cancer, after Pete, after my injury and his…" I sigh heavily, in lieu of the danger and angst I'm omitting, and I'm omitting a lot more than I'm mentioning, "after this… I need… I need less danger, less excitement. I need more time with my family, inside the Warehouse and out, I need calm."

She is silent for a thoughtful moment. "Crazy, evil or dead, right?" she says with half a smile. "You need to not be crazy, evil or dead."

"Or Artie," I say quietly, and she laughs out loud, her laughter rings in her force field. I laugh with her, because I can't not laugh when Claud is laughing.

"Yes!" she catches her breath. "Just don't tell grumpy bear."

I shake my head vigorously. I would never tell Artie.

"So…" she says with a long breath, and turns serious again. "What do you need from me?"

"I wanted to know what you thought."

"Me?" she points at herself.

I nod. "You."

"What did everyone else say?"

"You're the first person I'm talking to about this."

"Awww…" she wears a mock vulnerable face and melts into her armchair, "Myka…"

"Here's another thing that's different from the last time," I decide to point out. "You're not a little sister anymore. You're my go-to person."

"Me?..." her tone creeps higher still.

"You."

"Isn't H offended?"

"Helena is my go-to person for a whole bunch of other stuff."

"Up-pup-pup-pup!" she utters loudly over the end of my sentence, plugs her ears with her fingers, not wanting to hear any of it. "I don't wanna know."

"So what do you think?" I urge her.

"I'm sad to think of you not being here anymore," she leans back into the armchair, straightening her legs, looking at her sneakers, "but I know that you'll always be part of us. Part of me. You're still my family."

I beam at her and feel my cheeks flushing, which means tears will be seeping out soon.

"Plus HG is still – technically – an artefact, and you are still – technically – her guardian," she is drawing circles in the air with her right hand, "so technically you will still be part of the Warehouse. But not in a… like… active capacity," she looks at me, waiting for me to confirm her logic.

So I nod.

"I think I can live with that," she says. "You still have to come over for Thanksgiving, though," she points at me.

"Deal," I seal the conversation with a decisive nod.

"Deal," she does as well.

She gets up to remove the force field, and I just have to ask. "How did you know?"

"I think the Warehouse knows," she turns to me and looks around her at this beast, the most animated inanimate object in the world. "Do you want to go see Pete now, or later?"

"Now," I say, and as we walk up the next aisle, I catch a scent of apples.

/ /

Untethering our lives from the Warehouse takes time. Not that I ever assumed the process of moving out of the Warehouse, so to speak, would be a simple task with a definitive completion date, but at times I have found myself needing to be reminded that our lives will never be fully unlinked from endless wonder, that we will forever be connected to the Warehouse and its people, no matter how tentatively. As dearest Claudia insists, we are family.

I find comfort in this admission, not least because it helps me grow beyond my status as a human artefact. More importantly, it's a matter of retaining a sense of familiarity in my relationship with Myka as it changes: she and I must recognise that the both of us have spent more of our lives within the Warehouse than outside it. Furthermore, throughout the whole of the time Myka and I have known each other, the Warehouse had always loomed nearby. Sometimes I wonder whether it is even possible for either of us to live wholly without it.

So while we shift our involvement in the daily goings on from central to peripheral, I choose to accept the presence of the Warehouse in our lives with open arms, and welcome the opportunity to give thanks to this miraculous oddity that allowed me to live long enough to meet the age in which Claudias and Mykas prosper.

It's easier for me to make such choices, as the impact on my life isn't as encompassing as it is on Myka's. While I had been slowly building a life for myself outside the expanding walls of the Warehouse for the past decade, Myka's life had had been concentrated within them for past two. I do believe she is finding the reality of backing away difficult.

She is not one to unburden her responsibilities onto others and when she is forced to, her perfectionist aspect rears its head. It is not an aspect of Myka's her nearest and dearest find pleasant. In fact, it is probably the only aspect of hers I do not find endearing, as much as I love her. I've learned – the hard way, it must be added – that there is no point in taking issue with it. I prefer to avoid it like the plague.

The past few weeks saw at least two instances during which emotions ran very high among the team. While neither instance came to blows, there had been raised voices and words were had in private after each event.

Not surprisingly, I had been placed in the position of peacemaker as the belief among the team is that I have the capability to disengage Myka's pernickety, detail-driven focus. Unbeknownst to them, I do not possess this magical power. I do, however, manage to appease her most times by reminding her (and myself) that there is a greater goal to be striving to, a reward at the end of this gauntlet, a reward of peace of mind. Of Wholesomeness.

It has befallen upon me to maintain focus for the both of us, a role I'm learning to fill since the Babel incident. This is a slight shift in our dynamic – historically, Myka had been the one to be maintaining focus, giving me strength when I lacked it. But now, she is the one lacking strength as she searches for a meaningful way to repurpose her talents. For the first time since her late teens she is seeking a vocation, and there are few ready-made jobs for her, considering her abilities and experience. I would go as far as to presume there are, in fact, no jobs that would fully utilise her capabilities.

For the time being, I've invited her to work with me on some of my projects, and she blooms. Yet, when the substation calls on her to navigate murky minds of politicians and generals, she thrives. So while we search for roles for her to engage with, she lacks a structured routine which – for her – is a trying endeavour.

All that said, I have not remained unscathed in this transition. Other than dealing with the shifting roles in my relationship with Myka (which requires a considerable amount of adapting on my part), I had to find an outlet for my technical savviness once my management of the substation's infrastructure ceased. Without the technological challenges of the substation, my work lost its mundane charm, and is now increasingly becoming boring.

It is not until we are letting go of the Warehouse that we realise how deeply embedded it had been in our daily routines. Almost every practical aspect of our lives changed: what we do, where and when, how we communicate and with whom.

For example, this is the first time there is no Farnsworth in our household. This may sound like a small change in hardware preference, but is, in fact, the first time in two decades that we can disconnect from the world. We are no longer accessible at any time, we are no longer accessible when travelling or in areas where mobile reception is non-existent. This, in itself is an adjustment, and I will not lie – has done wonders for our quality of sleep and the quality of our quality time. I well and truly celebrate the sense of real privacy that we are experiencing for the first time.

Along with privacy and our altering dynamics, Myka and I are exploring new ways of being together. Our free time, how we spend it and the topics of our conversations changed as the number of distractions around us decreased. Not that Myka and I ever run out of topics to discuss passionately, but there have been occasions recently when we expended far more energy when debating hypotheticals than we may have done in the past, simply because we can.

There is no longer a need to conserve our mental and emotional faculties for whatever doom we will surely be facing the following day.

Excitement seemed to have suffered a similar fate to that of distractions. An understandable decrease as we are no longer faced with mortal danger on a weekly basis. And thus, compared to a few months ago, our lives began to feel somewhat dull.

As neither she nor I take kindly to excessive leisure (and as both she and I have the tendency to get bored fairly quickly), we have been increasingly adventurous in our extra-curricular activities, from travel to food to each other.

I've been spending time experimenting in the kitchen (which, I found, is a lot like work in the fields of Chemistry and Physics) and Myka takes us to explore the beautiful, strange and exotic which she makes a point to locate in the most banal of places, from the Mid West to the Far East.

And as for each other…

Myka and I had always shared physical enthusiasm for one another and have often experimented with this enthusiasm. Since leaving the Warehouse, she has more energy about her and, similarly to the added energy we have in our conversations, our passion for each other has additional fuel. Much like with our conversation, we can expend more energy when we are with each other, so we do.

Another shift in our dynamic is that for the first time in our time together, it is my work that dictates our schedule. For the first time in my existence as a thoroughly modern woman – I am the primary breadwinner in our household, supporting a kept woman.

When I consider how removed this existence is from the clipped and crippled reality I left in the 19th century, I feel ever so slightly elated. In this existence, I own a business. I publish my work under my own name. I am allowed to accrue debt. I have my name on the title deed to our cottage. I can share the ownership of this deed with another woman, live my life with her openly and without the ambiguity of the nature of our involvement.

True, mankind hasn't progressed as much as I would have imagined in a century, but this progress warms me to the possibilities of a different future.

I often indulge in thoughts of socio-economical progress – science fact and science fiction – when I am travelling alone. And since our departure from the Warehouse I find I travel alone more than I used to.

I am sitting on the train back from London, following three days abroad and a conference in the Capital. A packed week like this would leave me sufficiently tired, but the past forty eight hours have been one travel disaster after the other, turning short journeys into burdensome experiences. For all the wonders of modern technology, its most amazing is how spectacular it is when it fails.

I was due to arrive home late last night, but malfunctions in just about any relevant technology (all of which have been blamed on an unexpected heatwave, much to my disbelief) have had me travelling from London northwards for the better part of a day. I'm sure this journey, from Euston to Welshpool, would have taken less time in the late 1800s.

By the time I arrive back at the cottage it's early afternoon. I fumble with the key in the lock and walk in, allowing the door to fall shut behind me rather loudly. I exhale a groan as I throw my bag and coat and jacket – all unnecessary in this heat, then slump while standing in the foyer, thinking what I require first to relieve my home sickness, my travel sickness and my fatigue.

Shoes off first. I unzip the ankle high boots and pull them off me. The cool slate floor welcomes my aching feet and abates the throbbing pain of having been clad in said boots for too long. A drink next. I make my way into the kitchen to find the French doors wide open to the garden, the dining table bathing in sunlight, a warm and humid breeze wafting in, filling the kitchen with the scents of damp grass and ripening fruit.

I fix myself a short Gin and Tonic and walk towards the French doors. I lean against the frame, look out into the garden, and take a long sip. The alcohol stings my mouth and throat, clearing hours' worth of breathing recycled and compressed air. The fresh mountain air tastes sweet after the soothing burn of the drink.

The second sip sends the chilled, intoxicating liquid through me and leaves a frozen trail that spreads from my stomach outwards. The third sip pushes the cool sensation until reaches my extremities, reaches my skin from the inside.

Another moment and another sip and my second wind arrives.

Where is Myka? As I am scanning the kitchen and garden for evidence of her whereabouts, I am mulling over the emergence of the assumption she will be waiting for me at home. Could it be that I have developed a chauvinistic expectation that – now that I am the earner of the household – my companion will care for me upon my return, drink in hand, meal at the ready, enticing outfit on – ready to satisfy my needs?

I take a moment to conjure an image of Myka from my imagination to fit the fantasy: she is wearing simple high heeled blue shoes, a thin strap fastens them around the base of her ankle. Her long legs sheathed in tan pantyhose. A 50s style, richly folding, dark blue circle skirt falls loosely above her knees, tightening around her waist, with a thin white belt accentuating them, spanning her. The bodice of the dress hugs her curves and delves down the middle of her chest with an alluring cleavage. The straps of the dress rest peacefully on her shoulders, and it would take little more than a brush of a finger to slide them off of her. Her head is held high, the crisp lines of her jaw and chin are smoothed with the faintest touch of rouge, her lips curved into a sweet smile, painted in red. Her eyes burn in their welcoming emerald, her brow with its natural quirk. Her beautiful, rich brown curls are carefully pinned into place around her head, and flow down to her shoulders and her back, almost tamed. Almost.

How delectable, I think and bite my lower lip as I feel my want for her growing, a seedling peeking out from the earth, unfurling its leaves towards warming sunlight. I must remember to suggest this to her.

Now, where is she?

I breathe in the hot air and step down to the patio and on, to the garden. The grass tickles my bare feet, cooling me further as I dig my toes into the damp, green blades. I run my fingers through my hair, releasing it, letting the light breeze evaporate sweat from my scalp.

I notice her arm resting limp on the grass, in the far corner of the garden. I should have known I will find her there, in her corner. She lays on the grass, on her back, splayed under the Buddleia bush. I walk towards her, expecting her to make a noise of some kind. Usually she reads a book or listens to music, so I'm expecting the rustling of pages or enthused tapping of palms and fingers against limbs or objects, or feet against each other or the ground.

No sound comes from her. She is too silent and too still. It worries me to think this, but she is deathly silent and still.

"Myka?" I speak quietly and continue my approach, until I'm standing over her.

I sigh quietly in relief, because she is sound asleep. I can tell by her breaths, steady, short and far apart. Her fingers twitch occasionally. Eyelids flutter lightly in dream, her face peaceful and relaxed.

Her outfit is quite possibly the direct opposite of the 50s ensemble I pictured her in earlier: she's wearing utilitarian, synthetic hiking capri trousers in olive green. One of its sleeves is bunched up around her knee, the other is bunched up higher, tantalisingly revealing her lower inner thigh. Her exposed legs are starting to glow in pink. She must have been laying like this for a while, the sun is leaving its mark on her skin.

Her white cotton t-shirt is tucked at the front of the trousers and rides up a bit, exposing an inch or so of her waist on either side. It is a thin-weave material and I can see her abdomen extending underneath it and the outlines of her bra pressing against it as she breathes. Her arms are stretched sideways, still and calm like the rest of her, with the exception of an occasional twitch of her fingers.

Her neck glistens with a hint of sweat; pollen, tiny flowers and dust cling to her skin like bees to honey. I know that in a matter of moments, my lips will be clinging to it as well.

Her hair cascades wildly behind and under her head, as though it is taking root in the ground it falls upon. The angle at which it falls exposes the bottom half of her ears and the patch of skin surrounding them. They are flushed in pink – she is hot – the temperature outside taking its toll on her even as she slumbers.

So delectable. I feel my pulse in my lips, yearning to reach her skin.

One of the advantages of living in a remote location is the privacy even when outdoors, so I sit myself next to her and ever so gently grant my lips relief for their longing, and touch them to her fingertips.

She mutters incoherently.

I tease her middle finger with my teeth and reach my tongue to the pad of her forefinger. I wrap my lips around both of them and take them into my mouth.

"Helena," she groans sleepily.

I wonder if that's all it took to wake her. I look up to find she is still asleep. My lips curve into a lascivious grin at my name falling from her sleeping lips, from her sleeping thoughts, from her dreams.

I draw my mouth up from her digits and begin a trail of kisses, nips, licks and bites down her fingers, onto her palm, to her wrist and her forearm.

I reach the crook of her elbow and swirl my tongue in its soft saltiness. She sighs my name again, shakes her head lightly and shifts her hips. Yet – she is still asleep.

I continue my journey up the inside of her arm. When I get to her shoulder, covered by the thin cotton of her shirt, I deal harder and wetter bites that ease again as I reach her clavicle. When I arrive at the base of her neck, I lay persistent caresses with lips and tongue to her neck, and it glows redder than it did a few moments ago. All the while, my need for her grows.

I'm about to reach the soft, pliant bud at the tip of her earlobe when I'm overwhelmed by a sudden need to touch more of her, so I stretch my arm around her to tuck my fingers under the raised hem of her shirt. She shudders as my fingertips travel up her abdomen, pulling her shirt up with them, out of her trousers and I reach my lips to the tip of her lobe to kiss it.

A breathy moan escapes her lips that rocks me to my core – literal and figurative – I can feel just how much I want her. I let go of her ear and search for her lips.

"Myka," I whisper equally breathlessly, "let me…" I bring my lips to hers for a gentle yet lingering kiss.

Her lips are dry so I wet them with my tongue. It is only when my lips fully crush hers that I feel her tensing under me.

I pull away immediately to look down at her. She looks a bit confused, her breath is heaving, nipples straining against the material that confines them and she is rubbing her thighs together.

"Helena," she croaks as she pushes herself up, leaning on her elbows behind her, "you're home."

"I am," I grin as I take her in, every inch of her, every detail.

She keeps wetting her lips, dragging them into her mouth, one at a time, over and over. Her eyes are straining in the light, their grey-green matches that of the Buddleia leaves. And she blinks, heavily, not quite ready to wake up.

Her hair is tousled, a branch caught behind her left ear and a leaf above her right, a spider climbs an errant curl that jots out from her mane. Her cheeks and neck are red, a deep blush running through them and they exert a new, thin film of sweat.

"Was I interrupting?" I purr and lean in to ghost my lips near her cheek. "You look positively bothered."

"I.." she sways into my touch, then away from it, then clears her throat, "I was asleep," her voice is deep and it rolls through me like thunder.

"I noticed," my lips feel the heat of her skin, feel her pulse as well as my own.

"I was dreaming," her breath begins to even out, her senses begin to calm and her voice tells me she is beginning to regain control.

"Really?" I taste the corner of her lips with the tip of my tongue. "What about, pray tell?"

"No tell," she growls and pulls me on top of her, "just show." She pushes her hand under my hair, at the nape of my neck and takes me in for a kiss. It is passionate and attentive and dominating. I fight her for control, nipping her lips as she suckles on mine and we groan wantonly into each other. This blessed friction pools arousal in the pit of my stomach and it travels further down, heated, as we make up for a week's absence, and I know that the synthetic blend of my trousers will do little to hide it.

"I missed you," I manage to whisper in between pulls and thrusts.

She exhales a laugh I could best describe as menacing, "you have no idea," she pushes me and herself up to a sitting position, pulls my top out of my trousers and tries to unbutton it in a haste while commandeering my mouth and breath, fumbling unsuccessfully with the double row of tiny buttons. "This shirt…" she mutters eventually, frustrated, and rips it open.

I don't have time to complain about her ruining of one of my favourite shirts, a Chanel no less, because her fingernails rake my ribs then my back, up to the clasp of my bra and her lips and teeth are busy marking my chest.

My fingers tangle in her curls, tugging and releasing, lightly and harshly, to counter her mouth on my chest and – oh, heavens – on my breast now, "Myka," I moan and her hands are at my waist. She lifts, goodness me, she lifts me with a firm hold and I can't breathe for a moment as she places me pointedly on top of… against her thigh.

"Hel—" her breath hitches and my name remains half spoken from her lips, as she feels just how much I've missed her, how much I want her. Her hands slide to the curve of my backside and she pulls me in, towards her, and releases; pulls me again and releases – dictating a slow rhythm I did not realise I craved.

I don't know how she does it, but I'm even more aroused than I was a minute ago. Her kisses are bruising and unforgiving, almost painful, but not, travelling between my lips and breasts, not relenting. She had missed me, and I had no idea just how much. But I missed her too, my Myka, and she has no idea just how much.

She bends her knee slightly, her thigh pushes farther into me and I slide down it, into her, and her pulls grind us together just that little bit harder, pushing me just a little bit closer to the edge, and then a little more. And then closer still.

I don't want to come just yet, and I will not let her win this round. I started this, I had a plan, a plan that's come back to me now, seconds away from my release, and I want her at my mercy.

My hands travel from her hair to the juncture of her neck and shoulders, my thumbs finding the dip behind her clavicles and I push them in – firmly, but not harshly.

She yelps in pain and leans back from me. Her eyes burn with desire and frustration – how dare I interrupt her.

I hold my index finger to her lips to silence her qualms and lean closer, eliminating the small gap between us. "Not so easily," I whisper into my finger and her lips then press mine on top, waiting for her to open her mouth so I can push in, finger and tongue together.

She gasps at assault and I lean back, drawing my finger out ever so slowly, "and not like that," I add, tracing my now wet finger down her chin, the regal column of her long neck and down her front to the bottom hem of her shirt, to divest her of it.

She bites her lip as my hands roam her naked torso. "You wanted me to show—"

"I did not," I correct her, fingers sliding down to tuck in and out of the waistband of her trousers, "I asked you to tell me," I enunciate, touching my tongue to my lip to emphasise the Ls.

Her eyes are glued to my lips as I speak, she is transfixed, her blush deepens and engulfs her chest as well. She is hot. Hot and bothered and I am so proud I made her so.

"Tell me, Myka," I shrug off my ruined shirt and bra, and flatten my body against hers, pushing her flat on her back.

"I don't want to tell you," she says through gritted teeth and a wicked smile, refusing to play my game, seeing as I wrecked hers.

"If you don't tell me…" I pull up and back ever so slightly, just so I can brush my breasts against hers on the way down, "I will have to guess," I whisper as my eyes come up to meet her.

She chuckles, her hands brushing their way up from my hips to my sides, until her thumbs stroke the sides of my breasts, threatening to tease achingly wanting nipples.

I remove my hands from her body and place them on hers. "…and you know just how bad I am…" I push her palms down slightly so her thumbs reach where I want them and she does the rest – grazing dark, eager peaks, trapping them between the base of her thumbs and her palms. "…at guessing…" I whimper and she growls, flashing her teeth and running her tongue against them, looking at me, predatory.

I arch my back and send my hair back, taking pleasure in her torment and in the subtle moves her pelvis makes against me.

"Don't stop," I lean forward onto my elbow which I place above her shoulder and deprive her the contact she craves. I thread my other hand in her hair and straighten my leg so my thigh grazes her sex.

A low moan rumbles from her and she lets her head fall back, closing her eyes, accepting her fate. My hand creeps from her hair down her side, feeling the tension in her deltoids and biceps as she fights the urge to do more, feeling her obliques and lats tremor with every breath she takes. I make quick work of the button and zip of her trousers and my fingers skim the outline of her pants, at the very apex of her thighs.

Her hands slow against me.

"Don't you dare stop," I instruct her.

She opens her eyes and smiles defiantly as she stops her caress but does not remove her hands. "So bad at guessing," and captures my bottom lip in her teeth and bites down, a rebellious act against my perceived tyranny.

I release a devious laugh of my own – the game seemed to have taken an interesting turn and I'm willing to raise the stakes.

I push her pants to the side and smooth two fingers along the length of her wet folds, doing my best to retain my façade. Oh, it is so very hard to pretend to not be affected by her slick, wanting, warm softness.

She tries to keep hers, but her body gives her away and she rocks into my touch for a few seconds.

And then she stops.

I can only imagine the amount of mental energy it takes her to stop moving. I move against her, but her mind is made up. How does she do it?

"Minx," I throw with a smile.

"Tease," she throws back, equally amused.

We stay like that – me on top of her, both of us half naked, her hands at my breasts, mine in her hair and her sex – for a while. Before too long the strain of this position begins to take its toll on the both of us.

I admit defeat to myself and start pulling away. My body refuses to sustain my stance above her, as wondrous as it is, after the week I've had. She grins triumphantly for a split second, but then pulls me down and I collapse, the full weight of my body topples onto her.

She tangles her hand in my hair while the other reaches mine still touching her. Her eyes glow with joy and want, and she traps her full, bottom lip in her teeth. "Take me," she says and pushes my hand deeper into her, and she sighs and kisses me adoringly.

So I do – there and then.

Then she takes me in the kitchen, while I try to cook dinner.

And then again in the front room, after dinner.

/ /

Let me paint a picture for you, then I'll have to teach you to see it.

It's a line from a song Claudia made me listen to after we talked about my leaving the Warehouse. I like that song, it kind of reminds me of early Prince.

The whole point of that song is that no matter how amazingly lucky you are to be allowed into an Eden, it will – after a while – lose its charm. Enough will happen to eventually hurt you. And at some point Paradise won't be Paradise anymore, and you will need to find someplace else to go to. You'll need to find another Eden.

And that's sort of what happened to me and the Warehouse.

I love the Warehouse. I love the substation. I love every minute I had spent there, even the ones that were difficult and painful. And, god, there was a lot of pain. But I don't regret a single thing.

So what changed in my Eden? I think I did. There was a moment I realised that my truth had changed, that it isn't the same truth Helena told me to not run from way back when. It wasn't easy to admit, it wasn't easy to talk about it with the people I love.

Claud was so understanding. She almost made it too easy. A part of me thinks she knows something neither of us knows, as a Warehouse Caretaker. Maybe she knows that Helena and I will always be with the Warehouse, so she's not making a big deal out of it.

Steve's not making a big deal of it either because he and I are bound by the connection Kevin and Helena share, so both he and I know that this isn't the end of anything.

Artie grumbled at me, but didn't look surprised. Helena thinks that he is a little jealous that I'm daring to do what he never could, and still can't.

Pete took it harder. It was a little bit like breaking up with him all over again. He must have been silent for about half an hour after I told him I wanted to leave, and for Pete that's almost a record. He made me swear that he'll be invited for The Pete Special (with bacon) at least twice a year (his birthday and mine), and that I will continue honouring my commitment to our annual Halloween movie marathon.

But I actually found that the hardest thing is for me to let go, because this is everything I've lived for for the past twenty years.

Holy crap, that sounds like such a long time. Just shy of half my life.

I still believe in what we did, in what the Warehouse does. I still think that this world of endless wonder is important and powerful and full of surprises. I guess I just hit capacity. I had enough danger and doubt and death and destruction, and I need to replace them with a little peace. It felt like I was getting too close to evil, crazy or dead (or Artie) and I don't think it's time for me just yet.

So for nearly six months now, there's been no danger or doubt or death or destruction. There's been a lot of peace. And a lot of time to try different things. And a lot of time to be with the people I love and give myself to them completely, without being afraid for their lives, or mine, or that being with them gets in the way of my job.

Because as amazing as it's been… being part of the Warehouse was – at the end of it – a job.

For nearly six months now I don't have a job. It's a really weird thing, to not have a job. I don't think I'd ever not had a reason to wake up really early in the morning and get started with a whole set of tasks that needed doing. I don't think I'd ever had such lack of structure to my life. It's a little scary, but kind of nice at the same time.

Helena is trying really hard to keep me busy. She thinks that a little boredom will kill me. I know where she's coming from – I don't do bored very well. But she has only seen me bored when it was a result of things majorly messing up my plans. Like when flights get cancelled, or when government officials play idiotic power games, or when Pete touches something he shouldn't. That's a very specific kind of bored that's very different from the kind of bored I'm discovering now.

This kind of bored is having time to think. To contemplate. To take an idle walk. To read a book I don't like, knowing I don't like it, because it's not about gratification. It's about the experience.

It's not a coincidence that this is the least routine I've ever had and the most calm I've ever been. I still have a routine, though. Wake up at 6am, go for a run – or a walk if Helena joins. But I don't start working straight away. Not even on days that I do work. I usually sit down in the kitchen and have something to read with breakfast, or the other way around. Sometimes I make a pass at breakfast for the both of us, and Helena – who's turned to a right cooking snob – does her best to not criticise my rudimentary skills. It's rare I'll get started with work before 8:30. It's even rarer that we do our tag-team pancake thing. We rarely need to be that speedy and efficient.

It's just after seven now, I'm back from my run, Helena is still in bed and I've just made us tea. Proper tea, loose leaf, like she brews. I finally took the time to learn how to make her the perfect cuppa. I call it 'cuppa' now. I even use a tea cosy. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

I don't try making breakfast. We still have ginger snaps that Helena engineered. Her biscuit making walks the thin line between art and science. She managed to make a name for herself in the surrounding villages over the winter when she baked batches for the local Christmas fundraisers.

Yeah. We do that now. Christmas bake-offs and community galas and summer fetes.

Claudia was shocked a few weeks back when she was given special honours at the local pub because she's a friend of Helena's, the one known for divine biscuits, rather than, say, inventing science fiction, or a time machine, or a grappler.

I place biscuits, tea, milk and cups on a tray and head upstairs to the bedroom. I walk in and she's reading in bed. She looks up at me and smiles. I smile back and she goes back to her tablet.

I put the tray on the bed, next to her, and sit at her feet. Helena looks at me from over the top of her tablet as I commence the tea ceremony. Milk first, then check the tea in the pot. Then pour it – gently – creating a swirling motion in the cup, to heat the milk (or cool the tea) evenly. She arches an eyebrow, scrutinising my actions. I arch an eyebrow back, grinning.

I hold the cup up to her, for inspection. "Why, darling, it would appear that teaching you to brew the perfect cup of tea was a worthy use of both our time," she lowers the tablet and takes the cup from me, holding it in both hands and bringing it to her chest.

"Not so hopeless after all," I smile as I swirl tea into my own cup.

"Never," she breathes in the scent of hot, milky Assam, "it simply takes time and practice," she sips it gingerly. Her expression beams approval. "And it would appear you found the time to practice."

I smile lopsidedly at her and offer her a biscuit. "Busy day?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes. "The Huston presentation," she takes a bite, "are you ready?"

"I'm not presenting," I answer, mouth full of ginger.

"Fine," she places her tea and biscuit on the bedside table beside her. "Am I ready?" she asks and leans back against the headboard.

"You've been ready for a week," I take another sip of my tea before getting up from the bed.

"What do you mean?" she narrows her eyes questioningly. "I only gave you the raw data a week ago."

"It's not rocket science, Helena," I move the tray to the floor and climb back on the bed, stretching myself along her. I'm over the covers, she's under them. "I did your analysis the same day." I slide my hand across her abdomen and lean to kiss her neck.

But then I breathe her in: a hint of fabric softener from the linen, a hint of soap, a hint of sweat, a hint of something that's all Helena. And just like that, a single kiss is not enough. When I exhale her, the cool air breezes across her skin and she releases a soft gasp. So I kiss her again, open mouthed this time, suckling on the crook of her neck.

"Did you—" her breath hitches when I catch a patch of skin between my teeth, "Myka…" she sighs my name with want and leans her head against mine, "Did you aggregate it with the previous—" she sighs again and doesn't get to finish her thought when I brush my lips against the raw, rosy flesh.

I release a low, throaty chuckle, "two," kiss, "five," nip, "and seven years' data," my lips travel up her neckline, "qual and quant," I whisper and drag my teeth against her earlobe, "critically analysed," my lips sweep the shell of her ear, "coded in grounded theory," I mouth just over her ear and my tongue lingers for a ghosting touch.

She exhales a moan that can only mean one thing, and in the split second before my need mirrors hers and removes all thought (bar one) from me, I acknowledge I'm the luckiest person on earth to know that I can turn this stunning woman on with well brewed tea and data-dirty-talk.

She tightens her fist in my hair and pulls me to her. She whispers "I love you," and she kisses me, and I kiss her, hungrily. And that one thought echoes in my mind and grows bigger and bigger until this kiss is not enough either.

I pull the covers towards me and off of her to roll on top of her. She trails kisses down my jaw and neck as she shifts down the bed. "You taste of sweat," she whimpers when I slide between her legs, the smooth, cool material of my running leggings rubs against her very naked and anticipating lower body, "and rain," she presses her tongue against the hollow of my neck, "and grass," she notes, a hint of surprise in her voice.

I register the tone of her voice, but I'm not really paying attention because I'm in the middle of working through that one thought. I growl quietly and my hands journey under her night shirt, pushing it up so I can sweep my fingertips against the underside of her breasts. My mouth claims hers again and her fingers press against the base of my neck. It's an urgent touch, she's pushing me off her.

I pull away and look down.

"Why do you taste of grass?" she asks.

My fingers at her side are not responding to her stop signal and continue to brush her skin, still soft and warm from sleep. The sensation from my fingertips feels like small jolts of electricity. It's hypnotic and I can't help but close my eyes and concentrate on it.

"Myka," her serious tone removes my attention from the mesmerising sensation at my fingertips and focuses it on her. I open my eyes, trying really hard to concentrate on what she is saying, "did you run up the mountain?"

My fingers aren't stopping. Apparently, they have a life of their own. "Yeah," I answer dreamily, "Why?"

"I'm the one who should be asking why," her eyes turn concerned, because to her, when I go across the field and up the mountain I'm going back to the fence, to the moment when I shot Karl. But it's not that anymore.

I go up that mountain because the view from up there is stunning – that's the simple, honest answer, but "Now?" my fingers travel further up and across her chest, then down, to cover her breasts. "Really?" I smirk as I close my hand around her and my thumb brushes an already alert nipple.

She accepts my touch with a bite on her lower lip, worry washes away from her. "I will not let you get away with it so easily," she says but lets go, her back arching, pushing herself off the bed and into me.

I take advantage of the opportunity and peel her shirt off, and mine, and I lay on top of her. We revel in the exhilaration of full body contact for a few seconds, before I start trailing fast and light kisses down her cheek and chest to give her breasts some much needed attention.

I want to pay attention to all of her, though, so I pull my right knee up. It pushes up her left thigh and she is open to me.

I start with teeth and tongue alternating nips and pulls and caresses and dabs onto her right nipple. She becomes sensitised all too quickly, so I turn my attention to her left. Then the supple softness of the swell of her left breast calls for me to adorn it with kisses, grazes and tugs. Then her right must be adorned in the same way. All the while she grinds her core into mine in a slow, seductive, repetitive motion.

She tastes like apples that have just been picked: sun and dust and the promise of sweet flesh underneath. She's intoxicating, and I've only just begun.

Her hands, that were busy in my hair this whole time, travel down. Her left travels to rest on my backside, tracking fingernails across lycra in a maddening pattern; her right takes the path of least resistance between us. I think she's growing impatient. I think I am too.

She grunts as she tries to push past the snug waistband of the leggings. "As devilishly attractive as you are in these form fitting outfits," her left hand joins the effort, "I do take issue with how difficult they are to remove."

I laugh against her breast, my teeth tightening on a sensitive nipple and she whimpers at the sensation. I wrap my lips around the over-worried peak, then press a kiss to calm it.

I lift my head to look at her and she looks – to use her words – bothered. Her hair is ruffled, her skin is flushed, her eyes are dark. She is beyond turned on. She's wanting.

I can't help the sly smile that creeps across my lips. The view from down here is stunning, too. I place a chaste kiss between her breasts and lift myself off her and off the bed in a single move.

"Where are you going?" she asks, a little surprised, a little confused.

"I'm coming to your rescue," I grin at her and push my pants down, along with underwear and socks, only to crawl back on top of her and feel her flushed skin against mine, hear the wanton sigh that escapes her lips and let it ring in my head.

Her right hand travels back down my abdomen to find me wet and waiting. I mirror her gesture – two fingers lightly brushing against folds.

When I touch her, she sighs my name in a way that melts me. I'm never tired of how she says my name when I touch her. I lean my forehead against hers so my lips can skim hers, so I can whisper my worship to her as we feel.

I barely move my hand against her. She's moving against my hand and I move against hers. If this wasn't instinct, I'd say I was making a point of reflecting every single one of her movements. Maybe that is the point, but we've touched like this so many times, it's become instinct.

The point I'm actually making is relishing the touch; the feel of her fingers pressed against me, and pressing mine against her. The point is that there is no hurry, no rush. The finish line is some kind of an added bonus that neither of us is even aiming for. The point – right now – is to enjoy the closeness and excitement we inspire in each other.

So for a long, wet and lustful while, we just touch.

This time, Helena's the first to give in, overtaken by her need. She pushes her hand down and enters me with two fingers. The feeling of her inside me overwhelms us both equally and I savour it for a second before I start moving against her again. Before I go inside her.

She sighs when I do, and I move against and inside her at the same time. Her eyes tear open with hunger. She reaches for a searing, searching kiss and bites into my lips. She isn't light or gentle or flirtatious. She hurtsme in the most pleasurable way.

I groan a small laugh – I know she is gone now. She is lost in her passion, just slightly out of control. Her teeth on my lips are pulling me out there with her.

We keep a steady pace against each other, pressure building, breaths running shorter, moans climbing in pitch, until there is only movement and the muffled sound of short gasps. It feels like there's only our movement and sound and sensation – god – this amazing sensation, and nothing else besides them exists. I love being lost in this moment, being lost in this feeling and warmth and tension, knowing she's enveloped in them too.

My eyes are closed because I know that the second I open them, the second I look at her lost in this moment – I will fall over the edge. And as blissful as it will be, this is just as blissful. Sometimes… Right now, actually… this is even more blissful.

But then she sighs my name again, like that.

So I open my eyes to find hers an inch away from mine, and she touches our lips, and I come and she follows, tumbling over that finish line.

Our movements gradually slow, and we gently pull out (but not away) from each other. We stay touching. Stay close.

I kiss her, indulgently, teasing out every last drop of craving with long sweeps of tongue against lips.

And she sighs.

And I sigh.

I love you, Helena, I think, or say. I'm not really sure.

For the longest time and still.

---

Love is a verb

Love is a doing word

Fearless on my breath

Gentle impulsion

Shakes me, makes me lighter

Fearless on my breath

Teardrop, Massive Attack (Ft. Liz Fraser)

---

Thank you so very much for reading, for the bookmarks and the reviews.

I hope you enjoyed the ride.

I realise that the ending might annoy some of you. Either way – I'd love to hear about it. :)

I give thanks to all the amazing writers of this fandom. You are all an inspiration. If you look hard (in some cases it isn't that hard…) you will find doffs of the hat to many of my favourite fics.

(and an extra massive thanks to Roadie and Rachel452).

In case anyone was wondering (and as this is the tradition around these parts) the title of the fic is from Sia's song Numb: "It has to end to begin".

watch?v=3ammsX8cSC4

The title of this chapter is the title of the song Claudia makes Myka listen to, Eden by Sara Bareilles:

watch?v=FGYZNq87gHY

…and the fic ends with a piece of Massive Attack's Teardrop:

watch?v=BAVUPu7URbc