She crosses her legs under her and turns the orb on.
There's a clear look of surprise on the brunette's face when she appears in the middle of the room. Whether it is due to the fact that Myka still has the orb or because of where she is, the young agent cannot say. Those burning dark eyes take in the surroundings and there it is – the sad, tender smile, that dimple that triggers strange thoughts in Myka, thoughts of running her lips along the Englishwoman's cheek. She lowers her gaze.
"Myka. I – I thought we had said our goodbyes." She says, her voice a mere whisper, as if trying not to break into tears, although Myka's not sure an hologram can actually cry. Not that she wants to know, actually. She needs H.G to be strong for them both, or she will lose it.
She shakes her head.
"I don't want to say goodbye, Helena."
Those deep brown eyes fill with hope, hope that maybe, Myka is trying hard to forgive her for everything. Helena knows she probably doesn't deserve her forgiveness in the first place, but she has lost her whole era, her job, her pride, damn – even her body, and Myka's last shreds of affection are the last thing left to anchor her to this world. Granted, to anchor her consciousness in a world she cannot be part of.
"I see you've taken my room." She doesn't linger on her own reluctance to say goodbye. Of course she doesn't look forward to spending any more time in the dark, brooding over how stupid she is.
Myka shifts, uneasy.
"Steve moved into mine while I was gone." That's not much of an explanation. There is a couple of empty rooms down the hallway. Helena knows it. And Myka is suddenly aware of the situation- H.G Wells' consciousness is standing there in her old room, room that she has invaded without getting rid of the inventor's belongings, which she treasures like her own. Okay, more than her own. She feels mortified.
"Do you mind?" She finally asks, not sure if she's talking about the invasion of her private space – although she doubts Helena has ever heard about this notion – or the fact that she shamelessly stole her things.
"Why would I? It's not as if I was in need of a room anymore." Her sarcastic tone sounds awfully unjust even to herself, and she sighs when Myka lowers her gaze. She casts a glance around the room, smiling fondly. It does not escape her that her friend uses her things. She finds it rather endearing, adorable even, and it triggers a pang of guilt. The world being 'no place for a child' suddenly feels like the shittiest reason why you'd ever betray Myka Bering; trust H.G Wells on that.
"No, darling. I don't mind. It makes complete sense. Doesn't it." She says softly, her eyes back on Myka.
No, no it doesn't. Helena's consciousness being trapped in a holographic form doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense that Myka should have to live in her deserted room in order to feel close to her, as if she had never left in the first place. It doesn't make sense that she has to cling to a scented pillow instead of hugging Helena when she needs comfort. Above all, it doesn't make sense that she should have a crush on that damn woman who's nothing but trouble. Yeah because that's what it is. A crush. A freaking bloody crush she didn't see coming. And all of this, and this 'NO' that wants to leave her throat must show on Myka's face, because Helena steps closer and tries to make amends.
"I fail to see what Peter would do with all these books." She says, smiling softly.
That's what it takes to make Myka break into a fit of nervous chuckles. It's not all that funny, really. But it's how H.G said it, in such a matter-of-fact tone, as if it is evident enough to eclipse the deeper meaning of her previous question. The smile on Helena's face only grows wider, until she cannot hold it anymore and she's laughing too, her shoulders shaking helplessly. And she feels like giving way to the tears she cannot possibly shed because she is not made of water, because she desires nothing more than to collect Myka in her arms and let her cry in her neck, but she can't, because she is excluded from that otherwise tangible world, trapped inside of her own dimension. And why is it that she is constantly trying to destroy what has the power to make her happy?
"I miss you." That's not what Myka wanted to say. Helena doesn't deserve to know she's missed. She does not deserve to be missed at all. Don't walk away from your truth. 'Then why did you walk away from me?' is what Myka thinks.
Helena is struck by the confession. She's both surprised that Myka feels that way – although the way she's been borrowing her belongings is a rather clear indication – and that she says it out loud.
"Well, I'm here now, am I not." Helena's tone is defiant, and Myka sees she clearly doesn't want to talk about the fact that she's not here. Not really. Her mind takes her back to the night Mrs Frederic came to find her at her father's bookstore, to Helena's look when she had tried to touch her, her hand meeting colored air where Helena's neckline should have been. Had it been pain? Longing? She feels bad about hoping it had been both.
"No you're not." She says, or rather spits out, jumping from her bed. She takes a second to admire the effect of her words on HG's face. Oh yes, this hurts, and she's not even ashamed of hoping it hurts like hell.
Helena doesn't flinch, she knows Myka needs to take it all out. She fully intends to let her. She knows even before the young woman extends her arm that she's going to try touching her again, so she prepares for the emptiness she's going to feel, the bitterness invading her heart. What hurts even more than the knowledge that she cannot feel her beloved's touch is that this time, Myka's hand is nothing like the last time she's done this. There's no hesitation. Her fingers are guided by certainty, and Myka brushes them against thin air, where Helena's cheek would be, as she has done in Egypt. And that's all it takes for her to die inside. Or that's what she thinks until she registers the look of sheer love in Myka's gaze and she can't resist the moan that escapes from her. That's torture.
"You do feel something when I touch you." Myka observes, running her hand distractingly along her neck and down her arm.
Helena swallows hard. Yes, she does. It's the faintest sensation, but when you're missing your body and the way it feels to have one, you kind of become hyper sensitive to anything close to a sensation.
"A slight tingling." She sighs.
Myka can feel it too now. Electricity running at the tip of her fingers. She doesn't know what she's doing any longer. Helena's voice is heavy with desire, her face shows how painful it is for her to be 'touched' and not being able to touch back, and Myka feels drunk with power. For months H.G has manipulated her. Hundreds of looks and light caresses in the past have made her weak in the knees, absolutely unable to think of reciprocating the gestures of affection. Now, this is revenge. She can have this, now that she knows exactly how she feels for the petite woman, now that she misses her, all of her, she is desperate enough to drive her past breaking point.
Neither of them know how it happened, but they are dangerously close to each other, yet they cannot collide. Without noticing, they reached the point where their lips are almost touching. They could kiss. It wouldn't be a real kiss made of lips and tongues, of course – barely electricity and warmth, a tingle of love going from one heart to a consciousness. The idea is very tempting, if you ask Myka. But she knows she will only end up wanting more. The aim of her little game is to make Helena suffer as a revenge, not to set her own heart ablaze with unrequited love and unquenchable lust. So she doesn't kiss her.
Yet, her fingers think it's perfectly okay to go ahead and tease H.G's lips, and the holographic projection closes her eyes. The Englishwoman knows she shouldn't be imagining Myka's lips where her fingers are, but she has no control over her thoughts. She's shivering. Or maybe that's her image, undulating as a reaction to Myka's touch. Maybe her body is shivering too, wherever it is, if it still exists. That sudden thought is what makes her open her eyes again – What if she's dead and buried somewhere? She doubts Mrs Frederic could have convinced the regents to lay her to rest next to Christina in Paris.
She takes a step back, only to regret doing so when she feels cold and empty again.
"Please, don't torture yourself darling."
All the bitterness is gone from Myka. As if, somehow, the tingle between the tip of her fingers and Helena's holographic red lips had been the truth neither of them should walk away from. All that's left is a huge amount of tears. She nods, briefly, not looking at the traitor.
It's too late for that kind of advice. That's who she is, blaming herself for everything that doesn't go according to plan, from her loneliness in college to Sam's death. And pleading the regents to reinstate Helena as a warehouse agent, never doubting her intentions.
"Myka?"
She's sure H.G would trap her chin in the palm of her hand to force her to look up if she could. She doesn't need to. Her pleading tone is enough to have all of Myka's attention.
"You need to get some rest." She says seriously.
She's right. Myka feels sore. Her eyes are burning and she knows she's got some pretty ugly dark circles under those said-sad eyes.
"I'll sing you a lullaby if you want." Helena adds with a teasing smile that makes Myka's lips twitch.
"But you'll be gone when I wake up." She protests, too tired to raise her voice above a whisper.
Helena shrugs.
"Let's face it – We are not able to say goodbye. So let's just say goodnight."