warehouse 13 fanfiction, myka/h.g. - you fit me better than my favourite sweater.
you fit me better than my favourite sweater.
Author's Notes: First thing I complete in this fandom and it's both ridiculous and porn. Colour nobody surprised. Right so, story: once upon a time there was a kink meme and in that kink meme was a prompt that suggested H.G. might enjoy more modern forms of dancing (lbr, vertical sex) and then that prompt wormed its way into my brain and said Paula, stop writing all the serious legitimate fic you are writing and write a stupid porn battle fill instead. Except this is 7000 words and that porn battle is meant to be anonymous (and I just do not believe in not signing my name on my porn, xoxo) - so.
A) This is ridiculous. It's sex that decided, at the last minute, that it wanted to have feelings. B) I struggled with the voices. C) Yes, I know the artefact involved is gratuitous and unexplained, that's because I was too lazy, don't judge. D) I was going to call this from the back now from the front for reasons that will become obvious and if you know what song that is from you will totally (and rightly) judge me but you know. If you want a bit of seedy hip hop to get you in a seedy nightclub sex fic kind of mood, go right ahead. E) Season 3 finale was sad. Let's just pretend that all gets resolved 'kay? F) There is a tiny bit of weird consent stuff because I like tropes and an artefact made them do it. It's in the context of a highly consensual sex scene, but still. TW for dubcon because tbh, that's what it looks like to me. (I could be really sensitive to this.)
Artie told them the artefact fed off energy, excesses. Artie neglected to mention that those energies were decidedly carnal in nature.
A sex artefact. She's been sent to San Francisco with her with her reincarnated, sort-of, maybe, once-upon-a-time almost - whatever, it is so far beyond complicated... H.G. Wells. She has been sent to San Francisco with H.G. Wells hunting a sex artefact.
Myka is going to need time to process this.
She leaves H.G. (who is criminally unfazed saying things like "apparently it took la petite mort a little too literally" to Artie and Claudia) in front of the Farnsworth and paces back and forth thinking that she'd trade Pete's immature jokes for the absolute torture of listening to Helena say "sex" about fifty times a day in a heartbeat.
She nearly jumps at the sound of the Farnsworth closing.
"Are you alright Myka?" H.G. asks, looking slightly confused and more than a little concerned.
Sure. She is fine. Totally, absolutely - she swallows - "Fine."
Helena rather obviously doesn't believe her, but thankfully, they have a lead to follow up on and she doesn't have time to press.
(All of this would be a lot easier if Helena hadn't so recently been dead and then decidedly not dead and Myka hadn't made a habit of making sure she was still not dead by kissing her, a habit which had rather abruptly come to an end about a week ago when they'd done a little more than kissing.
Okay.
A lot more.
And it would've been the absolute most amazing sex of Myka's life if she hadn't, rather mortifyingly, started to cry the moment it was over.
Things have been slightly... stilted ever since.)
Myka's life could never just be normal or go according to one her exceptionally detail-orientated plans, for once. So it's a Saturday night and they're tracking an artefact-wielding suspect to a trendy club and she's wearing high heels and she has never been so resentful of a lead panning out in her entire life. Helena, on the other hand, seems to be utterly fascinated by the entire concept of a nightclub, from the dress code to the way old alcohol makes their shoes stick to the floor.
And while Myka has always found it a little bit adorable when Helena goes all 19th century on her, tonight, in combination with the outfit and the case which almost necessitates having sex on the brain, it's almost too much. She has to remind herself to focus. And then remind herself again to focus on the artefact and not Helena's (perfect, slightly dirty, incredibly talented) mouth.
"What is this... noise?"
"Music. Well." Myka wrinkles her nose. "If you use the term loosely."
"Anthropologically fascinating." Helena looks around them. "And this ... physical behaviour, I suppose you call it dancing?"
Myka nods, half-distracted seeking out their suspect in the throng of bodies.
"I do like the more individualistic take on it." She lets her hand rest loosely against Myka's arm and says it with a paradoxical mix of scientific observation and utter wickedness that only Helena could manage: "Though I see it is still a prelude to seduction, in a much more obvious way."
Myka bites into her lip, tries to ignore how the grip on her wrist is burning. She gives up on the crowd and turns to her anachronistic colleague with some degree of trepidation. "I can't see her."
"No, neither do I." Helena frowns. "How do you propose we go about looking amongst this crowd?"
"Well the artefact feeds on excesses right?" The question mark catches in her throat and she squirms a little, feeling a little too hot and that her dress is a little too tight and she absolutely, cannot believe that she's about to say what she's going to say. "So it's a reasonable assumption that we're going to find the wearer drunk in the middle of that dance floor."
"True."
"So we should probably try to ... blend in."
"Agent Bering, are you asking me to dance?"
Myka wishes Helena would twinkle at her a little less. Really. It's utterly unnecessary to the task at hand.
"Yes, come on." She takes Helena's hand and drags her forward, because the sooner they snag, bag and tag, the sooner she can get out, of the club, of the dress, of the entire situation.
"Myka."
It's so unsure that she turns back, looks down at their hands, stretched between them now that H.G. has stopped behind her.
"Uh, how exactly does one-" (she gestures with her free hand) "- do that?"
Myka takes a hitching breath. "Well, uh, you just sort of ... move, in time to the music sort of ... together." She feels utterly ridiculous as she tries to demonstrate, because she has never been a club sort of girl and her limbs have, traditionally, been far too long for her to feel graceful moving them in time to music. Punching Pete in the arm, aiming a gun or a Tesla at someone, maybe. But dancing? Well, she usually requires a fair amount of liquid courage. "Like the people you've been watching so closely. "
Helena, on the other hand, looks stupidly and unfairly elegant doing just about anything, including, it seems, gyrating to dubstep in a seedy nightclub.
"So basically I try to have clothed, vertical sex with you?"
Myka releases her grip, tries not to see the appeal in that scenario, blinks and looks up. Her companion looks less incredulous than she sounds, more... curious, and curiosity always has the potential for disaster when Helena is in involved. But Myka shrugs because it's as good a description as any. "Kind of. Yeah."
The words are much closer to her ear than she anticipates, wicked and mostly breath and accompanied by H.G.'s hands curling at the fabric of her dress:
"I can do that."
It's a voice that she hears less with her ears and mostly between her thighs and then Helena's hands are raking down her arms as they journey to her hips and she's being pulled back and pressed against simultaneously and she finds herself thinking that she is really, really screwed.
She finds herself looking for something, anything to distract her from how well they fit together, how under the guise of making observations Helena's lips keep brushing her neck, how she is definitely a combination of too sober and too old to be moving like this. Still, Myka feels incredibly powerful every time she turns and they're pressed front to front and it's entirely obviously that she is not the only one enjoying this far too much. And really, she is so ridiculously turned on that she doesn't even care how stupidly undignified it is when she grinds (just a little) into the soft press of Helena's thigh which is somehow between her legs and ... artefact, she thinks, twisting around and pushing her hair from her eyes with one hand so she can scan the crowd.
"I'll admit," Helena says against her ear, no pretence about it, lips almost sucking. "I'm beginning to understand the charm in this sort of dancing."
Her fingers dig into the seam of Myka's dress at her waist and run down by the heels of her palms. The material of her dress ruches beneath them and she says, under her breath, to remind her. "Artefact."
At the press of hands into her hips though, she reflexively arches her back Helena presses her hips into it and gasps but Myka is a professional, she can do this, there is absolutely nothing about this that is weird beyond her job description and she is definitely going to ignore fingers creeping at where her skirt has hitched to.
Except Helena doesn't seem to share her dedication and Myka would swear her mouth is not even inches from her neck - she can feel the warmth of it and her eyes flick closed in anticipation - when suddenly, she's being dragged through the crowd and H.G. is saying, "I see it."
And Myka isn't sure whether she should be relieved or incredibly disappointed.
They chase their mark, but taking stairs two at a time in a short skirt and high heels is another thing that's not really in her skill set and by the time they reach the top of the unnecessarily spiralling staircase, the artefact and the woman wearing it are out of sight and they're both breathless, panting at each other in a way that is far too evocative.
The second floor is a mezzanine level that circles the bottom floor. It gives them a view of the crowd below that Myka thinks they really could have utilised earlier. She blinks, forces herself not to dwell on the memory of Helena's hands all over her except for where she'll barely admit to herself that she wants them and says, "You go that way, I'll go this way."
She hurls herself into the crowd and starts weaving between shoulders before waiting for a response.
When she's completed a semi-circle, she's spinning a little for any sign of the suspect, the artefact or Helena when she finds at least the latter, by colliding with her at full force.
"Nothing?" she asks, and it's all she gets the opportunity to ask before she's being kissed, rather thoroughly, on the mouth. Her first reaction is to freeze with her arms thrown out a little uselessly at her sides, startled. And her second is to open her mouth and close her eyes and put her hands to work pawing at whatever part of Helena she happens to blindly grope at which is, apparently, the curve of her back and then lower than that and by the time her brain registers exactly what she's doing, she feels completely helpless to resist it.
The need to breathe becomes urgent and as she does, Helena's mouth traces a hot, wet line along her jaw and she manages to keep her eyes open long enough to walk her backwards into a more-or-less shadowy corner. Helena's hands are splayed against her stomach, and they press her back into the wall and she feels the air hiss out of her in a gasp. Somehow she manages, weakly, a protest. "Helena, stop; it's the artefact. It ... must be."
(A complete and utter lie but she needs something for her reeling mind to latch onto. As a warehouse agent, an artefact is usually a safe bet when it comes to hard-to-rationalise behaviour.)
Helena stops sucking at the junction of her jaw (and really, they have not done this enough for Helena to know exactly how much she responds to that particular spot) long enough to smile at her, annoyingly calm. "The artefact feeds on energy Myka, it doesn't create it."
She lets her head slip back against the wall. It's true. Breathing too heavily, she leans all her weight back into the shadows, absently moves her fingers where they rest against Helena's elbows. "Either way, I suppose it doesn't matter since we lost it."
"Well." She coughs a little nervously."Actually I have an idea about how we might fix that, but I have to warn you, you might not like it very much."
At this point, Myka is pretty certain she'll do anything to distract herself from this very good, very bad decision. "Tell me."
"At the time of their death, each victim was engaged in an intensely pleasurable act." Her teeth worry into her lip at that fantastic euphemism. "I've been wondering how they came to be in contact with the artefact at precisely those moments."
"True." She frowns. "We haven't been able to find a strong connection between the incidents. What are you thinking?"
"What if the artefact seeks them out?"
Myka connects the dots incredibly quickly and makes a truly Herculean effort to focus on all the reasons it's a bad idea, not to mention dangerous, which is difficult because Helena is thumbing along her jaw and staring at her mouth and totally suggesting they have sex. It's, you know, distracting. And Myka doesn't sound nearly as wary as she'd like when she kind of, sort of, maybe encourages the idea by saying, "And you think that if we... engage in some kind of intensely pleasurable act, that we might be able to do the same thing?"
"Well. Yes."
She clears her throat and looks uncharacteristically flustered. It's about as charming as her confidence usually is, maybe more so because Myka feels a slightly vindictive stab of triumph at the knowledge that she's not the only one unsure of what they are and what the hell they're doing. It makes her feel more in control of the situation than she has all night.
Helena continues, about as awkwardly formal as Myka has ever seen her. "And I have to admit, I'm finding it quite difficult to focus on anything other than the way we danced earlier and I would very much like to -"
It turns out Myka would very much like to too. She bends forward and thoroughly interrupts with her mouth. Helena's tongue is dragging along the roof of her mouth and she's gasping when she first tries to say it and ends up, instead, humming uselessly. She pushes back on Helena's shoulders and their mouths are soft and wet when they part and Myka breathes it out in between them. "You do realise that it's a really dangerous plan?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
God, no. She doesn't think it's possible that any idea could be better than what Helena's tongue is doing the skin below her ear.
Myka shakes her head mutely.
"Besides." She gets handsy and sounds a lot more like the flirtatious H.G. Wells Myka knows (and maybe a little bit loves). "I've always enjoyed a bit of danger." Helena follows the path of her tongue with the light scrape of her teeth; Myka grabs at her waist a little tighter. "It makes the whole thing more thrilling."
The bathroom is dark and a little cramped but it also approximates privacy which is preferable for more than just the obvious reason; if they're going to neutralise the artefact there could be more literal fireworks and despite the fact that Myka's fairly certain it wouldn't be hard to convince almost every patron in the club that any artefact-related incident was merely a drug-induced hallucination, it's still easier.
It doesn't hurt that the counter provides a handy hard surface. Her hips smack into it and Helena's press into her backside. She lets her palms catch the counter and take her weight when she arches her back, crawling forward until she's doubled over, mouth pressing into her wrist in silent gasps every time Helena pushes forward. There's a fist in her hair; Helena's looping it around her fingers and trailing her nails down the curl of Myka's spine and fuck, it is so good. The counter is firm against her pubic bone and she shifts against it, tries to increase the pressure where she really needs it but she can't.
"Helena." She reaches out behind her, finds one of Helena's hands, grips it so tightly she thinks it's probably painful. She makes it halfway to between her legs before she groans. "Stop."
Helena's weight at her back shifts "What's wrong?"
She groans again as she rolls over on the counter until there's distance between their bodies and she can run a hand through her absolutely ruined hair and pant, skin electric all over. "Nothing," she moans in frustration and disappointment. "God, nothing at all."
Helena reaches out, cautiously and runs the backs of her fingers down Myka's arm. It makes her shudder. She slides down to the floor, reaches out and traps Helena's hands before they can wander. She's still too hot all over to endure teasing or touch and she's beginning to see the glaring flaw in this plan.
Helena looks down at her wrists, pinned between her breasts and smirks. Myka can almost see what she's thinking, about the shift in power. It has her purring and then Myka has to kiss her, has to back her up against the counter until she slides up onto it and Myka can edge up her skirt when it protests.
They both groan.
"If this works," Myka says when she pulls back enough to speak, leaning all her weight into her hips. Helena's legs wrap around her waist and then she's distracted from what she's saying by Helena's hands mapping the front of her body between them. She bites into her lip and breathes it out: "You do realise we're going to have to stop before one of us... dies."
"Are you worried you won't be able to control yourself darling?"
Well, in a word.
"Don't worry." She leans forward and says it into Myka's ear. "We can do me. I like it when you tease."
Fuck. She hums at Helena's mouth finding her neck. "We are so never telling the others if this works."
If this works. The words stick in her head, somehow, despite the fact that she's bending and sucking perfume and exertion off Helena's neck and it feels like she shouldn't be able to think anything.
"Gloves," Myka mumbles. "If this works we're going to need gloves."
"That's true."
Despite the fact that she's acutely aware of what Helena's thumbs are doing to her breasts through two layers of fabric, she's still surprised when they're suddenly inside her bra and squeezing only disappointingly briefly. The noise she makes conveys said disappointment. Helena kisses her and then sits back, holds the neutraliser gloves in between them.
"Oh," she says. "Oh."
"Good to know women still store things in their undergarments." H.G. reaches into the clutch Myka is surprised she's managed not to lose in the midst of all the... groping, because she's very decidedly been using both hands. She pulls out a neutraliser bag and her own set of gloves, sets them down beside her and sort of tilts her head. "There, all readily accessible."
It suddenly feels very deliberate and (absurdly) professional, like they're not about to have completely inadvisable semi-public sex in a half-cocked attempt to bag an artefact. It makes Myka hesitate, say, "Are you sure-"
"- this will work?" Helena interrupts suddenly, before Myka has any more time to think - undoubtedly her intent - and doesn't wait to answer her own question. It's low and seductive and accompanied by her hands, sliding flat down Myka's front. "Not at all, but we might as well try it."
Her tongue laves along Myka's lower lip.
Myka finds herself nodding into the kiss.
Befitting the locale and the circumstances, it's hurried. One of her hands works into Helena's underwear, gloved palm pressing grossly against slick flesh. She smirks at the jolt of hips against her hand at the contact and the way Helena's fingernails scratch at her shoulders. The pads of Myka's fingers tease, flicking against her clit and then sliding down to sink inside. Helena bites into her lip, says her name. Myka starts to move her hand.
They're forehead to forehead and nose to nose which is somehow making Myka more breathless than kissing. Helena's heels are pressing into the back of her thigh in time with the thrust of her fingers and the sound of it is audible even with the dull thud of bass through the door. The sight of it when she bows her head to watch the movement of her hands and the movement of Helena's hips into her hands has her swallowing hard.
At her forehead, Helena's lips mumble her name and press in a kiss that is far too chaste given the circumstances. And then she brings her hands up to cradle Myka's face, stroke her thumbs along the line of her jaw. "You always surprise me darling," she murmurs, making noise between the words that makes Myka move her fingers faster. "You like to watch."
She nods, lets her head fall forward to press into Helena's collarbone, curls her hand so the heel of her gloved palm is wet and slipping against where Helena needs it. She's trembling with the thrill of it, of Helena's hands stroking along her neck and her name bouncing off the tiles in encouragement when a knee shifts between them and her hips find it instinctively and she half-sobs at it.
She's forgotten artefacts, forgotten all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this, forgotten everything except the heat around her hand through the neutraliser glove and the pressure between her thighs and she thinks they should be kissing but before she can test that theory Helena shouts her name in a completely different tone to the one she's expecting: less pleasure, more quick look out.
Her body is ahead of her brain and disappointment thrums in her abdomen when she looks up and sees it in the mirror: the woman they've been chasing and, more importantly, the artefact, which is glowing rather ominously. With a fleeting sense of embarrassment, she pulls her hands free of Helena's body and tries to ignore the heat in her own at the thought that the way the artefact is glowing probably means they were interrupted not a moment too soon.
Of course, no one or thing is particularly happy about that. Helena is squirming against the counter and Myka is flushed and the artefact glows red instead of white and the woman wearing it makes an eerie, possessed sort of noise.
Exactly the sort of thing Myka was afraid of, really, only she doesn't have time to dwell on it because she's fighting an invisible force at her back pushing her back towards where she really, really wants to be.
"This is so not okay," she mutters, as her hand moves entirely under duress to stroke along the inside of Helena's knee. As soon as they're touching though, the rest of her body moves more freely. In the mirror, she can see the light coming closer as her hand edges further, wet glove trailing along Helena's thigh.
"Myka," she says, a little desperately. "I really don't think I can take much more of you touching me like tha- oh."
Helena gasps as the fingers of her creepily possessed hand find purchase, thrusting hard once then finding a more gentle rhythm.
"This is so not okay," Myka repeats, staring at her arm in distaste.
"Listen, Plan B." Helena reaches out and tugs her mouth down. She stutters once, confused, but instead of kissing her, Helena murmurs it in her ear: "She's behind you. I'm going to grab the artefact if you could-" she nods towards the neutraliser bag, "- you know, with your free hand."
Myka tries not to gape at how ridiculous it all is.
She's in the middle of thinking this cannot be happening when Helena lunges forward increasing the pressure against her hand. The light glows brighter and Helena gasps and Myka can't quite look at what's happening in trepidation, but then Helena is saying her name quite urgently and kicking at her shins. When she flings out the neutraliser bag blindly, her fist connects with the nose of the poor, possessed victim which is convenient, because the woman, presumably still under the artefact's influence, isn't particularly happy about it being removed from her possession.
Helena succeeds in removing the amulet from the victim's wrist, the victim promptly passes out and Myka sneaks a look just in time to see the light flash to darkness when the artefact hits the neutraliser solution. When the sparks have been firmly zip-locked inside the bag, Myka realises two things: one, she is in full possession of all her limbs and two, Helena is still rocking against her hand.
Myka blinks and wonders what exactly she's supposed to do with that.
Nothing, apparently, because before she can do much more than press forward with the heel of her hand, Helena tenses, spine curling, and fists a hand around the sleeve of her dress, pulls her down until they're mouth-to-moaning, gasping mouth.
Plan B ends a lot better than Plan A.
When the rest of her body stills, Helena hums out a laugh against Myka's tongue and then pulls back, looking devilish.
"Well," she says, matter-of-factly, adjusting her skirt when Myka takes the opportunity to keep her hands to herself. "That went well."
Myka's too stunned to do much more than nod and think that they have vastly differing opinions on the meaning of 'well'.
After they've dealt with the paramedics attending what for all intents and purposes looks like a drug overdose and called the warehouse to fill everyone in on their progress, Myka starts to shift her weight in her shoes as part of her mind repeats the question: now what?
She only realises she's said it out loud when Helena meets her eyes in the mirror. "I was planning on asking you to dance with me again," she says.
Myka opens her mouth and closes it again, ineffectually. "Fine. But this time, you get the authentic 21st century experience; we do it properly."
"What do you mean?" H.G. asks as they brush shoulders in the doorway. Myka abandons bracing the door open in favour of snagging her by the wrist and dragging her in the direction of the nearest bar.
(She means a little drunk.
By her estimation, they've earned it.)
Several vodka tonics in quick succession and she feels a lot better about absolutely everything; the artefact-related sex seems much less awkward-inducing, her quasi-relationship with a recently undead famous 19th century author who once tried to end the world seems much less complicated, and, best of all, her inner monologue becomes less inclined to overthink things.
Which is good, because while it's pretty hard to misinterpret the meaning of someone grinding up against you with single-minded purpose, Myka's pretty sure, in context, that there are connotations greater than the immediate, reasonably clear-cut suggestion of sex. It's just that she's also pretty sure that right at this moment she doesn't really care about a single one of them.
H.G. pivots until they're front-to-front, fingers digging into the curve of Myka's back when she arches it, seeking contact. And then there's a hand in her hair and a tongue in her mouth and they're still moving, still finding all the ways that they tessellate, curves on planes and wandering hands.
When they're breathless and leaning their weight on each other, H.G. leans forward within earshot.
"This century does have its perks," she says breezily, the double entendre evident when Myka follows her gaze down to their pressed-together chests. Then she moves to murmur it against Myka's ear, endearingly sentimental given the circumstances, "I like being able to dance with you."
"I like you," Myka says back, because it's the first thing that comes into her head and alcohol has a habit of making her say things before her brain has time to filter them. (Besides, it's true.) She's suddenly aware that they're not really moving in time with the music anymore, that it's become more of a slow shuffle of feet. She leans into Helena's cheek. "And I'd like to like you somewhere quieter."
Helena noses into her neck and nods. "Somewhere quieter," she muses. "Like?"
Myka is feeling brave. She lets her hands slip lower along Helena's back and says, "Your hotel room, or mine."
"First, can I ask you a question darling?"
"Of course," Myka says, expecting an innuendo or a clarification of some observed behaviour or anything other than:
"The other night, why did you leave?"
She disentangles herself immediately and takes two steps backward.
The million dollar question.
The precise wording doesn't escape her notice. Why did you leave not why were you crying. Why, after everything, were a few tears something she felt she had to hide? Why was sex what overwhelmed her? They'd be dancing around it for more than a year- an eventful year, sure - but still. That was kind of her point. In the grand scheme of apocalypses and nuclear explosions and sacrifices made and undone, it seems quite inconsequential.
"We should-" she swallows hard and turns toward the exit and finishes the sentence, even though she's sure she won't be heard over the noise. "Go."
Helena catches up with her in the street. She's watching the soles of her shoes catch against the sidewalk and doesn't have to look up when the smack of heels against cement approaches. Wordlessly, she holds out a hand for her jacket but instead of handing it to her, Helena holds it up by the collar. She shrugs into it and steps back and pulls her hair free of the collar and tries not to sigh.
"Sorry." Myka shoves her hands deep into her pockets. "I suddenly needed some air."
Helena nods and steps back and mirrors Myka's nervous twisting. "It seems that coming back from the dead has given me quite the talent for saying the wrong thing."
She half-laughs then frowns, bites into her lip. "No. It's not... you." One of the definite upsides of romantic entanglement with a woman from the 19th century: you can get away with a few modern clichés. "It's me."
Romantic entanglement, she thinks, puzzling over it for a moment before chiding herself because if there's one thing she promised herself she would do when they got the warehouse and Helena back it was stop lying to herself about that. There really was very little room left for ambiguity; very little need for the words. Myka is pretty sure it's love. She doesn't have a lot of experience in the area, but it feels like the kind of thing you'd write a book about, if you were in the habit of writing books, and she's always sort of thought of love that way.
So, romantic entanglement, complete with multilayered fears and doubts because, sure, she doesn't have a lot of experience, but what experience she does have? Has never ended well. Or with both parties alive, present company included.
So she's been spending a lot of time thinking - okay, worrying - over how to best approach this unexpected opportunity. Of course, reality has different ideas, ideas that pretty thoroughly decimate her carefully laid plans.
(Or at least, her best intentions to have carefully laid plans. If she's honest, the plans haven't been so forthcoming.)
"You?" Helena prompts, expectantly.
Crap; the conversation at hand. She nods. "Me. I..."
Myka looks away, brings her hand up to her neck and traces the contour, trying to encourage words.
"I'm a bit of a mess." She laughs a little at that understatement. "I mean, I've never been very good at this part, and this time the stakes seem really high given that you, you know, died and I - " She stops herself with short sigh, frowning. "I just really don't want to screw it up."
"Then you are going to have to stop running away from me." Helena gives her a familiar, amused look. She steps forward and lets her fingers trail down Myka's arm.
"I know, I'm sorry." Her hands move in nervous gestures between them until Helena catches them, and that halts her on the verge of another monologue. Instead she finds herself being tugged forward into a hug.
"You don't have to apologise Myka. I've given you more than enough reason to distrust my intentions in the past."
It's nice. She finds herself resting in the moment, palms flat against Helena's back, her cheek resting on her shoulder. She smells like alcohol and cigarette smoke and, underneath all that, shampoo. Myka takes a breath of it to steel herself for the conversation she knows is coming before stepping back.
"And one fairly big reason to trust you with my life," she counters. "You did sacrifice yourself to save us Helena. "
"To save you darling." It's her usual confident smile but there's vulnerability underneath it. She continues before there's time to dwell on it. "Happily the others were standing right beside you, but I did it for you."
"I know."
"Pete says that in this day and age, it's not usual to declare ones affections so soon after - hooking up with someone but I do want you to know that I-"
Myka nearly chokes on the air she's breathing, and not just at the use of slang. "You talked about this with Pete?"
"Not about this specifically. I merely asked him a question about something he was watching on television." She frowns. "As I was saying I -"
"I don't really think we've been hooking up Helena, for one thing we are not college freshman anymore or well, you never were, but that doesn't matter my point is, it's not like that because we have all this history and well - feelings, there are feelings right? I have feelings for you."
(Turns out, saying it isn't as hard as she thought it would be. When her mouth gets going her mind finds it hard to shut it up sometimes.)
"Which was what I was trying to say." Helena looks the slightest bit displeased for a moment before it turns disbelieving. "Myka. Really?"
"Really what?" she blinks. "Oh. Really? You're really asking me if I really have feelings for you? I thought that you'd know by now that I-" Thankfully, she manages to stop herself before she says I love you half-drunk in a dirty alleyway outside a nightclub. "Of course I have feelings for you," she finishes, quietly. "Big, scary, complicated feelings."
"Well that's good." Helena steps forward and hesitates with a hand in between them. "I'm afraid it might've be a tad awkward otherwise because I'm quite in love with you."
They both look a little surprised at the admission. (And Myka takes back every reservation she has about dirty alleyway confessions of love because it turns out, it's as perfect a time and place as any.)
"I hope that's not too honest so soon. I'd blame it on being a product of my time but I've always been inclined toward frankness with lovers. I find it's the best way to avoid ... complications."
"No. It's not too honest." Myka wonders at her, says it distractedly. "And it's definitely not a complication."
"Well then." She clears her throat. "Good."
"Yeah."
"We should get this artefact back to the warehouse."
She nods. "Yeah."
"Myka?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep saying that."
"Ye- I do. Sorry. Just. Thinking it over."
"Should I be worried?"
"No." She pulls her hand from her pocket and slides it down Helena's arm until she laces their fingers. She repeats it more firmly. "No. You definitely shouldn't be."
They part, almost wordlessly, in the corridor between their rooms. It's a comfortable silence, full of restrained joy, but Myka doesn't want to ruin it with yet with words she's not sure will come out right or do justice to what it is she feels. She takes the neutraliser bag and squeezes Helena's hand and thinks about kissing her properly, but settles for pressing her lips to her cheek instead.
"After we shower," Myka declares, her brow furrowing at Helena's smirk, "Separately, we um, need to talk... about what we're going to tell Artie. About the artefact."
"Sometimes you really are no fun." Helena thumbs over her wrist and steps in close, until Myka can feel her lips ghosting over to her own. Her eyes blink shut in anticipation but instead of the kiss she expects Helena says, "Promise you'll think of me."
And then kisses her, slow and hard and with a suggestive tongue.
Then, with another knowing grin, she's gone and Myka is staring after her and wondering at this particular turn of events.
Later, clean and between the cold hotel sheets, her determination to write their field report while the information is still fresh in her mind raises a completely separate set of issues. Myka knows she's indulging a bad habit and hiding in work. And Myka also knows by the way Helena is shifting beside her on the mattress that she can only hide for so long. But she buys herself a little time to adjust to this whole new ...thing that's happening.
(They kissed in the doorway, and that's not new exactly but it's different now. She feels a little less like the ground is falling out from underneath her feet.
And now Helena is reading over her shoulder as a ruse. Really she's kissing away the beads of water that keep falling from Myka's wet hair.)
"How exactly do we say this happened?" Myka taps her fingers against the keyboard absently, missing all of the keys.
Helena says it against the curve of her shoulder, lips still pressed against her skin. "I don't think this is particularly relevant to the extraction."
"Not this this, that this." She glares at the neutraliser bag. "How do we say we got the artefact? Because I'm still not particularly comfortable with the idea of the thing possessing my body and forcing me to um, nearly kill you, in that particular way. And I definitely don't want to write about it in a report that everyone is going to read."
"That is a dilemma isn't it? On the one hand, exactly how the artefact works is definitely important information." She moves and folds her arms, sits back against the headboard, thinking. "On the other, describing it in graphic detail seems a little... much."
"The entire thing is a little much." Myka sighs. "I just...I'm really sorry Helena."
"Myka." She smiles, reaches out and takes the offending hand, drops a kiss in the palm. "It was my idea. And I wouldn't have asked you to stop." (The smile turns a little wicked at the thought.) "But," she says, reaching to set the laptop aside and shifting to take its place, "I should be the one apologising, for encouraging you to do something you were uncomfortable with."
"It wasn't the..." Oh god, the spot on her jaw, again. "You know, it wasn't the what, it was the how. And the part where I could have killed you."
"As far as artefact-related deaths go, I imagine it would've been one of the best." Helena says against the hum in her throat. "Not that I'm in any particular hurry to die again."
"Good."
"And if it's really troubling you, you can always keep your hands to yourself." She wraps her fingers around said hands and pins them against the mattress. "I did have something else in mind."
She's nosing down Myka's sternum and pulls her hands free to tug at clothing. Somehow, before she quite realises, Myka ends up shirtless and Helena's lips are trailing down her stomach, mouth wet and unhurried.
"This is not helping me with our report," she manages, weakly, shifting her hips to assist in the removal of her pants. (Her resistance was always fairly token.)
"There'll be time for that later." The words are a brush of lips and air against her thigh and she shivers. Helena settles between her legs and lets her tongue swipe out experimentally between each low, throaty word. "Much, much later."
When she teases at her folds with the top of her tongue before pressing it flat against her clit, Myka decides she makes a fairly convincing argument and moans something that approximates agreement.
In the end she enters a rather bland, matter-of-fact description that ends with further details unknown into the warehouse database.
(It's true: despite knowing how it works, the who, what, when and why are still a mystery, one that isn't particularly a priority now that it's no longer dangerous.)
Helena reads over it her shoulder with a small smile and says, sagely. "Well I suppose they always are really."
"You're not talking about eschewing our duty as warehouse agents to ensure our successors are better informed than we were," Myka observes, hoping it sounds light as she folds her arms and turning in the chair so they're face to face.
Helena is, of course, talking about them and they both know it. She smirks."Not entirely. But it does raise a point doesn't it? Even without the details of how the artefact worked, without knowing how or what might happen, we were still able to successfully recover it."
Myka tries, very hard, to keep a straight face but she's grinning, half incredulous, half amused when she says it. "Are you suggesting we approach a relationship like retrieving an artefact?"
She leans against the desk and reaches down to skim her hand along the edge of Myka's sleeve, fingers coming to pinch at it, tugging upward. Myka stands so they're eyelevel when she says: "Well why not? We're quite good at the latter and I imagine we'll be similarly good at the former."
They're both smiling at that and staring at each other and Myka's hearing quite in love with you in her head again, which is becoming an increasingly regular occurrence. She feels her pulse crescendo in her ears and is hyperaware of the space between them and is on the verge of an appropriate response when the door to the office slams open.
"Are we interrupting something?"
Artie, as usual, sounds brusque which means a storm on the floor or a new ping. He starts shuffling papers around on his desk without sparing them a second glance.
Claudia smirks behind him and collapses in the chair Myka has vacated. "Oh we are so interrupting something." She taps on the keyboard furiously for a few moments, humming like a grade schooler in a playground and spins in the chair, pokes Myka's side. "K-i-s-s-i-n-g."
"Did I miss something?" Pete asks by way of announcing his presence.
Claudia swivels side to side in her chair. "Myka and H.G. are totally doing it."
"Claud."
"Which means you owe me twenty Latimer."
"Doing it." Helena turns it over on her tongue. "This is another euphemism for sex correct?"
"Yep." Pete grins. "Like banging, screwing, doing the nasty, f-"
"Hey." Claudia shoots up in the chair and covers Pete's mouth with her hand. "There are ladies present. Keep it PG dude."
"You are going to have to teach me more of those. You have so many nowadays."
"Oh god." Myka hides her face in her hands, blushing furiously and seriously hoping whatever minor disaster at hand is enough to end the conversation, permanently.
Artie coughs. "If you all are done, we have a serious problem to attend to."
What surprises Myka the most is that the change isn't as dramatic as she always thought it would be.
Artie gives them the details of the ping and Helena squeezes her hand to make sure Pete and Claudia's teasing hasn't fazed her and they get back to work.
It's nice.
(In so many ways, they just fit.)
Author's Notes: First thing I complete in this fandom and it's both ridiculous and porn. Colour nobody surprised. Right so, story: once upon a time there was a kink meme and in that kink meme was a prompt that suggested H.G. might enjoy more modern forms of dancing (lbr, vertical sex) and then that prompt wormed its way into my brain and said Paula, stop writing all the serious legitimate fic you are writing and write a stupid porn battle fill instead. Except this is 7000 words and that porn battle is meant to be anonymous (and I just do not believe in not signing my name on my porn, xoxo) - so.
A) This is ridiculous. It's sex that decided, at the last minute, that it wanted to have feelings. B) I struggled with the voices. C) Yes, I know the artefact involved is gratuitous and unexplained, that's because I was too lazy, don't judge. D) I was going to call this from the back now from the front for reasons that will become obvious and if you know what song that is from you will totally (and rightly) judge me but you know. If you want a bit of seedy hip hop to get you in a seedy nightclub sex fic kind of mood, go right ahead. E) Season 3 finale was sad. Let's just pretend that all gets resolved 'kay? F) There is a tiny bit of weird consent stuff because I like tropes and an artefact made them do it. It's in the context of a highly consensual sex scene, but still. TW for dubcon because tbh, that's what it looks like to me. (I could be really sensitive to this.)
Artie told them the artefact fed off energy, excesses. Artie neglected to mention that those energies were decidedly carnal in nature.
A sex artefact. She's been sent to San Francisco with her with her reincarnated, sort-of, maybe, once-upon-a-time almost - whatever, it is so far beyond complicated... H.G. Wells. She has been sent to San Francisco with H.G. Wells hunting a sex artefact.
Myka is going to need time to process this.
She leaves H.G. (who is criminally unfazed saying things like "apparently it took la petite mort a little too literally" to Artie and Claudia) in front of the Farnsworth and paces back and forth thinking that she'd trade Pete's immature jokes for the absolute torture of listening to Helena say "sex" about fifty times a day in a heartbeat.
She nearly jumps at the sound of the Farnsworth closing.
"Are you alright Myka?" H.G. asks, looking slightly confused and more than a little concerned.
Sure. She is fine. Totally, absolutely - she swallows - "Fine."
Helena rather obviously doesn't believe her, but thankfully, they have a lead to follow up on and she doesn't have time to press.
(All of this would be a lot easier if Helena hadn't so recently been dead and then decidedly not dead and Myka hadn't made a habit of making sure she was still not dead by kissing her, a habit which had rather abruptly come to an end about a week ago when they'd done a little more than kissing.
Okay.
A lot more.
And it would've been the absolute most amazing sex of Myka's life if she hadn't, rather mortifyingly, started to cry the moment it was over.
Things have been slightly... stilted ever since.)
Myka's life could never just be normal or go according to one her exceptionally detail-orientated plans, for once. So it's a Saturday night and they're tracking an artefact-wielding suspect to a trendy club and she's wearing high heels and she has never been so resentful of a lead panning out in her entire life. Helena, on the other hand, seems to be utterly fascinated by the entire concept of a nightclub, from the dress code to the way old alcohol makes their shoes stick to the floor.
And while Myka has always found it a little bit adorable when Helena goes all 19th century on her, tonight, in combination with the outfit and the case which almost necessitates having sex on the brain, it's almost too much. She has to remind herself to focus. And then remind herself again to focus on the artefact and not Helena's (perfect, slightly dirty, incredibly talented) mouth.
"What is this... noise?"
"Music. Well." Myka wrinkles her nose. "If you use the term loosely."
"Anthropologically fascinating." Helena looks around them. "And this ... physical behaviour, I suppose you call it dancing?"
Myka nods, half-distracted seeking out their suspect in the throng of bodies.
"I do like the more individualistic take on it." She lets her hand rest loosely against Myka's arm and says it with a paradoxical mix of scientific observation and utter wickedness that only Helena could manage: "Though I see it is still a prelude to seduction, in a much more obvious way."
Myka bites into her lip, tries to ignore how the grip on her wrist is burning. She gives up on the crowd and turns to her anachronistic colleague with some degree of trepidation. "I can't see her."
"No, neither do I." Helena frowns. "How do you propose we go about looking amongst this crowd?"
"Well the artefact feeds on excesses right?" The question mark catches in her throat and she squirms a little, feeling a little too hot and that her dress is a little too tight and she absolutely, cannot believe that she's about to say what she's going to say. "So it's a reasonable assumption that we're going to find the wearer drunk in the middle of that dance floor."
"True."
"So we should probably try to ... blend in."
"Agent Bering, are you asking me to dance?"
Myka wishes Helena would twinkle at her a little less. Really. It's utterly unnecessary to the task at hand.
"Yes, come on." She takes Helena's hand and drags her forward, because the sooner they snag, bag and tag, the sooner she can get out, of the club, of the dress, of the entire situation.
"Myka."
It's so unsure that she turns back, looks down at their hands, stretched between them now that H.G. has stopped behind her.
"Uh, how exactly does one-" (she gestures with her free hand) "- do that?"
Myka takes a hitching breath. "Well, uh, you just sort of ... move, in time to the music sort of ... together." She feels utterly ridiculous as she tries to demonstrate, because she has never been a club sort of girl and her limbs have, traditionally, been far too long for her to feel graceful moving them in time to music. Punching Pete in the arm, aiming a gun or a Tesla at someone, maybe. But dancing? Well, she usually requires a fair amount of liquid courage. "Like the people you've been watching so closely. "
Helena, on the other hand, looks stupidly and unfairly elegant doing just about anything, including, it seems, gyrating to dubstep in a seedy nightclub.
"So basically I try to have clothed, vertical sex with you?"
Myka releases her grip, tries not to see the appeal in that scenario, blinks and looks up. Her companion looks less incredulous than she sounds, more... curious, and curiosity always has the potential for disaster when Helena is in involved. But Myka shrugs because it's as good a description as any. "Kind of. Yeah."
The words are much closer to her ear than she anticipates, wicked and mostly breath and accompanied by H.G.'s hands curling at the fabric of her dress:
"I can do that."
It's a voice that she hears less with her ears and mostly between her thighs and then Helena's hands are raking down her arms as they journey to her hips and she's being pulled back and pressed against simultaneously and she finds herself thinking that she is really, really screwed.
She finds herself looking for something, anything to distract her from how well they fit together, how under the guise of making observations Helena's lips keep brushing her neck, how she is definitely a combination of too sober and too old to be moving like this. Still, Myka feels incredibly powerful every time she turns and they're pressed front to front and it's entirely obviously that she is not the only one enjoying this far too much. And really, she is so ridiculously turned on that she doesn't even care how stupidly undignified it is when she grinds (just a little) into the soft press of Helena's thigh which is somehow between her legs and ... artefact, she thinks, twisting around and pushing her hair from her eyes with one hand so she can scan the crowd.
"I'll admit," Helena says against her ear, no pretence about it, lips almost sucking. "I'm beginning to understand the charm in this sort of dancing."
Her fingers dig into the seam of Myka's dress at her waist and run down by the heels of her palms. The material of her dress ruches beneath them and she says, under her breath, to remind her. "Artefact."
At the press of hands into her hips though, she reflexively arches her back Helena presses her hips into it and gasps but Myka is a professional, she can do this, there is absolutely nothing about this that is weird beyond her job description and she is definitely going to ignore fingers creeping at where her skirt has hitched to.
Except Helena doesn't seem to share her dedication and Myka would swear her mouth is not even inches from her neck - she can feel the warmth of it and her eyes flick closed in anticipation - when suddenly, she's being dragged through the crowd and H.G. is saying, "I see it."
And Myka isn't sure whether she should be relieved or incredibly disappointed.
They chase their mark, but taking stairs two at a time in a short skirt and high heels is another thing that's not really in her skill set and by the time they reach the top of the unnecessarily spiralling staircase, the artefact and the woman wearing it are out of sight and they're both breathless, panting at each other in a way that is far too evocative.
The second floor is a mezzanine level that circles the bottom floor. It gives them a view of the crowd below that Myka thinks they really could have utilised earlier. She blinks, forces herself not to dwell on the memory of Helena's hands all over her except for where she'll barely admit to herself that she wants them and says, "You go that way, I'll go this way."
She hurls herself into the crowd and starts weaving between shoulders before waiting for a response.
When she's completed a semi-circle, she's spinning a little for any sign of the suspect, the artefact or Helena when she finds at least the latter, by colliding with her at full force.
"Nothing?" she asks, and it's all she gets the opportunity to ask before she's being kissed, rather thoroughly, on the mouth. Her first reaction is to freeze with her arms thrown out a little uselessly at her sides, startled. And her second is to open her mouth and close her eyes and put her hands to work pawing at whatever part of Helena she happens to blindly grope at which is, apparently, the curve of her back and then lower than that and by the time her brain registers exactly what she's doing, she feels completely helpless to resist it.
The need to breathe becomes urgent and as she does, Helena's mouth traces a hot, wet line along her jaw and she manages to keep her eyes open long enough to walk her backwards into a more-or-less shadowy corner. Helena's hands are splayed against her stomach, and they press her back into the wall and she feels the air hiss out of her in a gasp. Somehow she manages, weakly, a protest. "Helena, stop; it's the artefact. It ... must be."
(A complete and utter lie but she needs something for her reeling mind to latch onto. As a warehouse agent, an artefact is usually a safe bet when it comes to hard-to-rationalise behaviour.)
Helena stops sucking at the junction of her jaw (and really, they have not done this enough for Helena to know exactly how much she responds to that particular spot) long enough to smile at her, annoyingly calm. "The artefact feeds on energy Myka, it doesn't create it."
She lets her head slip back against the wall. It's true. Breathing too heavily, she leans all her weight back into the shadows, absently moves her fingers where they rest against Helena's elbows. "Either way, I suppose it doesn't matter since we lost it."
"Well." She coughs a little nervously."Actually I have an idea about how we might fix that, but I have to warn you, you might not like it very much."
At this point, Myka is pretty certain she'll do anything to distract herself from this very good, very bad decision. "Tell me."
"At the time of their death, each victim was engaged in an intensely pleasurable act." Her teeth worry into her lip at that fantastic euphemism. "I've been wondering how they came to be in contact with the artefact at precisely those moments."
"True." She frowns. "We haven't been able to find a strong connection between the incidents. What are you thinking?"
"What if the artefact seeks them out?"
Myka connects the dots incredibly quickly and makes a truly Herculean effort to focus on all the reasons it's a bad idea, not to mention dangerous, which is difficult because Helena is thumbing along her jaw and staring at her mouth and totally suggesting they have sex. It's, you know, distracting. And Myka doesn't sound nearly as wary as she'd like when she kind of, sort of, maybe encourages the idea by saying, "And you think that if we... engage in some kind of intensely pleasurable act, that we might be able to do the same thing?"
"Well. Yes."
She clears her throat and looks uncharacteristically flustered. It's about as charming as her confidence usually is, maybe more so because Myka feels a slightly vindictive stab of triumph at the knowledge that she's not the only one unsure of what they are and what the hell they're doing. It makes her feel more in control of the situation than she has all night.
Helena continues, about as awkwardly formal as Myka has ever seen her. "And I have to admit, I'm finding it quite difficult to focus on anything other than the way we danced earlier and I would very much like to -"
It turns out Myka would very much like to too. She bends forward and thoroughly interrupts with her mouth. Helena's tongue is dragging along the roof of her mouth and she's gasping when she first tries to say it and ends up, instead, humming uselessly. She pushes back on Helena's shoulders and their mouths are soft and wet when they part and Myka breathes it out in between them. "You do realise that it's a really dangerous plan?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
God, no. She doesn't think it's possible that any idea could be better than what Helena's tongue is doing the skin below her ear.
Myka shakes her head mutely.
"Besides." She gets handsy and sounds a lot more like the flirtatious H.G. Wells Myka knows (and maybe a little bit loves). "I've always enjoyed a bit of danger." Helena follows the path of her tongue with the light scrape of her teeth; Myka grabs at her waist a little tighter. "It makes the whole thing more thrilling."
The bathroom is dark and a little cramped but it also approximates privacy which is preferable for more than just the obvious reason; if they're going to neutralise the artefact there could be more literal fireworks and despite the fact that Myka's fairly certain it wouldn't be hard to convince almost every patron in the club that any artefact-related incident was merely a drug-induced hallucination, it's still easier.
It doesn't hurt that the counter provides a handy hard surface. Her hips smack into it and Helena's press into her backside. She lets her palms catch the counter and take her weight when she arches her back, crawling forward until she's doubled over, mouth pressing into her wrist in silent gasps every time Helena pushes forward. There's a fist in her hair; Helena's looping it around her fingers and trailing her nails down the curl of Myka's spine and fuck, it is so good. The counter is firm against her pubic bone and she shifts against it, tries to increase the pressure where she really needs it but she can't.
"Helena." She reaches out behind her, finds one of Helena's hands, grips it so tightly she thinks it's probably painful. She makes it halfway to between her legs before she groans. "Stop."
Helena's weight at her back shifts "What's wrong?"
She groans again as she rolls over on the counter until there's distance between their bodies and she can run a hand through her absolutely ruined hair and pant, skin electric all over. "Nothing," she moans in frustration and disappointment. "God, nothing at all."
Helena reaches out, cautiously and runs the backs of her fingers down Myka's arm. It makes her shudder. She slides down to the floor, reaches out and traps Helena's hands before they can wander. She's still too hot all over to endure teasing or touch and she's beginning to see the glaring flaw in this plan.
Helena looks down at her wrists, pinned between her breasts and smirks. Myka can almost see what she's thinking, about the shift in power. It has her purring and then Myka has to kiss her, has to back her up against the counter until she slides up onto it and Myka can edge up her skirt when it protests.
They both groan.
"If this works," Myka says when she pulls back enough to speak, leaning all her weight into her hips. Helena's legs wrap around her waist and then she's distracted from what she's saying by Helena's hands mapping the front of her body between them. She bites into her lip and breathes it out: "You do realise we're going to have to stop before one of us... dies."
"Are you worried you won't be able to control yourself darling?"
Well, in a word.
"Don't worry." She leans forward and says it into Myka's ear. "We can do me. I like it when you tease."
Fuck. She hums at Helena's mouth finding her neck. "We are so never telling the others if this works."
If this works. The words stick in her head, somehow, despite the fact that she's bending and sucking perfume and exertion off Helena's neck and it feels like she shouldn't be able to think anything.
"Gloves," Myka mumbles. "If this works we're going to need gloves."
"That's true."
Despite the fact that she's acutely aware of what Helena's thumbs are doing to her breasts through two layers of fabric, she's still surprised when they're suddenly inside her bra and squeezing only disappointingly briefly. The noise she makes conveys said disappointment. Helena kisses her and then sits back, holds the neutraliser gloves in between them.
"Oh," she says. "Oh."
"Good to know women still store things in their undergarments." H.G. reaches into the clutch Myka is surprised she's managed not to lose in the midst of all the... groping, because she's very decidedly been using both hands. She pulls out a neutraliser bag and her own set of gloves, sets them down beside her and sort of tilts her head. "There, all readily accessible."
It suddenly feels very deliberate and (absurdly) professional, like they're not about to have completely inadvisable semi-public sex in a half-cocked attempt to bag an artefact. It makes Myka hesitate, say, "Are you sure-"
"- this will work?" Helena interrupts suddenly, before Myka has any more time to think - undoubtedly her intent - and doesn't wait to answer her own question. It's low and seductive and accompanied by her hands, sliding flat down Myka's front. "Not at all, but we might as well try it."
Her tongue laves along Myka's lower lip.
Myka finds herself nodding into the kiss.
Befitting the locale and the circumstances, it's hurried. One of her hands works into Helena's underwear, gloved palm pressing grossly against slick flesh. She smirks at the jolt of hips against her hand at the contact and the way Helena's fingernails scratch at her shoulders. The pads of Myka's fingers tease, flicking against her clit and then sliding down to sink inside. Helena bites into her lip, says her name. Myka starts to move her hand.
They're forehead to forehead and nose to nose which is somehow making Myka more breathless than kissing. Helena's heels are pressing into the back of her thigh in time with the thrust of her fingers and the sound of it is audible even with the dull thud of bass through the door. The sight of it when she bows her head to watch the movement of her hands and the movement of Helena's hips into her hands has her swallowing hard.
At her forehead, Helena's lips mumble her name and press in a kiss that is far too chaste given the circumstances. And then she brings her hands up to cradle Myka's face, stroke her thumbs along the line of her jaw. "You always surprise me darling," she murmurs, making noise between the words that makes Myka move her fingers faster. "You like to watch."
She nods, lets her head fall forward to press into Helena's collarbone, curls her hand so the heel of her gloved palm is wet and slipping against where Helena needs it. She's trembling with the thrill of it, of Helena's hands stroking along her neck and her name bouncing off the tiles in encouragement when a knee shifts between them and her hips find it instinctively and she half-sobs at it.
She's forgotten artefacts, forgotten all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this, forgotten everything except the heat around her hand through the neutraliser glove and the pressure between her thighs and she thinks they should be kissing but before she can test that theory Helena shouts her name in a completely different tone to the one she's expecting: less pleasure, more quick look out.
Her body is ahead of her brain and disappointment thrums in her abdomen when she looks up and sees it in the mirror: the woman they've been chasing and, more importantly, the artefact, which is glowing rather ominously. With a fleeting sense of embarrassment, she pulls her hands free of Helena's body and tries to ignore the heat in her own at the thought that the way the artefact is glowing probably means they were interrupted not a moment too soon.
Of course, no one or thing is particularly happy about that. Helena is squirming against the counter and Myka is flushed and the artefact glows red instead of white and the woman wearing it makes an eerie, possessed sort of noise.
Exactly the sort of thing Myka was afraid of, really, only she doesn't have time to dwell on it because she's fighting an invisible force at her back pushing her back towards where she really, really wants to be.
"This is so not okay," she mutters, as her hand moves entirely under duress to stroke along the inside of Helena's knee. As soon as they're touching though, the rest of her body moves more freely. In the mirror, she can see the light coming closer as her hand edges further, wet glove trailing along Helena's thigh.
"Myka," she says, a little desperately. "I really don't think I can take much more of you touching me like tha- oh."
Helena gasps as the fingers of her creepily possessed hand find purchase, thrusting hard once then finding a more gentle rhythm.
"This is so not okay," Myka repeats, staring at her arm in distaste.
"Listen, Plan B." Helena reaches out and tugs her mouth down. She stutters once, confused, but instead of kissing her, Helena murmurs it in her ear: "She's behind you. I'm going to grab the artefact if you could-" she nods towards the neutraliser bag, "- you know, with your free hand."
Myka tries not to gape at how ridiculous it all is.
She's in the middle of thinking this cannot be happening when Helena lunges forward increasing the pressure against her hand. The light glows brighter and Helena gasps and Myka can't quite look at what's happening in trepidation, but then Helena is saying her name quite urgently and kicking at her shins. When she flings out the neutraliser bag blindly, her fist connects with the nose of the poor, possessed victim which is convenient, because the woman, presumably still under the artefact's influence, isn't particularly happy about it being removed from her possession.
Helena succeeds in removing the amulet from the victim's wrist, the victim promptly passes out and Myka sneaks a look just in time to see the light flash to darkness when the artefact hits the neutraliser solution. When the sparks have been firmly zip-locked inside the bag, Myka realises two things: one, she is in full possession of all her limbs and two, Helena is still rocking against her hand.
Myka blinks and wonders what exactly she's supposed to do with that.
Nothing, apparently, because before she can do much more than press forward with the heel of her hand, Helena tenses, spine curling, and fists a hand around the sleeve of her dress, pulls her down until they're mouth-to-moaning, gasping mouth.
Plan B ends a lot better than Plan A.
When the rest of her body stills, Helena hums out a laugh against Myka's tongue and then pulls back, looking devilish.
"Well," she says, matter-of-factly, adjusting her skirt when Myka takes the opportunity to keep her hands to herself. "That went well."
Myka's too stunned to do much more than nod and think that they have vastly differing opinions on the meaning of 'well'.
After they've dealt with the paramedics attending what for all intents and purposes looks like a drug overdose and called the warehouse to fill everyone in on their progress, Myka starts to shift her weight in her shoes as part of her mind repeats the question: now what?
She only realises she's said it out loud when Helena meets her eyes in the mirror. "I was planning on asking you to dance with me again," she says.
Myka opens her mouth and closes it again, ineffectually. "Fine. But this time, you get the authentic 21st century experience; we do it properly."
"What do you mean?" H.G. asks as they brush shoulders in the doorway. Myka abandons bracing the door open in favour of snagging her by the wrist and dragging her in the direction of the nearest bar.
(She means a little drunk.
By her estimation, they've earned it.)
Several vodka tonics in quick succession and she feels a lot better about absolutely everything; the artefact-related sex seems much less awkward-inducing, her quasi-relationship with a recently undead famous 19th century author who once tried to end the world seems much less complicated, and, best of all, her inner monologue becomes less inclined to overthink things.
Which is good, because while it's pretty hard to misinterpret the meaning of someone grinding up against you with single-minded purpose, Myka's pretty sure, in context, that there are connotations greater than the immediate, reasonably clear-cut suggestion of sex. It's just that she's also pretty sure that right at this moment she doesn't really care about a single one of them.
H.G. pivots until they're front-to-front, fingers digging into the curve of Myka's back when she arches it, seeking contact. And then there's a hand in her hair and a tongue in her mouth and they're still moving, still finding all the ways that they tessellate, curves on planes and wandering hands.
When they're breathless and leaning their weight on each other, H.G. leans forward within earshot.
"This century does have its perks," she says breezily, the double entendre evident when Myka follows her gaze down to their pressed-together chests. Then she moves to murmur it against Myka's ear, endearingly sentimental given the circumstances, "I like being able to dance with you."
"I like you," Myka says back, because it's the first thing that comes into her head and alcohol has a habit of making her say things before her brain has time to filter them. (Besides, it's true.) She's suddenly aware that they're not really moving in time with the music anymore, that it's become more of a slow shuffle of feet. She leans into Helena's cheek. "And I'd like to like you somewhere quieter."
Helena noses into her neck and nods. "Somewhere quieter," she muses. "Like?"
Myka is feeling brave. She lets her hands slip lower along Helena's back and says, "Your hotel room, or mine."
"First, can I ask you a question darling?"
"Of course," Myka says, expecting an innuendo or a clarification of some observed behaviour or anything other than:
"The other night, why did you leave?"
She disentangles herself immediately and takes two steps backward.
The million dollar question.
The precise wording doesn't escape her notice. Why did you leave not why were you crying. Why, after everything, were a few tears something she felt she had to hide? Why was sex what overwhelmed her? They'd be dancing around it for more than a year- an eventful year, sure - but still. That was kind of her point. In the grand scheme of apocalypses and nuclear explosions and sacrifices made and undone, it seems quite inconsequential.
"We should-" she swallows hard and turns toward the exit and finishes the sentence, even though she's sure she won't be heard over the noise. "Go."
Helena catches up with her in the street. She's watching the soles of her shoes catch against the sidewalk and doesn't have to look up when the smack of heels against cement approaches. Wordlessly, she holds out a hand for her jacket but instead of handing it to her, Helena holds it up by the collar. She shrugs into it and steps back and pulls her hair free of the collar and tries not to sigh.
"Sorry." Myka shoves her hands deep into her pockets. "I suddenly needed some air."
Helena nods and steps back and mirrors Myka's nervous twisting. "It seems that coming back from the dead has given me quite the talent for saying the wrong thing."
She half-laughs then frowns, bites into her lip. "No. It's not... you." One of the definite upsides of romantic entanglement with a woman from the 19th century: you can get away with a few modern clichés. "It's me."
Romantic entanglement, she thinks, puzzling over it for a moment before chiding herself because if there's one thing she promised herself she would do when they got the warehouse and Helena back it was stop lying to herself about that. There really was very little room left for ambiguity; very little need for the words. Myka is pretty sure it's love. She doesn't have a lot of experience in the area, but it feels like the kind of thing you'd write a book about, if you were in the habit of writing books, and she's always sort of thought of love that way.
So, romantic entanglement, complete with multilayered fears and doubts because, sure, she doesn't have a lot of experience, but what experience she does have? Has never ended well. Or with both parties alive, present company included.
So she's been spending a lot of time thinking - okay, worrying - over how to best approach this unexpected opportunity. Of course, reality has different ideas, ideas that pretty thoroughly decimate her carefully laid plans.
(Or at least, her best intentions to have carefully laid plans. If she's honest, the plans haven't been so forthcoming.)
"You?" Helena prompts, expectantly.
Crap; the conversation at hand. She nods. "Me. I..."
Myka looks away, brings her hand up to her neck and traces the contour, trying to encourage words.
"I'm a bit of a mess." She laughs a little at that understatement. "I mean, I've never been very good at this part, and this time the stakes seem really high given that you, you know, died and I - " She stops herself with short sigh, frowning. "I just really don't want to screw it up."
"Then you are going to have to stop running away from me." Helena gives her a familiar, amused look. She steps forward and lets her fingers trail down Myka's arm.
"I know, I'm sorry." Her hands move in nervous gestures between them until Helena catches them, and that halts her on the verge of another monologue. Instead she finds herself being tugged forward into a hug.
"You don't have to apologise Myka. I've given you more than enough reason to distrust my intentions in the past."
It's nice. She finds herself resting in the moment, palms flat against Helena's back, her cheek resting on her shoulder. She smells like alcohol and cigarette smoke and, underneath all that, shampoo. Myka takes a breath of it to steel herself for the conversation she knows is coming before stepping back.
"And one fairly big reason to trust you with my life," she counters. "You did sacrifice yourself to save us Helena. "
"To save you darling." It's her usual confident smile but there's vulnerability underneath it. She continues before there's time to dwell on it. "Happily the others were standing right beside you, but I did it for you."
"I know."
"Pete says that in this day and age, it's not usual to declare ones affections so soon after - hooking up with someone but I do want you to know that I-"
Myka nearly chokes on the air she's breathing, and not just at the use of slang. "You talked about this with Pete?"
"Not about this specifically. I merely asked him a question about something he was watching on television." She frowns. "As I was saying I -"
"I don't really think we've been hooking up Helena, for one thing we are not college freshman anymore or well, you never were, but that doesn't matter my point is, it's not like that because we have all this history and well - feelings, there are feelings right? I have feelings for you."
(Turns out, saying it isn't as hard as she thought it would be. When her mouth gets going her mind finds it hard to shut it up sometimes.)
"Which was what I was trying to say." Helena looks the slightest bit displeased for a moment before it turns disbelieving. "Myka. Really?"
"Really what?" she blinks. "Oh. Really? You're really asking me if I really have feelings for you? I thought that you'd know by now that I-" Thankfully, she manages to stop herself before she says I love you half-drunk in a dirty alleyway outside a nightclub. "Of course I have feelings for you," she finishes, quietly. "Big, scary, complicated feelings."
"Well that's good." Helena steps forward and hesitates with a hand in between them. "I'm afraid it might've be a tad awkward otherwise because I'm quite in love with you."
They both look a little surprised at the admission. (And Myka takes back every reservation she has about dirty alleyway confessions of love because it turns out, it's as perfect a time and place as any.)
"I hope that's not too honest so soon. I'd blame it on being a product of my time but I've always been inclined toward frankness with lovers. I find it's the best way to avoid ... complications."
"No. It's not too honest." Myka wonders at her, says it distractedly. "And it's definitely not a complication."
"Well then." She clears her throat. "Good."
"Yeah."
"We should get this artefact back to the warehouse."
She nods. "Yeah."
"Myka?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep saying that."
"Ye- I do. Sorry. Just. Thinking it over."
"Should I be worried?"
"No." She pulls her hand from her pocket and slides it down Helena's arm until she laces their fingers. She repeats it more firmly. "No. You definitely shouldn't be."
They part, almost wordlessly, in the corridor between their rooms. It's a comfortable silence, full of restrained joy, but Myka doesn't want to ruin it with yet with words she's not sure will come out right or do justice to what it is she feels. She takes the neutraliser bag and squeezes Helena's hand and thinks about kissing her properly, but settles for pressing her lips to her cheek instead.
"After we shower," Myka declares, her brow furrowing at Helena's smirk, "Separately, we um, need to talk... about what we're going to tell Artie. About the artefact."
"Sometimes you really are no fun." Helena thumbs over her wrist and steps in close, until Myka can feel her lips ghosting over to her own. Her eyes blink shut in anticipation but instead of the kiss she expects Helena says, "Promise you'll think of me."
And then kisses her, slow and hard and with a suggestive tongue.
Then, with another knowing grin, she's gone and Myka is staring after her and wondering at this particular turn of events.
Later, clean and between the cold hotel sheets, her determination to write their field report while the information is still fresh in her mind raises a completely separate set of issues. Myka knows she's indulging a bad habit and hiding in work. And Myka also knows by the way Helena is shifting beside her on the mattress that she can only hide for so long. But she buys herself a little time to adjust to this whole new ...thing that's happening.
(They kissed in the doorway, and that's not new exactly but it's different now. She feels a little less like the ground is falling out from underneath her feet.
And now Helena is reading over her shoulder as a ruse. Really she's kissing away the beads of water that keep falling from Myka's wet hair.)
"How exactly do we say this happened?" Myka taps her fingers against the keyboard absently, missing all of the keys.
Helena says it against the curve of her shoulder, lips still pressed against her skin. "I don't think this is particularly relevant to the extraction."
"Not this this, that this." She glares at the neutraliser bag. "How do we say we got the artefact? Because I'm still not particularly comfortable with the idea of the thing possessing my body and forcing me to um, nearly kill you, in that particular way. And I definitely don't want to write about it in a report that everyone is going to read."
"That is a dilemma isn't it? On the one hand, exactly how the artefact works is definitely important information." She moves and folds her arms, sits back against the headboard, thinking. "On the other, describing it in graphic detail seems a little... much."
"The entire thing is a little much." Myka sighs. "I just...I'm really sorry Helena."
"Myka." She smiles, reaches out and takes the offending hand, drops a kiss in the palm. "It was my idea. And I wouldn't have asked you to stop." (The smile turns a little wicked at the thought.) "But," she says, reaching to set the laptop aside and shifting to take its place, "I should be the one apologising, for encouraging you to do something you were uncomfortable with."
"It wasn't the..." Oh god, the spot on her jaw, again. "You know, it wasn't the what, it was the how. And the part where I could have killed you."
"As far as artefact-related deaths go, I imagine it would've been one of the best." Helena says against the hum in her throat. "Not that I'm in any particular hurry to die again."
"Good."
"And if it's really troubling you, you can always keep your hands to yourself." She wraps her fingers around said hands and pins them against the mattress. "I did have something else in mind."
She's nosing down Myka's sternum and pulls her hands free to tug at clothing. Somehow, before she quite realises, Myka ends up shirtless and Helena's lips are trailing down her stomach, mouth wet and unhurried.
"This is not helping me with our report," she manages, weakly, shifting her hips to assist in the removal of her pants. (Her resistance was always fairly token.)
"There'll be time for that later." The words are a brush of lips and air against her thigh and she shivers. Helena settles between her legs and lets her tongue swipe out experimentally between each low, throaty word. "Much, much later."
When she teases at her folds with the top of her tongue before pressing it flat against her clit, Myka decides she makes a fairly convincing argument and moans something that approximates agreement.
In the end she enters a rather bland, matter-of-fact description that ends with further details unknown into the warehouse database.
(It's true: despite knowing how it works, the who, what, when and why are still a mystery, one that isn't particularly a priority now that it's no longer dangerous.)
Helena reads over it her shoulder with a small smile and says, sagely. "Well I suppose they always are really."
"You're not talking about eschewing our duty as warehouse agents to ensure our successors are better informed than we were," Myka observes, hoping it sounds light as she folds her arms and turning in the chair so they're face to face.
Helena is, of course, talking about them and they both know it. She smirks."Not entirely. But it does raise a point doesn't it? Even without the details of how the artefact worked, without knowing how or what might happen, we were still able to successfully recover it."
Myka tries, very hard, to keep a straight face but she's grinning, half incredulous, half amused when she says it. "Are you suggesting we approach a relationship like retrieving an artefact?"
She leans against the desk and reaches down to skim her hand along the edge of Myka's sleeve, fingers coming to pinch at it, tugging upward. Myka stands so they're eyelevel when she says: "Well why not? We're quite good at the latter and I imagine we'll be similarly good at the former."
They're both smiling at that and staring at each other and Myka's hearing quite in love with you in her head again, which is becoming an increasingly regular occurrence. She feels her pulse crescendo in her ears and is hyperaware of the space between them and is on the verge of an appropriate response when the door to the office slams open.
"Are we interrupting something?"
Artie, as usual, sounds brusque which means a storm on the floor or a new ping. He starts shuffling papers around on his desk without sparing them a second glance.
Claudia smirks behind him and collapses in the chair Myka has vacated. "Oh we are so interrupting something." She taps on the keyboard furiously for a few moments, humming like a grade schooler in a playground and spins in the chair, pokes Myka's side. "K-i-s-s-i-n-g."
"Did I miss something?" Pete asks by way of announcing his presence.
Claudia swivels side to side in her chair. "Myka and H.G. are totally doing it."
"Claud."
"Which means you owe me twenty Latimer."
"Doing it." Helena turns it over on her tongue. "This is another euphemism for sex correct?"
"Yep." Pete grins. "Like banging, screwing, doing the nasty, f-"
"Hey." Claudia shoots up in the chair and covers Pete's mouth with her hand. "There are ladies present. Keep it PG dude."
"You are going to have to teach me more of those. You have so many nowadays."
"Oh god." Myka hides her face in her hands, blushing furiously and seriously hoping whatever minor disaster at hand is enough to end the conversation, permanently.
Artie coughs. "If you all are done, we have a serious problem to attend to."
What surprises Myka the most is that the change isn't as dramatic as she always thought it would be.
Artie gives them the details of the ping and Helena squeezes her hand to make sure Pete and Claudia's teasing hasn't fazed her and they get back to work.
It's nice.
(In so many ways, they just fit.)