Fic: Don't Believe in Fairy Tales (HG/Myka)
Title: Don't believe in Fairy Tales
Author: individual_68
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Characters:HG/Myka
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For season 2 character and finale
Written For: xenelle
Summary: This is her life. Her story. Written down. A chronicle committed to paper. Not for anyone. Not for any reason. Simply because. In a world of fantasy, need to know that this was real. That something was real.
A/N: Written for fandomaid, this took forever, but it is done, and I hope xenelle enjoys it.
Disclaimers: Not mine, never mine.
Prologue
This is her life. Her story. Written down. A chronicle committed to paper. Not for anyone. Not for any reason. Simply because. In a world of fantasy, need to know that this was real. That something was real.
Write it down. Make it solid. Eternal. Power of the written word. More permanent than any memory. Everlasting. Though the body may fail. The mind lose focus. Though the page may crumble. Ink fade. It was written down once. It existed.
It was real.
And it is here. Everything that was. Everything that is. Could be. Might have been.
And it resides there. Within her. Within them. In the eyes of the universe. Forever locked in time. As it will always be.
***
It‘s all a mess. It was always a mess. From the first moment. Always leading them to here.
And yet, she would not change a thing. Would not take back a single moment. Thought or action. Every word would fall just as easily from her lips. Each promise meant just as deeply as the first time. Every touch felt just as keenly. Even now. Knowing what she knows. She would not take it back. Could not take it back.
And every tear will always be worth it. Every ache and pain. To feel that feeling. To know it is reciprocated. That cannot be taken away. Though years may cover them. Distance and feuds separate them. That will always remain. What they had. It will never fade away.
It is permanent. In its impermanence. Eternal in its fleeting nature. That is what makes it. Shapes it. That is why it is worth it all. Worth so much. Worth the anguish and the heart ache.
The pain is transitory. Passing. But it. It is forever.
So she would do it again. A hundred times. Not one moment different. No regrets. For this is how it was always meant to be. This is what it was meant to be. Exactly as it was. Is and forever will be.
***
There are so many reasons why not. Her head screams them to her. Daily and hourly. Reminding her. This is a bad idea. Possibly the worst. And bad decisions, fuck knows she’s made a few.
And yet she cannot help it. Call it what you will. Fate. Destiny. Hormones. A magnetic pull between two individuals. Unseen. Certainly unlooked for. There’s something. And she cannot resist.
At first it’s her eyes. Sparkling. Deep brown and beautiful. She could lose herself in them. Intelligent and challenging. As though so much time had touched them. Though she remains unaged. Eyes that had seen so much. Experienced. Observed. Lived.
Eyes haunted. By something. She does not know what yet. But there is a dark shadow. Flickering across the surface of them. Briefly. So briefly. Before it can be locked away again. Hidden behind the mask. Had she not been looking so closely. Never would have seen. But it is there. An edge of mystery. Further danger. And this is not her. She’s never been one for bad boys. Rarely one for women at all. And yet.
And yet those eyes. Pierce her. Down to her core. Deeper than her soul. Deeper than she thought possible. And she knows it is wrong. But those eyes on her. Rake her body. Take her in. Consume her with fire. As they drink her in. Everything she is. Was. May be. And it’s all so new. Unknown. Or rarely felt. And she finds she does not care.
Lost within them. To them. Never wanting to escape. The challenge.
Observe. Burn. And it is glorious.
Faintest trace of wrinkles. The slightest sign of weariness. And it’s the first hint. Right there. Deep inside. Deep within those beautiful brown eyes. Hiding a tortured soul. Covering cracks with a luscious veneer.
***
And it’s a thousand things. A million moments. Shared and separate. Bleeding into each other. Fragments of memories. Slivers of dreams. It’s all the same in this life they lead. Where fact and fiction blend. That is where they live. This is where she lives. In this in-between world. This other world. Of heroes and monsters. Her life is on pause. In constant limbo.
A lifetime of fairy tales. Living in books, hiding from reality. And then reality surpasses even the written word. Quests and damsels in distress. Mad scientists and time travel. And its all for her. Her own personal fairy tale.
But she never expected a Prince Charming. Never looked for a knight in shining armour. Refused to be that girl. The one in the back ground. Waiting. Determined to be the hero of her own story. The captain of her own fate.
But when fairytales become real there’s nothing she can do. Artefacts make life more than she ever dared dream. Excitement around each corner. Making the colours blaze. More real. Brighter. Somehow. The fantasy more realistic than real life ever seemed to be.
Ideas of fact and fiction no longer so clear. When books come to life. Myths become real. And her world is turned on its head. Righted finally. By the wrong. By the thing that does not make sense. Yet she cannot mind. Cannot bring herself to stop long enough to think. Because it all happens so fast. And she’s afraid. To think too long. Not the time to think. But to feel. To live.
And her childhood hero stands before her. Everything she had hoped. Nothing like she had expected. And so much more than she could ever have dreamt of.
***
She thinks it’s the lilt and fall of her voice. That captivating accent. Tugging at her mind. All sultry and smooth. Promising without words. Offering without saying. Familiar and yet exotic. Close and yet so far from her.
The turn of phrase. Reminding her that the voice is out of time. Does not quite fit. Clothes and hair styles can be changed easily. Integrate and assimilate. But the words, here and there, from time to time. Not showing age, but proclaiming its distinction. A phrase. Pronunciation. Wearing their origins. Proudly. Her badge of honour.
There’s something about the way she speaks. Says a name or word. Heard so many times before. But from that mouth. Those lips. In that voice. The simplest word can make the world melt away. Disappear. Until there is only the sound. The sight. The annunciation of each letter following the last. Leading to the next. Dance in speech. Poetry in motion. The written word has always captivated her. Now the spoken word holds all the power.
A voice that can stir the imagination. Reminding her of a favourite song. Commanding and comforting. Whispering secrets and promises. Holding her everything in its grasp. Speaking to her soul. Leaving her mind reeling. Heart pounding. And all it has to say is hello.
***
It isn’t love. Any more than it’s real. It cannot be real, nor named. For fear that it might be more. Could be everything she was looking for. A crush. Just a crush. A passing infatuation. Terrified. Because she knows it’s more. So much more than that. But she will not think it. Let alone say it aloud.
But she will feel it. Every moment of every day. In every fibre of her being. An unstoppable force. She can no longer be an unmovable object. This woman moves her. Forces her to feel what she believed only existed in fairy tale.
And she knows she will always feel it. Pounding in the back of her mind. Always present. Even now. Even then. Almost painful. But in the good way. The best way. Whatever it is. Whatever she refuses to call it. Name it. It is beautiful.
And it grows. Silently. There. Always present. No dark shadow. But a burning promise. Of more. Of something else. Of a life beyond this.
But it must stay hidden. Cannot show her. Cannot let her know. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let down the mask. So well built. So strongly established. Years of work.
And it is crumbling. In the presence of this. This possibility. This her.
And she fights it. Of course she does. But not too hard. Not too well. Afraid she might succeed. Just enough to believe her own lie. Just enough to pretend. To herself at least.
Pretend. And it isn’t real.
Lie. And it might just be true.
Act. And the story becomes life.
***
It was the first time they were alone together. Once the initial shock had worn off. That H G Wells was a woman. A very attractive woman. A brilliant woman. The protagonist rather than the author of the tales. A woman who lives the stories. She was never one to sit on the side lines. Not meek and demure. As her contemporaries would have had her be. But bold. And beautiful. And brilliant.
There’s a moment. Amidst the chaos. The day to day madness associated with all this. When it’s just the two of them. And suddenly everything is still. Calm washes over her. Almost startling in its own way. Jarring. Does not fit into her expectations.
Eyes meet. Words lay unspoken. As the world rushes on around them. Without them. And there is something there. Something indescribable. Barely palpable. Small and almost insignificant. But promising. The potential for something. Twinkling behind brown eyes that have seen more than anyone could imagine.
Just wait. Just see.
And everything is so still.
As though the world is waiting for them. On pause. Just for them. For this moment. To have. To hold. To remember when everything else is forgotten. When all else seems lost. The world, their crazy fucked up world. It gives them this.
Breathless and reeling. As the world restarts. Jumps back into gear. And the chaos ensues. Yet it remains. That sense of tranquil excitement. Centring and peaceful. Sparking more. Even if she does not know it yet. She will. They both will.
***
It could be the touch of her skin. The brush of her hair upon a cheek. The feel of her. Sensuous and smooth. And so very solid. Real. Anchoring whilst she floats away. Grounding her to soar.
Ghosting and firm. Never a doubt. That those are her hands. That this is her skin. That those are her lips. Here. There. Everywhere. All at the same instant.
Fingers trace her sleeping brow. And she feels them to her soul. Lips brush against her own. And they could be blazing their trail over her entire body. They are. They aren’t. She cannot distinguish sometimes. It all just feels so very. So completely. Utterly. Real.
It’s the power of a touch. Enlightening. Igniting.
It’s the promise it makes. The words it speaks to her skin. The history and the stories it tells. Of worlds seen. Of things to come. Of everything that is.
And it’s the truth. Words can be twisted. Looks misinterpreted. But a touch. That is true. It is solid. And unquestionable. Everything. And nothing. For it will pass. But the nerves burn. They remember. Each path traced. The pressure and the course. Every patch of skin aflame with it. The recollection. The purpose. The truth of it.
***
It’s her love of fairy tales that she loses to. For all her talk there’s a romantic heart beating within her chest. She may not want to be saved. May not need a knight in shining armour. But that does not mean that it won’t win her over.
There is a kiss to wake the sleeping princess. A suave knight. All the pomp and cheese she spent her life avoiding. And when its there in front of her. Despite her protests. Despite herself. Despite everything. She falls. And she doesn’t care.
A mission gone wrong. As each one tends to. This time they’re alone. Artie giving in to her protests that H G can be trusted. And suddenly she doubts the intelligence of her pleas. As she slowly slips into an Artifact induced coma. The Sleeping Beauty pendant clutched in her hand. A rose gold apple suspended on a chain that looks too thin to have survived all these years. Yet it has. It did. To exist here and now. To do this. She thought it a hoax. An urban legend. After a year working in the Warehouse she still hasn’t learnt to ignore doubts. To believe the unbelievable. To follow her instincts. And just give in to fantasy.
Her eyes close. Sleep takes her. And that phrase from all those stories echoes in her ears. ‘Only the kiss of her Prince, her one true love, will wake her.’ And she wishes she’d come with someone else. Anyone else. And consciousness leaves her. Fears she will never wake. That her Prince will never come.
Seconds. Minutes. Years later. She does not know. But in reality her eyes have barely shut. Before they open again. Blinking against the light. The Artifacts strange and unknown power gone. The spell broken. Her eyes open once more. Adjusting to the light streaming around her. As she stares into brown eyes that have seen so much. Too much. For anyone. Yet never looked so relieved. Her gaze flicks immediately to the lips that are mere inches from her own. Her own which still tingle with the sense memory. That burn for more.
And as all good princesses, in all the best fairy tales, she falls. For those eyes and that smile. In a moment, everything crashes in on her. Realisation dawns. And she reaches up to kiss those lips which were made for hers. Years before hers were even made. Miles and decades separating them. Yet fate or destiny, or something parading as it, have brought them here. To this place and this moment. And for now she will cling to it. As she clings to the frame above her.
And later that night she will dream of damsels and knights. Of white horses and castles. And she will hope that her knight has already saved her. Her prince is here. Even if it’s not the prince of story books. Even if her knight is darker than she’s meant to be. Because this is a different kind of fairy tale. This one is real.
***
It’s the way she looks at her. Speaks to her. As though she truly sees her. Really hears her. The simple little things. The random acts. Standing out in to the mundane. The everyday. Burning moments. Sustaining them through.
Through the cannot be’s. The not right’s. The judgements and the questions.
Because at the end of the day it does not matter. After all is said and done. When they stand together. Nothing can come between them.
When they lay together. There is nothing but what is. What is meant to be.
And they cry. And they fight. And at moments it seems like it may all be too much. Too hard. That the differences are too great. The ages separating them. The secrets each holds back. The reality of it all. Too much. Yet not enough.
Because it’s not a fairy tale. Their lives are not written in some story book. This is reality. Real life. And when the prince swoops in, there is no castle to ride off too. Just back to the hotel. Just another day at work. Another life to save. Another day to live.
But it’s those moments. Those brilliant memories. Worth holding on to. Holding on for. Cutting through the everyday. Reminding her. This is not just ordinary. This is more. It is life. And something like it.
***
It’s the big moments. The do or die moments. The transient, incorporeal seconds. Flittering away before they are even noticed.
It’s the life and death. The minutes away from failing. Always a second away from falling.
It’s the calm and the chaos.
She wonders sometimes. Late at night. She ponders. If they led a different life. Were those people. The alias’s they use. The normal people. Would she still be lying here. In the arms of this woman.
Other nights she contemplates why she wonders. How anything could change this. Why it should even matter. For they are these people. Adventurer and secret agent. Living on the edge. It is who they are meant to be. Who they always will be. Anything less. Could never be enough.
She thinks sometimes on that other woman. The one whose life she pretends she has. Maybe somewhere she has it. Some universe. Some reality. After everything she has seen, parallel reality is far from a stretch. An exercise of the imagination. She does not wonder what her life is like. Nor wish to share it. She does not fantasise of normality.
Instead she wonders if she lays awake. In the arms of a H G who is not her H G. Or some man, as is more likely. In that normal world. She wonders if she thinks what her life would be like if she were a daring secret agent. If she thinks on her.
***
And it cuts. The betrayal.
The others think her foolishly brave. But she knows the truth. In this moment. At this time. Her forever stands before her. On the precipice. And if she is to die this day. On this hour. In this place. There is nowhere else she wants to be.
Only here. Looking into eyes tormented. Hearing a voice, so sweet, cry out in anguish.
She wants to calm her. Make it all right again. Soothe the pain. Wipe away the tears.
But some tears are meant to fall. Some ends are meant to come. And so she stands. Seemingly bravely. Trying to reason.
And all she wants is to take the other in her arms. To whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Say anything. Everything. To make this woman see. As she does. That there is so much to live for. So much life to live. Love to live.
Or simply to be that close. To feel that body within her arms once more. Taste that skin beneath her mouth. And know. That this is where it ends. How it ends. And she would not have it any other way. If this is how it concludes. Then so be it.
But the end is not today. At least for the world. Their lives. As mortal beings.
But something ends here. Stopped short. Before it’s time.
As she falls. Taken into arms built to hold the other.
Freedom dies. Possibility. The future. In so many ways it is all over. At least for them. For this.
They both know there is no going back. That this is it. The penultimate moment. They will not have another. Not like this.
And so they whisper goodbye. Amidst tears of loss. For what was. All those years ago. For what was mere moments before.
For what can never be now. That life they had dreamt of. The stories they had told each other. Whispered late at night. Promises to each other. To the stars. Pressed against each other. Murmured into the night. Against skin. Silent wishes. Gone.
Lost.
It was not their time. Too much. Not enough.
***
Fairytales end. They must to make a story. It is the very meaning of the word. Nothing is forever. Everything has its time. Its place. It’s own unique end.
There is always a beginning. A start. Struggle to overcome. Life to break free of. Monster to hide from. Defeat.
There is always a middle. Where the hero intervenes. The prince or the knight. Sweeps in to save the day.
And as with all things.
There is an end. An inevitable climax. Learn it’s all inside of you. Resolution. Happy ever after.
But she never wanted one of those fairytales. So why should she have one of those happy endings?
Her saviour came. Rescued her from danger. From the darkness. From herself. Saving her from a life of mediocrity. Even peril can be dull.
But she does not stay. They do not get their happily ever after. Only the moments they have already shared. Their allotted time. The memories she will hold onto for a life time. In them she will find her ending.
Or because of them. She will find one she never expected.
***
She will not wait. She isn’t that kind of woman.
But from time to time her mind will wander. Fleeting back to take refuge in memories. In thoughts of eyes that see all. In the sound of a voice which reminds her of music. In the peace and tranquillity of that presence.
And she will look up. Notice her feet have wandered too. Brought her here. Again. Looking on the Bronze Section. Eyes burning through steel. Until she can take it no longer.
Fingers will flutter over controls without her minds interaction. The whirl of machinery will fill her ears.
And as the empty visage is placed before her she will stare into it. Gaze upon that countenance once more. Maybe she sighs. Softly. Wistfully. Perhaps it is merely the wind.
And she will step forward. A pace or two. Not too close. But close enough. To reach out.
Trace the brow she never saw furrowed.
Get lost in eyes. The deepest brown eyes. She can see them now. In her mind’s eye. Though they are hidden. Just beneath the surface. But she thinks they can see her still. Feels them burning into her as they once did. As they always will. Believes they are twinkling. Smiling. As they were want to do. When she looked at her.
And she will lean forward. Kiss the cold metal cheek. Remember the skin there. Soft and warm beneath her lips. Alive. Almost believes she can taste it still. Lingering. Even now.
Each time she will say goodbye. Place another kiss beside the first. Whispers her long farewell. Drawing it out a little longer. Each and every time.
Every time she will turn to leave. Gears grinding. Shrill in her ears. Indicating the others return to some shelf. Some nameless alcove. Far from here. From her.
And tears will fill her eyes.
Not tears of pain or sadness. But tears of loss. Of what might have been. Shed a tear for the passing. Yet there is no regret. No what if. There is no room for that here. There only is.
She will stride away. A little firmer each time. Telling herself this is the last. It will not happen again.
Until the next time.
***
Epilogue
One day it is the last.
Years have passed. Wrinkles have long laid claim. She no longer fights the silver in her hair.
And he brings her here. Her last wish. His hands move with practised ease over controls. She knows each of them well. Knows they are well worn from her own hands. And then the familiar sound as the still form is placed before her.
She cannot count, nor guess, how many times she has stood here. Like this. Once. One hundred. A million. It could be any. It is all. Each bleeding into the other.
She leans forward once more. One last time. Ready to feel the cold beneath her lips. To stay that way forever.
As cold over takes her. Arms wrap tightly around a waist that has never changed. Hold it a little looser. Arms not as strong as they once were.
But as the cold seeps through her. Seems to radiate from the other. She remembers when they were. How they were. What they were.
As the world goes dark. She whispers of forever against the others cheek. And her arms are strengthened. Like steel. Like bronze. Joints long abused, soothe. Eyes grown weary, close.
Sweet bliss takes her. As darkness falls. She finds light. Limbs so heavy. Now weightless.
And this is how she stands. Entwined in the other.
For all eternity.
Happy.
Ever after.
Author: individual_68
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Characters:HG/Myka
Rating: PG
Spoilers: For season 2 character and finale
Written For: xenelle
Summary: This is her life. Her story. Written down. A chronicle committed to paper. Not for anyone. Not for any reason. Simply because. In a world of fantasy, need to know that this was real. That something was real.
A/N: Written for fandomaid, this took forever, but it is done, and I hope xenelle enjoys it.
Disclaimers: Not mine, never mine.
Prologue
This is her life. Her story. Written down. A chronicle committed to paper. Not for anyone. Not for any reason. Simply because. In a world of fantasy, need to know that this was real. That something was real.
Write it down. Make it solid. Eternal. Power of the written word. More permanent than any memory. Everlasting. Though the body may fail. The mind lose focus. Though the page may crumble. Ink fade. It was written down once. It existed.
It was real.
And it is here. Everything that was. Everything that is. Could be. Might have been.
And it resides there. Within her. Within them. In the eyes of the universe. Forever locked in time. As it will always be.
***
It‘s all a mess. It was always a mess. From the first moment. Always leading them to here.
And yet, she would not change a thing. Would not take back a single moment. Thought or action. Every word would fall just as easily from her lips. Each promise meant just as deeply as the first time. Every touch felt just as keenly. Even now. Knowing what she knows. She would not take it back. Could not take it back.
And every tear will always be worth it. Every ache and pain. To feel that feeling. To know it is reciprocated. That cannot be taken away. Though years may cover them. Distance and feuds separate them. That will always remain. What they had. It will never fade away.
It is permanent. In its impermanence. Eternal in its fleeting nature. That is what makes it. Shapes it. That is why it is worth it all. Worth so much. Worth the anguish and the heart ache.
The pain is transitory. Passing. But it. It is forever.
So she would do it again. A hundred times. Not one moment different. No regrets. For this is how it was always meant to be. This is what it was meant to be. Exactly as it was. Is and forever will be.
***
There are so many reasons why not. Her head screams them to her. Daily and hourly. Reminding her. This is a bad idea. Possibly the worst. And bad decisions, fuck knows she’s made a few.
And yet she cannot help it. Call it what you will. Fate. Destiny. Hormones. A magnetic pull between two individuals. Unseen. Certainly unlooked for. There’s something. And she cannot resist.
At first it’s her eyes. Sparkling. Deep brown and beautiful. She could lose herself in them. Intelligent and challenging. As though so much time had touched them. Though she remains unaged. Eyes that had seen so much. Experienced. Observed. Lived.
Eyes haunted. By something. She does not know what yet. But there is a dark shadow. Flickering across the surface of them. Briefly. So briefly. Before it can be locked away again. Hidden behind the mask. Had she not been looking so closely. Never would have seen. But it is there. An edge of mystery. Further danger. And this is not her. She’s never been one for bad boys. Rarely one for women at all. And yet.
And yet those eyes. Pierce her. Down to her core. Deeper than her soul. Deeper than she thought possible. And she knows it is wrong. But those eyes on her. Rake her body. Take her in. Consume her with fire. As they drink her in. Everything she is. Was. May be. And it’s all so new. Unknown. Or rarely felt. And she finds she does not care.
Lost within them. To them. Never wanting to escape. The challenge.
Observe. Burn. And it is glorious.
Faintest trace of wrinkles. The slightest sign of weariness. And it’s the first hint. Right there. Deep inside. Deep within those beautiful brown eyes. Hiding a tortured soul. Covering cracks with a luscious veneer.
***
And it’s a thousand things. A million moments. Shared and separate. Bleeding into each other. Fragments of memories. Slivers of dreams. It’s all the same in this life they lead. Where fact and fiction blend. That is where they live. This is where she lives. In this in-between world. This other world. Of heroes and monsters. Her life is on pause. In constant limbo.
A lifetime of fairy tales. Living in books, hiding from reality. And then reality surpasses even the written word. Quests and damsels in distress. Mad scientists and time travel. And its all for her. Her own personal fairy tale.
But she never expected a Prince Charming. Never looked for a knight in shining armour. Refused to be that girl. The one in the back ground. Waiting. Determined to be the hero of her own story. The captain of her own fate.
But when fairytales become real there’s nothing she can do. Artefacts make life more than she ever dared dream. Excitement around each corner. Making the colours blaze. More real. Brighter. Somehow. The fantasy more realistic than real life ever seemed to be.
Ideas of fact and fiction no longer so clear. When books come to life. Myths become real. And her world is turned on its head. Righted finally. By the wrong. By the thing that does not make sense. Yet she cannot mind. Cannot bring herself to stop long enough to think. Because it all happens so fast. And she’s afraid. To think too long. Not the time to think. But to feel. To live.
And her childhood hero stands before her. Everything she had hoped. Nothing like she had expected. And so much more than she could ever have dreamt of.
***
She thinks it’s the lilt and fall of her voice. That captivating accent. Tugging at her mind. All sultry and smooth. Promising without words. Offering without saying. Familiar and yet exotic. Close and yet so far from her.
The turn of phrase. Reminding her that the voice is out of time. Does not quite fit. Clothes and hair styles can be changed easily. Integrate and assimilate. But the words, here and there, from time to time. Not showing age, but proclaiming its distinction. A phrase. Pronunciation. Wearing their origins. Proudly. Her badge of honour.
There’s something about the way she speaks. Says a name or word. Heard so many times before. But from that mouth. Those lips. In that voice. The simplest word can make the world melt away. Disappear. Until there is only the sound. The sight. The annunciation of each letter following the last. Leading to the next. Dance in speech. Poetry in motion. The written word has always captivated her. Now the spoken word holds all the power.
A voice that can stir the imagination. Reminding her of a favourite song. Commanding and comforting. Whispering secrets and promises. Holding her everything in its grasp. Speaking to her soul. Leaving her mind reeling. Heart pounding. And all it has to say is hello.
***
It isn’t love. Any more than it’s real. It cannot be real, nor named. For fear that it might be more. Could be everything she was looking for. A crush. Just a crush. A passing infatuation. Terrified. Because she knows it’s more. So much more than that. But she will not think it. Let alone say it aloud.
But she will feel it. Every moment of every day. In every fibre of her being. An unstoppable force. She can no longer be an unmovable object. This woman moves her. Forces her to feel what she believed only existed in fairy tale.
And she knows she will always feel it. Pounding in the back of her mind. Always present. Even now. Even then. Almost painful. But in the good way. The best way. Whatever it is. Whatever she refuses to call it. Name it. It is beautiful.
And it grows. Silently. There. Always present. No dark shadow. But a burning promise. Of more. Of something else. Of a life beyond this.
But it must stay hidden. Cannot show her. Cannot let her know. Don’t show weakness. Don’t let down the mask. So well built. So strongly established. Years of work.
And it is crumbling. In the presence of this. This possibility. This her.
And she fights it. Of course she does. But not too hard. Not too well. Afraid she might succeed. Just enough to believe her own lie. Just enough to pretend. To herself at least.
Pretend. And it isn’t real.
Lie. And it might just be true.
Act. And the story becomes life.
***
It was the first time they were alone together. Once the initial shock had worn off. That H G Wells was a woman. A very attractive woman. A brilliant woman. The protagonist rather than the author of the tales. A woman who lives the stories. She was never one to sit on the side lines. Not meek and demure. As her contemporaries would have had her be. But bold. And beautiful. And brilliant.
There’s a moment. Amidst the chaos. The day to day madness associated with all this. When it’s just the two of them. And suddenly everything is still. Calm washes over her. Almost startling in its own way. Jarring. Does not fit into her expectations.
Eyes meet. Words lay unspoken. As the world rushes on around them. Without them. And there is something there. Something indescribable. Barely palpable. Small and almost insignificant. But promising. The potential for something. Twinkling behind brown eyes that have seen more than anyone could imagine.
Just wait. Just see.
And everything is so still.
As though the world is waiting for them. On pause. Just for them. For this moment. To have. To hold. To remember when everything else is forgotten. When all else seems lost. The world, their crazy fucked up world. It gives them this.
Breathless and reeling. As the world restarts. Jumps back into gear. And the chaos ensues. Yet it remains. That sense of tranquil excitement. Centring and peaceful. Sparking more. Even if she does not know it yet. She will. They both will.
***
It could be the touch of her skin. The brush of her hair upon a cheek. The feel of her. Sensuous and smooth. And so very solid. Real. Anchoring whilst she floats away. Grounding her to soar.
Ghosting and firm. Never a doubt. That those are her hands. That this is her skin. That those are her lips. Here. There. Everywhere. All at the same instant.
Fingers trace her sleeping brow. And she feels them to her soul. Lips brush against her own. And they could be blazing their trail over her entire body. They are. They aren’t. She cannot distinguish sometimes. It all just feels so very. So completely. Utterly. Real.
It’s the power of a touch. Enlightening. Igniting.
It’s the promise it makes. The words it speaks to her skin. The history and the stories it tells. Of worlds seen. Of things to come. Of everything that is.
And it’s the truth. Words can be twisted. Looks misinterpreted. But a touch. That is true. It is solid. And unquestionable. Everything. And nothing. For it will pass. But the nerves burn. They remember. Each path traced. The pressure and the course. Every patch of skin aflame with it. The recollection. The purpose. The truth of it.
***
It’s her love of fairy tales that she loses to. For all her talk there’s a romantic heart beating within her chest. She may not want to be saved. May not need a knight in shining armour. But that does not mean that it won’t win her over.
There is a kiss to wake the sleeping princess. A suave knight. All the pomp and cheese she spent her life avoiding. And when its there in front of her. Despite her protests. Despite herself. Despite everything. She falls. And she doesn’t care.
A mission gone wrong. As each one tends to. This time they’re alone. Artie giving in to her protests that H G can be trusted. And suddenly she doubts the intelligence of her pleas. As she slowly slips into an Artifact induced coma. The Sleeping Beauty pendant clutched in her hand. A rose gold apple suspended on a chain that looks too thin to have survived all these years. Yet it has. It did. To exist here and now. To do this. She thought it a hoax. An urban legend. After a year working in the Warehouse she still hasn’t learnt to ignore doubts. To believe the unbelievable. To follow her instincts. And just give in to fantasy.
Her eyes close. Sleep takes her. And that phrase from all those stories echoes in her ears. ‘Only the kiss of her Prince, her one true love, will wake her.’ And she wishes she’d come with someone else. Anyone else. And consciousness leaves her. Fears she will never wake. That her Prince will never come.
Seconds. Minutes. Years later. She does not know. But in reality her eyes have barely shut. Before they open again. Blinking against the light. The Artifacts strange and unknown power gone. The spell broken. Her eyes open once more. Adjusting to the light streaming around her. As she stares into brown eyes that have seen so much. Too much. For anyone. Yet never looked so relieved. Her gaze flicks immediately to the lips that are mere inches from her own. Her own which still tingle with the sense memory. That burn for more.
And as all good princesses, in all the best fairy tales, she falls. For those eyes and that smile. In a moment, everything crashes in on her. Realisation dawns. And she reaches up to kiss those lips which were made for hers. Years before hers were even made. Miles and decades separating them. Yet fate or destiny, or something parading as it, have brought them here. To this place and this moment. And for now she will cling to it. As she clings to the frame above her.
And later that night she will dream of damsels and knights. Of white horses and castles. And she will hope that her knight has already saved her. Her prince is here. Even if it’s not the prince of story books. Even if her knight is darker than she’s meant to be. Because this is a different kind of fairy tale. This one is real.
***
It’s the way she looks at her. Speaks to her. As though she truly sees her. Really hears her. The simple little things. The random acts. Standing out in to the mundane. The everyday. Burning moments. Sustaining them through.
Through the cannot be’s. The not right’s. The judgements and the questions.
Because at the end of the day it does not matter. After all is said and done. When they stand together. Nothing can come between them.
When they lay together. There is nothing but what is. What is meant to be.
And they cry. And they fight. And at moments it seems like it may all be too much. Too hard. That the differences are too great. The ages separating them. The secrets each holds back. The reality of it all. Too much. Yet not enough.
Because it’s not a fairy tale. Their lives are not written in some story book. This is reality. Real life. And when the prince swoops in, there is no castle to ride off too. Just back to the hotel. Just another day at work. Another life to save. Another day to live.
But it’s those moments. Those brilliant memories. Worth holding on to. Holding on for. Cutting through the everyday. Reminding her. This is not just ordinary. This is more. It is life. And something like it.
***
It’s the big moments. The do or die moments. The transient, incorporeal seconds. Flittering away before they are even noticed.
It’s the life and death. The minutes away from failing. Always a second away from falling.
It’s the calm and the chaos.
She wonders sometimes. Late at night. She ponders. If they led a different life. Were those people. The alias’s they use. The normal people. Would she still be lying here. In the arms of this woman.
Other nights she contemplates why she wonders. How anything could change this. Why it should even matter. For they are these people. Adventurer and secret agent. Living on the edge. It is who they are meant to be. Who they always will be. Anything less. Could never be enough.
She thinks sometimes on that other woman. The one whose life she pretends she has. Maybe somewhere she has it. Some universe. Some reality. After everything she has seen, parallel reality is far from a stretch. An exercise of the imagination. She does not wonder what her life is like. Nor wish to share it. She does not fantasise of normality.
Instead she wonders if she lays awake. In the arms of a H G who is not her H G. Or some man, as is more likely. In that normal world. She wonders if she thinks what her life would be like if she were a daring secret agent. If she thinks on her.
***
And it cuts. The betrayal.
The others think her foolishly brave. But she knows the truth. In this moment. At this time. Her forever stands before her. On the precipice. And if she is to die this day. On this hour. In this place. There is nowhere else she wants to be.
Only here. Looking into eyes tormented. Hearing a voice, so sweet, cry out in anguish.
She wants to calm her. Make it all right again. Soothe the pain. Wipe away the tears.
But some tears are meant to fall. Some ends are meant to come. And so she stands. Seemingly bravely. Trying to reason.
And all she wants is to take the other in her arms. To whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Say anything. Everything. To make this woman see. As she does. That there is so much to live for. So much life to live. Love to live.
Or simply to be that close. To feel that body within her arms once more. Taste that skin beneath her mouth. And know. That this is where it ends. How it ends. And she would not have it any other way. If this is how it concludes. Then so be it.
But the end is not today. At least for the world. Their lives. As mortal beings.
But something ends here. Stopped short. Before it’s time.
As she falls. Taken into arms built to hold the other.
Freedom dies. Possibility. The future. In so many ways it is all over. At least for them. For this.
They both know there is no going back. That this is it. The penultimate moment. They will not have another. Not like this.
And so they whisper goodbye. Amidst tears of loss. For what was. All those years ago. For what was mere moments before.
For what can never be now. That life they had dreamt of. The stories they had told each other. Whispered late at night. Promises to each other. To the stars. Pressed against each other. Murmured into the night. Against skin. Silent wishes. Gone.
Lost.
It was not their time. Too much. Not enough.
***
Fairytales end. They must to make a story. It is the very meaning of the word. Nothing is forever. Everything has its time. Its place. It’s own unique end.
There is always a beginning. A start. Struggle to overcome. Life to break free of. Monster to hide from. Defeat.
There is always a middle. Where the hero intervenes. The prince or the knight. Sweeps in to save the day.
And as with all things.
There is an end. An inevitable climax. Learn it’s all inside of you. Resolution. Happy ever after.
But she never wanted one of those fairytales. So why should she have one of those happy endings?
Her saviour came. Rescued her from danger. From the darkness. From herself. Saving her from a life of mediocrity. Even peril can be dull.
But she does not stay. They do not get their happily ever after. Only the moments they have already shared. Their allotted time. The memories she will hold onto for a life time. In them she will find her ending.
Or because of them. She will find one she never expected.
***
She will not wait. She isn’t that kind of woman.
But from time to time her mind will wander. Fleeting back to take refuge in memories. In thoughts of eyes that see all. In the sound of a voice which reminds her of music. In the peace and tranquillity of that presence.
And she will look up. Notice her feet have wandered too. Brought her here. Again. Looking on the Bronze Section. Eyes burning through steel. Until she can take it no longer.
Fingers will flutter over controls without her minds interaction. The whirl of machinery will fill her ears.
And as the empty visage is placed before her she will stare into it. Gaze upon that countenance once more. Maybe she sighs. Softly. Wistfully. Perhaps it is merely the wind.
And she will step forward. A pace or two. Not too close. But close enough. To reach out.
Trace the brow she never saw furrowed.
Get lost in eyes. The deepest brown eyes. She can see them now. In her mind’s eye. Though they are hidden. Just beneath the surface. But she thinks they can see her still. Feels them burning into her as they once did. As they always will. Believes they are twinkling. Smiling. As they were want to do. When she looked at her.
And she will lean forward. Kiss the cold metal cheek. Remember the skin there. Soft and warm beneath her lips. Alive. Almost believes she can taste it still. Lingering. Even now.
Each time she will say goodbye. Place another kiss beside the first. Whispers her long farewell. Drawing it out a little longer. Each and every time.
Every time she will turn to leave. Gears grinding. Shrill in her ears. Indicating the others return to some shelf. Some nameless alcove. Far from here. From her.
And tears will fill her eyes.
Not tears of pain or sadness. But tears of loss. Of what might have been. Shed a tear for the passing. Yet there is no regret. No what if. There is no room for that here. There only is.
She will stride away. A little firmer each time. Telling herself this is the last. It will not happen again.
Until the next time.
***
Epilogue
One day it is the last.
Years have passed. Wrinkles have long laid claim. She no longer fights the silver in her hair.
And he brings her here. Her last wish. His hands move with practised ease over controls. She knows each of them well. Knows they are well worn from her own hands. And then the familiar sound as the still form is placed before her.
She cannot count, nor guess, how many times she has stood here. Like this. Once. One hundred. A million. It could be any. It is all. Each bleeding into the other.
She leans forward once more. One last time. Ready to feel the cold beneath her lips. To stay that way forever.
As cold over takes her. Arms wrap tightly around a waist that has never changed. Hold it a little looser. Arms not as strong as they once were.
But as the cold seeps through her. Seems to radiate from the other. She remembers when they were. How they were. What they were.
As the world goes dark. She whispers of forever against the others cheek. And her arms are strengthened. Like steel. Like bronze. Joints long abused, soothe. Eyes grown weary, close.
Sweet bliss takes her. As darkness falls. She finds light. Limbs so heavy. Now weightless.
And this is how she stands. Entwined in the other.
For all eternity.
Happy.
Ever after.