FF: Time After Time | Warehouse 13 | HG/Myka | NC-17 | Part 9
Myka waited until they were clear on the other side of Paris before finally ducking into a small cafe with Christina. The waiter gave them a look and asked something in French that made Christina giggle. Myka stared in confusion.
“Would you like something to drink,” Christina asked.
“Water, and something to eat. I have money.” Christina ordered something in apparently flawless French with enough grace their waiter smiled and gave a little bow before trotting off at double speed. “Did your mother teach you French?”
“Oui.”
An image crossed her mind then of she and Helena in bed, the author reciting poetry to her in French. Myka shook her head, clearing it away. It did no good to dwell... or hope. Not yet.
“I have several hundred pounds,” Myka said, hesitating only so long as it took the waiter to set down water, fresh orange juice, and warm croissants. “We need to get you back to your mother. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“Mommy stayed in London to write. She is working on a novel about animals on a very special island.”
London. Logistically, it wouldn’t be that difficult to get there. A ferry from Callais - oh, the irony! - and then a train she supposed. They had plenty of money. The problem would arise when Charles found the apartment empty and reported Christina abducted. Every cop in Paris would be searching for them. Myka figured she had a day, maybe a little more if Claudia’s original estimation of 48-72 hours held. If she didn’t have Christina back to Helena by then... she didn’t want to consider what might happen if the original occupant of her body woke back up with a small girl in his company.
“We’ll eat first, then we’ll head for the train station to get to Callais, all right? I’ll have you back to your mother by tonight I hope. But... if anyone asks...”
“I should say you’re my Uncle Myka on my father’s side. A war veteran, who was badly injured and does not speak French.”
Myka smiled. “You have your mother’s imagination.”
Christina sighed dramatically. “She says I must put it to good use. I find it very difficult sometimes.”
Myka leaned forward, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Can I tell you a secret? So does your mother.”
Christina laughed, the sound filling Myka’s ears like music, her heart swelling with a love she never thought she’d know and now knew she couldn’t possibly live without.
~*~
There were looks at the train station when Myka purchased the tickets, but nothing more. She’d managed to find a small dry goods store where she changed clothes and cleaned herself up a bit, but the bruises and cuts were obviously fresh. She tried to hide as much as she could beneath a hat. Luckily, the police who regularly patrolled the station did no more than smile at Christina and tip their hats before moving on. She sighed in relief when they finally boarded the train bound for Callais.
To her surprise, Christina curled up on the seat next to Myka and laid her head against Myka’s arm. “Tell me how you met my mother.”
Appropriate or not, there was only one way to answer that question. “Well, your mother and I seem to always be meeting at gunpoint.”
“Mommy tried to shoot you?”
“Oh no, it was just a mix up. Your mother doesn’t like guns very much.”
“So what happened,” Christina prodded, yawning. Myka leaned over and felt her forehead. No fever, but the girl was obviously exhausted. Hell, Myka was exhausted. She tucked her arm around the girl.
“Well, we argued a bit, but your mother can be quite convincing when she wants to be,” Myka smiled, remembering how Helena had easily outwitted she and Pete and gotten them trapped on the ceiling while she easily escaped. “And she’s very, very clever.”
“Hmm.”
“But she... she saved my friend’s life. And mine, later on... I love her very much.”
The last words were said so softly she doubted Christina had heard them, and indeed she hadn’t, for the child had already slipped off to sleep, curled up tightly against Myka’s broad frame.
Myka let her head fall back against the seat, her arm wrapped protectively around Christina, and let herself dream of what it might have been like if she and Helena had been able to raise the girl together.
~*~
They made the transition from train to ferry easily enough at Callais, Charles’ blood money paving the way. There was little delay in boarding as the ferries ran nearly on the hour even as more of the day slipped away.
Myka bought bread, cheese, and fresh apples and spread out a small picnic for her and Christina as they sat in the ferry’s bow and looked out at the tiny speck that was England grow larger by the second. As the day progressed, Myka found that she measured it not by time or the passing arc of the sun overhead, but by the stories Christina told her.
“Once, Mommy built me a tree house…”
“Mommy is teaching me to fence…”
“We read stories every night…”
“…And she knows how to shoot and bow and arrow!”
The stories were numerous and unceasing once Christina’s strength was restored with a little rest and food. Myka minded not one bit as she sat in rapt attention listening to every story, half-finished or not, the little girl wanted to tell her. She barely noticed when the ferry came into port as Christina was recounting a rather impressive adventure with Helena “rescuing” a stuffed tiger from the National Geographic Society.
Myka looked around the Dover port, seeing it with fresh eyes, noting the subtle differences a few years could make. The place was even busier than before with shops and some small cafes for travellers. Myka purchased two more train tickets for the next train to London, which sadly didn’t leave for another hour, then took Christina’s hand as they walked around the town to stretch their legs.
“This is where mommy got her locket.”
The words, so simple, made Myka’s heart stutter-step. “She told you how she got it?”
“My father bought it for her.” Christina’s eyes saddened as she looked back at the ships coming into port. “He died, you know. In a shipwreck.”
Was it true, Myka wondered. Had William Cross really died in a shipwreck, or was that just a story, one of Helena’s useful imaginations, to ease the burden of a fatherless child? No, she decided. Helena wasn’t the type to take the easy way out, and she wasn’t the type to lie just to spare someone’s feelings, including her own.
“I’m very sorry… he was a good man.”
“You knew him?”
“Very briefly,” Myka smiled wryly. “But that’s a story for a much different time.”
Together they walked, hand in hand, window shopping as Myka and Helena had done only hours before. Physically, Myka knew she should be exhausted - every step made her wince from her earlier battle with Helena - but she refused to be bogged down by her borrowed body. If everything worked out as planned, she only had a few more hours with Christina one way or another. She wouldn’t waste them on sleep no matter how her body craved it.
They got another little snack before boarding the train, and some pencils and paper to keep Christina entertained for the journey. By the time they were in their seats, Myka was glad for the rest. Keeping up with a seven year old was not an easy task.
Christina was less talkative but no less as active, drawing picture after picture for Myka’s approval. Knowing she couldn’t take them with her, Myka simply stared at them, memorizing each line, each shade, observing easily that Christina had Helena’s talent for technical precision. When she grew up she could be a brilliant artist… if she didn’t become a doctor… or writer… or… well, just about anything she wanted to be. Helena, Myka knew, would see to that.
By the time they reached London, Myka felt slightly recovered. She took Christina’s hand with a smile. “We’ll have you home to your mother in no time. I promise.”
“Will she be cross? I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“If she is cross at anyone, it will be your uncle,” Myka assured. They stepped off the train platform together just as a newsboy opened up a fresh bundle of papers for the late-edition.
She nearly tripped over her feet when she saw the headline: “Explosion Kills Child in Paris”
Quickly she riffled through her pockets and handed the newsboy several coins, not bothering to count them before grabbing the paper and shuffling Christina off to the nearest corner.
The article was vague on the how and why, but the who was very clear:
Tragically, the only victim was seven-year old Christina Wells who was trapped inside the home at the time of the explosion. The child was staying with cousins while on holiday according to her uncle, Charles Wells. The child’s mother, Helena Wells, was in London at the time of the accident. Mr. Wells regrettably informed his sister of this tragedy via telegram earlier today…
“That son of a bitch.”
Christina’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t say anything. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d heard the phrase.
Myka tried to consider what the hell Charles could have been thinking. Even more, she didn’t understand how the man had declared Christina dead when the girl was standing right here next to her and he knew it. What was worse, knowing Helena, as soon as she got the news she would have immediately left for Paris. Hell, they might have passed each other on the ferries crossing the Channel.
The urge to hit something, or alternatively, cry flooded through her but somehow Myka managed to remain calm. It seemed like that was all she had done for the last several days: bounce from one tragedy to the next, always remaining calm, always keeping her feelings locked down deep inside. God help her when she was finally able to let go.
Just hold on a little longer, she told herself, and then you can have the nervous breakdown you so totally deserve.
She folded the paper and shoved it into her pocket then smiled bravely for Christina and squeezed her hand. “Okay, kiddo, what do you say we go flag down a taxi?”
~*~
As feared, the house was dark and locked up tight when they arrived. For the first time, Christina seemed genuinely concerned.
“But… where would she go? She always writes at home in her study.”
“I… I’m not sure. But we’ll find her okay? We’ll figure it out.” It was the first lie she’d told Christina all day. Myka wasn’t sure it would be the last. She found a small pub and ducked into a back booth, needing time and space to think. She let Christina order anything she wanted for dinner, and indulged herself with a beer and fish and chips. If anyone deserved a beer after all, it was her.
While Christina continued to draw - this time sketches for her mother - Myka tried to work things out in her mind. God, she missed Pete. She was the detail girl, he was the one who managed to take crazy ideas and make them make sense. And she could have used a really crazy idea right about then.
So, I’ll just… think like Pete.
Oddly enough, the first idea that struck her was about pancakes. It elicited a small smile, enough to make her relax. She could almost hear him chiding her about always being too serious. Myka took a breath and tried to think like Pete.
Vibes… I need a good vibe.
Christina gave her a good vibe… Helena gave her a good vibe… it was only Charles, from the very beginning, who had stood out. A roadblock, an inconvenience to everything she’d tried to do. Had he always been like that? Myka thought back over the stories Helena had told her, the files she’d read, and what she knew of the man from her own interactions. Yes, he’d been trouble. Always. But trouble Helena had somehow always been able to handle.
And that morning, he’d been the one to solicit the kidnappers. If Myka hadn’t been there, those men still would have broken in to kidnap Christina, they still would have encountered Helena in Sophie’s body, and she still would have gotten the drop on Mr. Bad Guy. None of that changed. In fact, when Myka really considered it, nothing had changed at all.
Nothing had changed.
Helena thought Christina was dead, and somehow, Charles would find a way to convince her of that. Perhaps he would tell her the body was too badly burned for identification, perhaps Helena wouldn’t even want to ask, but somehow he’d get away with it. The newspaper hadn’t mentioned a kidnapper and there was no way Mr. Bad Guy was going to the police to rat Chares out. When the housekeeper woke up, she would remember nothing.
No, nothing had changed. As far as the world was concerned, Christina Wells had died that day.
The timeline was still completely intact.
And that was when one of Pete’s crazy ideas came to her.
It was brilliant. It was insane. It was also likely to get her killed. But if it worked…
Myka smiled.
If it worked she was going to give Pete Lattimer a great big, sloppy kiss right on the mouth.
It was a hundred and twenty years and a continent away, but her partner still had her back.
Part Ten
“Would you like something to drink,” Christina asked.
“Water, and something to eat. I have money.” Christina ordered something in apparently flawless French with enough grace their waiter smiled and gave a little bow before trotting off at double speed. “Did your mother teach you French?”
“Oui.”
An image crossed her mind then of she and Helena in bed, the author reciting poetry to her in French. Myka shook her head, clearing it away. It did no good to dwell... or hope. Not yet.
“I have several hundred pounds,” Myka said, hesitating only so long as it took the waiter to set down water, fresh orange juice, and warm croissants. “We need to get you back to your mother. Do you know where she’s staying?”
“Mommy stayed in London to write. She is working on a novel about animals on a very special island.”
London. Logistically, it wouldn’t be that difficult to get there. A ferry from Callais - oh, the irony! - and then a train she supposed. They had plenty of money. The problem would arise when Charles found the apartment empty and reported Christina abducted. Every cop in Paris would be searching for them. Myka figured she had a day, maybe a little more if Claudia’s original estimation of 48-72 hours held. If she didn’t have Christina back to Helena by then... she didn’t want to consider what might happen if the original occupant of her body woke back up with a small girl in his company.
“We’ll eat first, then we’ll head for the train station to get to Callais, all right? I’ll have you back to your mother by tonight I hope. But... if anyone asks...”
“I should say you’re my Uncle Myka on my father’s side. A war veteran, who was badly injured and does not speak French.”
Myka smiled. “You have your mother’s imagination.”
Christina sighed dramatically. “She says I must put it to good use. I find it very difficult sometimes.”
Myka leaned forward, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Can I tell you a secret? So does your mother.”
Christina laughed, the sound filling Myka’s ears like music, her heart swelling with a love she never thought she’d know and now knew she couldn’t possibly live without.
~*~
There were looks at the train station when Myka purchased the tickets, but nothing more. She’d managed to find a small dry goods store where she changed clothes and cleaned herself up a bit, but the bruises and cuts were obviously fresh. She tried to hide as much as she could beneath a hat. Luckily, the police who regularly patrolled the station did no more than smile at Christina and tip their hats before moving on. She sighed in relief when they finally boarded the train bound for Callais.
To her surprise, Christina curled up on the seat next to Myka and laid her head against Myka’s arm. “Tell me how you met my mother.”
Appropriate or not, there was only one way to answer that question. “Well, your mother and I seem to always be meeting at gunpoint.”
“Mommy tried to shoot you?”
“Oh no, it was just a mix up. Your mother doesn’t like guns very much.”
“So what happened,” Christina prodded, yawning. Myka leaned over and felt her forehead. No fever, but the girl was obviously exhausted. Hell, Myka was exhausted. She tucked her arm around the girl.
“Well, we argued a bit, but your mother can be quite convincing when she wants to be,” Myka smiled, remembering how Helena had easily outwitted she and Pete and gotten them trapped on the ceiling while she easily escaped. “And she’s very, very clever.”
“Hmm.”
“But she... she saved my friend’s life. And mine, later on... I love her very much.”
The last words were said so softly she doubted Christina had heard them, and indeed she hadn’t, for the child had already slipped off to sleep, curled up tightly against Myka’s broad frame.
Myka let her head fall back against the seat, her arm wrapped protectively around Christina, and let herself dream of what it might have been like if she and Helena had been able to raise the girl together.
~*~
They made the transition from train to ferry easily enough at Callais, Charles’ blood money paving the way. There was little delay in boarding as the ferries ran nearly on the hour even as more of the day slipped away.
Myka bought bread, cheese, and fresh apples and spread out a small picnic for her and Christina as they sat in the ferry’s bow and looked out at the tiny speck that was England grow larger by the second. As the day progressed, Myka found that she measured it not by time or the passing arc of the sun overhead, but by the stories Christina told her.
“Once, Mommy built me a tree house…”
“Mommy is teaching me to fence…”
“We read stories every night…”
“…And she knows how to shoot and bow and arrow!”
The stories were numerous and unceasing once Christina’s strength was restored with a little rest and food. Myka minded not one bit as she sat in rapt attention listening to every story, half-finished or not, the little girl wanted to tell her. She barely noticed when the ferry came into port as Christina was recounting a rather impressive adventure with Helena “rescuing” a stuffed tiger from the National Geographic Society.
Myka looked around the Dover port, seeing it with fresh eyes, noting the subtle differences a few years could make. The place was even busier than before with shops and some small cafes for travellers. Myka purchased two more train tickets for the next train to London, which sadly didn’t leave for another hour, then took Christina’s hand as they walked around the town to stretch their legs.
“This is where mommy got her locket.”
The words, so simple, made Myka’s heart stutter-step. “She told you how she got it?”
“My father bought it for her.” Christina’s eyes saddened as she looked back at the ships coming into port. “He died, you know. In a shipwreck.”
Was it true, Myka wondered. Had William Cross really died in a shipwreck, or was that just a story, one of Helena’s useful imaginations, to ease the burden of a fatherless child? No, she decided. Helena wasn’t the type to take the easy way out, and she wasn’t the type to lie just to spare someone’s feelings, including her own.
“I’m very sorry… he was a good man.”
“You knew him?”
“Very briefly,” Myka smiled wryly. “But that’s a story for a much different time.”
Together they walked, hand in hand, window shopping as Myka and Helena had done only hours before. Physically, Myka knew she should be exhausted - every step made her wince from her earlier battle with Helena - but she refused to be bogged down by her borrowed body. If everything worked out as planned, she only had a few more hours with Christina one way or another. She wouldn’t waste them on sleep no matter how her body craved it.
They got another little snack before boarding the train, and some pencils and paper to keep Christina entertained for the journey. By the time they were in their seats, Myka was glad for the rest. Keeping up with a seven year old was not an easy task.
Christina was less talkative but no less as active, drawing picture after picture for Myka’s approval. Knowing she couldn’t take them with her, Myka simply stared at them, memorizing each line, each shade, observing easily that Christina had Helena’s talent for technical precision. When she grew up she could be a brilliant artist… if she didn’t become a doctor… or writer… or… well, just about anything she wanted to be. Helena, Myka knew, would see to that.
By the time they reached London, Myka felt slightly recovered. She took Christina’s hand with a smile. “We’ll have you home to your mother in no time. I promise.”
“Will she be cross? I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“If she is cross at anyone, it will be your uncle,” Myka assured. They stepped off the train platform together just as a newsboy opened up a fresh bundle of papers for the late-edition.
She nearly tripped over her feet when she saw the headline: “Explosion Kills Child in Paris”
Quickly she riffled through her pockets and handed the newsboy several coins, not bothering to count them before grabbing the paper and shuffling Christina off to the nearest corner.
The article was vague on the how and why, but the who was very clear:
Tragically, the only victim was seven-year old Christina Wells who was trapped inside the home at the time of the explosion. The child was staying with cousins while on holiday according to her uncle, Charles Wells. The child’s mother, Helena Wells, was in London at the time of the accident. Mr. Wells regrettably informed his sister of this tragedy via telegram earlier today…
“That son of a bitch.”
Christina’s eyebrows shot up but she didn’t say anything. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d heard the phrase.
Myka tried to consider what the hell Charles could have been thinking. Even more, she didn’t understand how the man had declared Christina dead when the girl was standing right here next to her and he knew it. What was worse, knowing Helena, as soon as she got the news she would have immediately left for Paris. Hell, they might have passed each other on the ferries crossing the Channel.
The urge to hit something, or alternatively, cry flooded through her but somehow Myka managed to remain calm. It seemed like that was all she had done for the last several days: bounce from one tragedy to the next, always remaining calm, always keeping her feelings locked down deep inside. God help her when she was finally able to let go.
Just hold on a little longer, she told herself, and then you can have the nervous breakdown you so totally deserve.
She folded the paper and shoved it into her pocket then smiled bravely for Christina and squeezed her hand. “Okay, kiddo, what do you say we go flag down a taxi?”
~*~
As feared, the house was dark and locked up tight when they arrived. For the first time, Christina seemed genuinely concerned.
“But… where would she go? She always writes at home in her study.”
“I… I’m not sure. But we’ll find her okay? We’ll figure it out.” It was the first lie she’d told Christina all day. Myka wasn’t sure it would be the last. She found a small pub and ducked into a back booth, needing time and space to think. She let Christina order anything she wanted for dinner, and indulged herself with a beer and fish and chips. If anyone deserved a beer after all, it was her.
While Christina continued to draw - this time sketches for her mother - Myka tried to work things out in her mind. God, she missed Pete. She was the detail girl, he was the one who managed to take crazy ideas and make them make sense. And she could have used a really crazy idea right about then.
So, I’ll just… think like Pete.
Oddly enough, the first idea that struck her was about pancakes. It elicited a small smile, enough to make her relax. She could almost hear him chiding her about always being too serious. Myka took a breath and tried to think like Pete.
Vibes… I need a good vibe.
Christina gave her a good vibe… Helena gave her a good vibe… it was only Charles, from the very beginning, who had stood out. A roadblock, an inconvenience to everything she’d tried to do. Had he always been like that? Myka thought back over the stories Helena had told her, the files she’d read, and what she knew of the man from her own interactions. Yes, he’d been trouble. Always. But trouble Helena had somehow always been able to handle.
And that morning, he’d been the one to solicit the kidnappers. If Myka hadn’t been there, those men still would have broken in to kidnap Christina, they still would have encountered Helena in Sophie’s body, and she still would have gotten the drop on Mr. Bad Guy. None of that changed. In fact, when Myka really considered it, nothing had changed at all.
Nothing had changed.
Helena thought Christina was dead, and somehow, Charles would find a way to convince her of that. Perhaps he would tell her the body was too badly burned for identification, perhaps Helena wouldn’t even want to ask, but somehow he’d get away with it. The newspaper hadn’t mentioned a kidnapper and there was no way Mr. Bad Guy was going to the police to rat Chares out. When the housekeeper woke up, she would remember nothing.
No, nothing had changed. As far as the world was concerned, Christina Wells had died that day.
The timeline was still completely intact.
And that was when one of Pete’s crazy ideas came to her.
It was brilliant. It was insane. It was also likely to get her killed. But if it worked…
Myka smiled.
If it worked she was going to give Pete Lattimer a great big, sloppy kiss right on the mouth.
It was a hundred and twenty years and a continent away, but her partner still had her back.
Part Ten