Do You Ever Wonder (How We Got To Here)
Title: Do You Ever Wonder (How We Got To Here)
Pairing: Myka Bering/H.G. Wells
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through 4.1.
Summary: A fill for this prompt: Myka stares at H.G. and can't shake the feeling that she almost lost everything.
Myka doesn’t get vibes. That isn’t why she’s here in the Warehouse; she doesn’t sense when bad things are afoot, or rely on her gut instinct alone. Gut instincts are for Pete. Pete goes with his gut, and Myka-
Myka observes. Myka uses the world around her, uses real, tangible details to make her decisions. Colors, and shapes; the expressions on people’s faces, the tone of fear, or hope, or a lie. Things she can see, and touch, and cross off a list.
Myka doesn’t get vibes. But right now, standing in this aisle with her hands shaking and her eyes glued to a disgruntled-looking, uneasy H.G. Wells-who, for her part, seems to be grinding her teeth oh-so-elegantly over Artie’s refusal to explain himself-she feels…
She feels sad.
It isn’t a situation that particularly begs this sort of feeling. Others, yes; jubilation, at having succeeded, or confusion, that Artie would have suddenly jumped to the very conclusions that would save them-or a half-skeptical acceptance that this is just what Artie does, even. All of that would make all the sense in the world, but it isn’t where she is. In fact, all things considered, though she should be jumping up and down with we-just-stopped-a-bomb-and-utter-catastrophe glee, all Myka can think is-
It’s that feeling you get when you zone out in the car and narrowly avoid rear-ending the SUV in front of you at a red light. It’s the drop in your stomach when your foot skids off a step and your equilibrium just barely manages to kick back in. It’s the sense, heavy and frustrating, that you have somehow forgotten something, and who knows what that thing may be, but it is important-very, very important, so important that you just know you need to scramble back to it.
It is absolute, utter sorrow, this feeling, and she cannot for her life put her finger on why. What is there to be so sad about, when they’ve saved the Warehouse and everything in it? When Artie is standing there, trembling right down to his eyebrows with relief, with Pete’s arm winding its way around her shoulders and giving her a hearty shake-these are marks of goodness. Of success. And still, her heart pounds like she’s come inches from losing something drastic, as if she’s had some sort of brutal near-miss and just barely come out the other side with her sense of joy still intact.
It’s idiotic.
It doesn’t make sense.
Helena is looking at her.
She bites her lip and, though her urge is to let her gaze dart away self-consciously, keeps eye contact. There’s just something about this moment, about the way Helena stares, and it’s maddening how she just can’t grasp the reason. Her fingers skid along the edges of a thought, her nails biting and releasing with slippery anticipation, and as Helena’s tongue wets her lips, as Pete’s hand squeezes her shoulder, as Artie begins blustering on about the next move-it’s gone. Not there at all, not that it ever was, and this is all giving her such a ridiculous headache.
She pushes her fingertips through her hair and sighs. Not a foot away, standing too close-the way she always has, the way Myka actually kind of likes-Helena lets her head tip back, her eyes searching the shelves above them. She doesn’t speak, but her hand slips across the space separating them, fingers curling lightly around Myka’s sleeve. Grasping with an oddly gently intensity, as though she is straining to prevent a child’s terrified instincts from punching through her carefully-maintained demeanor. As though she feels it too.
Myka’s not sure she wants to think too hard on what that might mean.
They wind their way through the aisles together, reflexively reaching here and there to straighten artifacts that have somehow jittered out of place. It’s strange, to move in such silence; normally, Helena’s voice is smug and soothing in her ear, the lilt of her accent curling through Myka’s head as she weaves tales of wonder and madness from her past. Normally, Helena can’t wait to share her life with Myka in parsed-out bits, each moment painted by a woman who has had no one else to give herself to in a century’s time. And, normally, Myka can’t get enough, her eyes and ears struggling to drink in each syllable, each twitch of Helena’s smile, each flutter of dark eyelashes and flick of nimble fingers through the air.
But today, they say nothing at all. Their shoulders knock together, hands bumping with every other step, and Myka can’t for her life stop stealing glances. Helena’s profile is oddly stunted, her shoulders curling in as if warding off some terrible cold-or some terrible fear. She looks harried, anxious, as if there is something she just can’t shake: a wrongness in the air that cuts through the triumph and Pete’s manic laughter as it echoes from three aisles over.
Myka catches her arm, shoes squeaking against the floor, and opens her mouth to speak, but with Helena’s lidded eyes boring into her, she finds herself wordless. Wordless, bones groaning under the weight of a loss she can’t begin to calculate, and before she can think to stop herself, she’s dragging Helena these last few steps forward and clinging tight. Slim shoulders quake beneath her grasp, long fingers digging into her shirt; Helena breathes against her hair, sucking in air with an uncomfortable desperation.
“Apples,” Myka thinks she hears her murmur, and the word holds such startling reverence that she finds it hard to gather her next breath. She turns her forehead against Helena’s shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut.
Myka doesn’t get vibes the way Pete does, can’t bring herself to rely on gut feelings to push herself through the world’s workings, but there’s just something about this moment-about the grip Helena has on her, about the way her muscles clench painfully tight-that means more than just defeating another madman with an artifact. It means more than saving her job, or protecting and serving this country. There is something here that she so easily could have lost, and though she can’t remember, can’t force herself to fixate on what that thing might be-
She holds to Helena with a fierceness she hardly ever lets herself feel, and prays she’ll never know that kind of loss again.
Pairing: Myka Bering/H.G. Wells
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through 4.1.
Summary: A fill for this prompt: Myka stares at H.G. and can't shake the feeling that she almost lost everything.
Myka doesn’t get vibes. That isn’t why she’s here in the Warehouse; she doesn’t sense when bad things are afoot, or rely on her gut instinct alone. Gut instincts are for Pete. Pete goes with his gut, and Myka-
Myka observes. Myka uses the world around her, uses real, tangible details to make her decisions. Colors, and shapes; the expressions on people’s faces, the tone of fear, or hope, or a lie. Things she can see, and touch, and cross off a list.
Myka doesn’t get vibes. But right now, standing in this aisle with her hands shaking and her eyes glued to a disgruntled-looking, uneasy H.G. Wells-who, for her part, seems to be grinding her teeth oh-so-elegantly over Artie’s refusal to explain himself-she feels…
She feels sad.
It isn’t a situation that particularly begs this sort of feeling. Others, yes; jubilation, at having succeeded, or confusion, that Artie would have suddenly jumped to the very conclusions that would save them-or a half-skeptical acceptance that this is just what Artie does, even. All of that would make all the sense in the world, but it isn’t where she is. In fact, all things considered, though she should be jumping up and down with we-just-stopped-a-bomb-and-utter-catastrophe glee, all Myka can think is-
It’s that feeling you get when you zone out in the car and narrowly avoid rear-ending the SUV in front of you at a red light. It’s the drop in your stomach when your foot skids off a step and your equilibrium just barely manages to kick back in. It’s the sense, heavy and frustrating, that you have somehow forgotten something, and who knows what that thing may be, but it is important-very, very important, so important that you just know you need to scramble back to it.
It is absolute, utter sorrow, this feeling, and she cannot for her life put her finger on why. What is there to be so sad about, when they’ve saved the Warehouse and everything in it? When Artie is standing there, trembling right down to his eyebrows with relief, with Pete’s arm winding its way around her shoulders and giving her a hearty shake-these are marks of goodness. Of success. And still, her heart pounds like she’s come inches from losing something drastic, as if she’s had some sort of brutal near-miss and just barely come out the other side with her sense of joy still intact.
It’s idiotic.
It doesn’t make sense.
Helena is looking at her.
She bites her lip and, though her urge is to let her gaze dart away self-consciously, keeps eye contact. There’s just something about this moment, about the way Helena stares, and it’s maddening how she just can’t grasp the reason. Her fingers skid along the edges of a thought, her nails biting and releasing with slippery anticipation, and as Helena’s tongue wets her lips, as Pete’s hand squeezes her shoulder, as Artie begins blustering on about the next move-it’s gone. Not there at all, not that it ever was, and this is all giving her such a ridiculous headache.
She pushes her fingertips through her hair and sighs. Not a foot away, standing too close-the way she always has, the way Myka actually kind of likes-Helena lets her head tip back, her eyes searching the shelves above them. She doesn’t speak, but her hand slips across the space separating them, fingers curling lightly around Myka’s sleeve. Grasping with an oddly gently intensity, as though she is straining to prevent a child’s terrified instincts from punching through her carefully-maintained demeanor. As though she feels it too.
Myka’s not sure she wants to think too hard on what that might mean.
They wind their way through the aisles together, reflexively reaching here and there to straighten artifacts that have somehow jittered out of place. It’s strange, to move in such silence; normally, Helena’s voice is smug and soothing in her ear, the lilt of her accent curling through Myka’s head as she weaves tales of wonder and madness from her past. Normally, Helena can’t wait to share her life with Myka in parsed-out bits, each moment painted by a woman who has had no one else to give herself to in a century’s time. And, normally, Myka can’t get enough, her eyes and ears struggling to drink in each syllable, each twitch of Helena’s smile, each flutter of dark eyelashes and flick of nimble fingers through the air.
But today, they say nothing at all. Their shoulders knock together, hands bumping with every other step, and Myka can’t for her life stop stealing glances. Helena’s profile is oddly stunted, her shoulders curling in as if warding off some terrible cold-or some terrible fear. She looks harried, anxious, as if there is something she just can’t shake: a wrongness in the air that cuts through the triumph and Pete’s manic laughter as it echoes from three aisles over.
Myka catches her arm, shoes squeaking against the floor, and opens her mouth to speak, but with Helena’s lidded eyes boring into her, she finds herself wordless. Wordless, bones groaning under the weight of a loss she can’t begin to calculate, and before she can think to stop herself, she’s dragging Helena these last few steps forward and clinging tight. Slim shoulders quake beneath her grasp, long fingers digging into her shirt; Helena breathes against her hair, sucking in air with an uncomfortable desperation.
“Apples,” Myka thinks she hears her murmur, and the word holds such startling reverence that she finds it hard to gather her next breath. She turns her forehead against Helena’s shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut.
Myka doesn’t get vibes the way Pete does, can’t bring herself to rely on gut feelings to push herself through the world’s workings, but there’s just something about this moment-about the grip Helena has on her, about the way her muscles clench painfully tight-that means more than just defeating another madman with an artifact. It means more than saving her job, or protecting and serving this country. There is something here that she so easily could have lost, and though she can’t remember, can’t force herself to fixate on what that thing might be-
She holds to Helena with a fierceness she hardly ever lets herself feel, and prays she’ll never know that kind of loss again.