FF: I'll Keep You in My Pocket (Artie/Claudia)
Title: I'll Keep You in My Pocket (And Carry You with Me Always)
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Timeline: 2.02 Mild-Mannered
Pairing/Characters: Artie/Claudia (friendship, the contours are left to the reader); Some Leena for kicks
Disclaimer: Someone else's sandbox. I just play here because other people have all the best toys.
Summary: The thing about having a Farnsworth is it works both ways.
The thing about having a Farnsworth is it works both ways. Means that with the flip of the cover, the press of a switch she can be connected, can reach out wherever she is and they’ll hear her-this makeshift, patchwork family of crazy-brave, perfectly imperfect screw-balls. They’ll hear her and they’ll answer.
Her family.
Hers.
That’s what Artie gives her all wrapped up in retro styling and out-of-date tech-a promise disguised as an irritated threat.
It means I can reach you any time of the day or night.
It means he’s not letting her go anywhere. Means he’s always gonna chase her, if for nothing else than to get Farnsworth’s Farnsworth back. Means any time of the day or night she can reach him, too.
Cause the thing about a Farnsworth is it works both ways.
Artie tells her not to lose it, but he doesn’t have to worry. She carries it with her like a talisman, warding off all the loneliness, all the isolation of her life before the Warehouse. And for awhile that’s enough. Just having it is enough.
But even though she’s lived half her life on faith, on desperate, unfounded hope, Claudia can’t help but want to test this, to see the proof of it. It’s not about trust. She’s never trusted anyone or anything the way she trusts Artie-implicitly, unflinchingly, without doubt or reason.
Still the need is a persistent itch, unrelenting, insistent.
And she’s never been good at things like will-power or impulse control.
- + - + - + - + - + -
“Okay, so I’ve been thinking and we need to upgrade our computer system.”
“Claudia?” She smiles at the sight of him fumbling for his glasses, so he can glare more effectively into the monitor, and flops back on her bed.
“Awww, did you fall asleep at your desk again? That’s so cute. Welcome to the world, Rip van Winkle.” She knows she’s pushing her luck here, but she’s giddy, high on the simple fact that he picked up at one in the morning. She called and he answered.
“Have you forgotten, yet again, the part where I’m your boss? Or the part about the Farnsworth being for case-related use only.” Then his brain seems to catch up with her opening gambit and if anything his scowl deepens. “No. Absolutely not. You are not touching one circuit-”
She cuts him off with a grin. “Sorry Artie, Farnsworth for case-related use only.”
And before he can protest she snaps the case shut.
Yeah she’s gonna be doing inventory for three days.
So totally worth it.
- + - + - + - + - + -
After that it’s a bit of an addiction, calling him at all hours, coming up with paper thin excuses that excuse nothing, that don’t protect her from whatever new menial punishment Artie can devise. If he’s noticed they don’t deter her . . . well their lack of effectiveness fails to deter him.
If anything it’s starting to feel a little like a game of one-upmanship, of willpower. They both know he’s not going to take the Farnsworth away, not after he almost lost her, after she almost got lost. So it’s a slowly escalating bout of chicken, of who blinks first, of how long before she decides the crime isn’t worth the punishment or he decides the punishment isn’t worth the crime.
He thinks he’s got her this time, she could see it in his eyes last night when he’d answered her call with an irascible “If this isn’t an emergency involving the demise of at least a small country, I will make you scrub out the Neutralizer vat.”
Because ‘I’m thinking of redoing the inventory database’ apparently didn’t meet that criteria, she’s currently decked out in coveralls and goggles, hanging suspended inside the large copper vat, and plotting her next move.
She kinda gets the feeling Artie would be disappointed if she didn’t.
“You don’t have to keep testing him, you know.”
The sound of Leena’s serenely confident voice makes her hunch her shoulders a little tighter, scrub a little harder. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps scrubbing. It is (of course it is), but at the same time it isn’t, not anymore. Now it’s a thing, their thing, like chess and snark and fighting over card catalogues versus electronic databases. Artie likes a challenge just as much as she does, possibly more, and maybe, just maybe, as long as she keeps giving him one she can hold his attention.
But she’ll be damned if she’s gonna say any of that to Leena. It’s petty and immature and would make Artie look at her with sad, tired eyes that cause something inside her clench, but it doesn’t change anything. Leena almost took everything from her, no matter how unintentionally or unconsciously, and Claudia can’t quite manage to entirely forgive her for that.
Above her she hears the other woman heave a resigned sigh, and she scrubs a little harder trying to erase the mix of guilt and resentment inside.
She’s trying, really she is, but its slow going. Logically she knows all the reasons it wasn’t Leena’s fault. She’s even gotten to the point where she can scrape together a little sympathy for everything the other woman went through. But its light years away from being able to pretend that it’s all okay, from looking at her and not remembering the moment when Leena made her doubt her own mind.
And she wishes Leena would just have the patience to wait, to accept that it’s not going to be easy between them. But of course that’s not Leena’s way, she counsels, she meddles, she inserts herself into places she isn’t welcome until she is.
“All right, so why don’t you tell me what it is.”
“Ummm, try none of your business.”
“Claudia-“
“Look, if Artie wants me to stop. He’ll tell me.”
“And you don’t think this,” Leena gestures to the vat, “Is his way of telling you?”
“Nope.” She pops the word, enjoying the echo against the copper walls.
Leena sighs and shakes her head, “No, I don’t suppose it is.”
For awhile that’s the end of it. Claudia goes back to serving her sentence, and Leena stays up there watching her, occasionally passing down a tool, and it’s almost . . . tolerable.
It goes on long enough to lull her into a false sense of security, until . . .
“Artie once told me he was pretty hard to kill.”
She drops her brush.
Even the clatter isn’t enough to drown out Leena’s whispered words. They reverberate in the space around her, a nearly physical thing that presses against her skin and makes her want to cover her ears against the onslaught.
Still Leena keeps talking, “He told me that and two months later MacPherson killed him.”
Her voice trembles on the words and Claudia wants to hit something, wants to throw things, wants to kidnap Artie all over again, take him with her some place safe. Because this place, this sanctuary is anything but. Artie died here, and she was a thousand miles away. Artie died and she didn’t even know, might never have known if he hadn’t come back to her, and it’s so fucking unfair she can’t breathe. Somewhere deep inside she’s screaming at Leena, begging her-Stop it. Stop it. StopitStopitStopit-but she can’t form the words, can’t do anything other than hang here pathetically and swipe at her tears.
“If you want to be technical about it, I killed him, too.”
And Leena sounds so small, so guilty, that Claudia can’t help but respond “It wasn’t you. You didn’t do this.”
There’s a vehemence, a certainty in her voice that surprise them both. For a moment they look at each other, locked in an understanding she didn’t think they’d ever have again, and for the first time Claudia realizes that, however long it might take her to forgive Leena, it’s probably going to take Leena longer to forgive herself. It doesn’t fix everything, doesn’t turn back the clock or wipe the slate clean, but it might just be a start.
Finally Leena gets up from where she had been sitting, and hands her another brush. “I guess my point is . . . if I had a Farnsworth, I’d probably use it to check up on Artie, too.”
- + - + - + - + - + -
Two nights later Artie calls her.
She nearly flips out of the hammock at the sound. Realizing after a second of disorientation that she’d fallen asleep waiting for him to get back from Minnesota or Maine or whatever crazy, secret, innocuous place the Regents drag him to when they want to interfere.
Fumbling a little to keep her balance, she flips it open. “Yeah, Artie. Yeah, I’m here.”
She tries to sound confident and competent, the way she imagines Myka does, even as she’s ignoring deep pit in her stomach at idea of whatever emergency has caused him to call.
“Still at the Warehouse?”
“Yup. Tech support and all around research genius at your service. Just tell me what you need.”
“Go out on the balcony.”
It’s a strange request, but not necessarily the strangest. She’s hoping whatever he needs doesn’t involve the zipline, because yes . . . cool, but also slightly insane, and she’s really not up to mortal peril five minutes after waking up. Still the instruction calms her down a little, because if it had been a defcon five type moment he just would have a rattled off a series of rapid-fire demands.
“Oookay, cryptic. I’m out here, what’s up?”
“Knight to F2.”
For moment she’s struck dumb as she stares down at the board still set up on table-one of three they’re currently playing. Then with smile that she knows he can see she moves the piece.
“Check.”
Claudia looks back up at the screen, eyes shining, a laugh in her voice, “Black wins in five moves.”
Artie smiles at her, tired and sleepy and alive and wonderful. “Score one for the old man.”
“The old man better be prepared to get his ass kicked when he gets back.”
“Oh little girl-” He growls, trying to sound imposing, but the exhaustion in his face and the amusement in his eyes interferes, and finally he gives it up. “Just get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.” Then before he can sign-off, she calls out trying to keep him with her just a little longer. “Artie?”
“Hmm?”
She wants to ask what Leena said to him (because it must have been her), wants to say thanks, say stay with me, say anything that tells him all the things she never said before he died and she hasn’t figured out how to say since. Instead all she says is:
“Side table at the B&B. Queen to B6. Checkmate.”
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers/Timeline: 2.02 Mild-Mannered
Pairing/Characters: Artie/Claudia (friendship, the contours are left to the reader); Some Leena for kicks
Disclaimer: Someone else's sandbox. I just play here because other people have all the best toys.
Summary: The thing about having a Farnsworth is it works both ways.
The thing about having a Farnsworth is it works both ways. Means that with the flip of the cover, the press of a switch she can be connected, can reach out wherever she is and they’ll hear her-this makeshift, patchwork family of crazy-brave, perfectly imperfect screw-balls. They’ll hear her and they’ll answer.
Her family.
Hers.
That’s what Artie gives her all wrapped up in retro styling and out-of-date tech-a promise disguised as an irritated threat.
It means I can reach you any time of the day or night.
It means he’s not letting her go anywhere. Means he’s always gonna chase her, if for nothing else than to get Farnsworth’s Farnsworth back. Means any time of the day or night she can reach him, too.
Cause the thing about a Farnsworth is it works both ways.
Artie tells her not to lose it, but he doesn’t have to worry. She carries it with her like a talisman, warding off all the loneliness, all the isolation of her life before the Warehouse. And for awhile that’s enough. Just having it is enough.
But even though she’s lived half her life on faith, on desperate, unfounded hope, Claudia can’t help but want to test this, to see the proof of it. It’s not about trust. She’s never trusted anyone or anything the way she trusts Artie-implicitly, unflinchingly, without doubt or reason.
Still the need is a persistent itch, unrelenting, insistent.
And she’s never been good at things like will-power or impulse control.
- + - + - + - + - + -
“Okay, so I’ve been thinking and we need to upgrade our computer system.”
“Claudia?” She smiles at the sight of him fumbling for his glasses, so he can glare more effectively into the monitor, and flops back on her bed.
“Awww, did you fall asleep at your desk again? That’s so cute. Welcome to the world, Rip van Winkle.” She knows she’s pushing her luck here, but she’s giddy, high on the simple fact that he picked up at one in the morning. She called and he answered.
“Have you forgotten, yet again, the part where I’m your boss? Or the part about the Farnsworth being for case-related use only.” Then his brain seems to catch up with her opening gambit and if anything his scowl deepens. “No. Absolutely not. You are not touching one circuit-”
She cuts him off with a grin. “Sorry Artie, Farnsworth for case-related use only.”
And before he can protest she snaps the case shut.
Yeah she’s gonna be doing inventory for three days.
So totally worth it.
- + - + - + - + - + -
After that it’s a bit of an addiction, calling him at all hours, coming up with paper thin excuses that excuse nothing, that don’t protect her from whatever new menial punishment Artie can devise. If he’s noticed they don’t deter her . . . well their lack of effectiveness fails to deter him.
If anything it’s starting to feel a little like a game of one-upmanship, of willpower. They both know he’s not going to take the Farnsworth away, not after he almost lost her, after she almost got lost. So it’s a slowly escalating bout of chicken, of who blinks first, of how long before she decides the crime isn’t worth the punishment or he decides the punishment isn’t worth the crime.
He thinks he’s got her this time, she could see it in his eyes last night when he’d answered her call with an irascible “If this isn’t an emergency involving the demise of at least a small country, I will make you scrub out the Neutralizer vat.”
Because ‘I’m thinking of redoing the inventory database’ apparently didn’t meet that criteria, she’s currently decked out in coveralls and goggles, hanging suspended inside the large copper vat, and plotting her next move.
She kinda gets the feeling Artie would be disappointed if she didn’t.
“You don’t have to keep testing him, you know.”
The sound of Leena’s serenely confident voice makes her hunch her shoulders a little tighter, scrub a little harder. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps scrubbing. It is (of course it is), but at the same time it isn’t, not anymore. Now it’s a thing, their thing, like chess and snark and fighting over card catalogues versus electronic databases. Artie likes a challenge just as much as she does, possibly more, and maybe, just maybe, as long as she keeps giving him one she can hold his attention.
But she’ll be damned if she’s gonna say any of that to Leena. It’s petty and immature and would make Artie look at her with sad, tired eyes that cause something inside her clench, but it doesn’t change anything. Leena almost took everything from her, no matter how unintentionally or unconsciously, and Claudia can’t quite manage to entirely forgive her for that.
Above her she hears the other woman heave a resigned sigh, and she scrubs a little harder trying to erase the mix of guilt and resentment inside.
She’s trying, really she is, but its slow going. Logically she knows all the reasons it wasn’t Leena’s fault. She’s even gotten to the point where she can scrape together a little sympathy for everything the other woman went through. But its light years away from being able to pretend that it’s all okay, from looking at her and not remembering the moment when Leena made her doubt her own mind.
And she wishes Leena would just have the patience to wait, to accept that it’s not going to be easy between them. But of course that’s not Leena’s way, she counsels, she meddles, she inserts herself into places she isn’t welcome until she is.
“All right, so why don’t you tell me what it is.”
“Ummm, try none of your business.”
“Claudia-“
“Look, if Artie wants me to stop. He’ll tell me.”
“And you don’t think this,” Leena gestures to the vat, “Is his way of telling you?”
“Nope.” She pops the word, enjoying the echo against the copper walls.
Leena sighs and shakes her head, “No, I don’t suppose it is.”
For awhile that’s the end of it. Claudia goes back to serving her sentence, and Leena stays up there watching her, occasionally passing down a tool, and it’s almost . . . tolerable.
It goes on long enough to lull her into a false sense of security, until . . .
“Artie once told me he was pretty hard to kill.”
She drops her brush.
Even the clatter isn’t enough to drown out Leena’s whispered words. They reverberate in the space around her, a nearly physical thing that presses against her skin and makes her want to cover her ears against the onslaught.
Still Leena keeps talking, “He told me that and two months later MacPherson killed him.”
Her voice trembles on the words and Claudia wants to hit something, wants to throw things, wants to kidnap Artie all over again, take him with her some place safe. Because this place, this sanctuary is anything but. Artie died here, and she was a thousand miles away. Artie died and she didn’t even know, might never have known if he hadn’t come back to her, and it’s so fucking unfair she can’t breathe. Somewhere deep inside she’s screaming at Leena, begging her-Stop it. Stop it. StopitStopitStopit-but she can’t form the words, can’t do anything other than hang here pathetically and swipe at her tears.
“If you want to be technical about it, I killed him, too.”
And Leena sounds so small, so guilty, that Claudia can’t help but respond “It wasn’t you. You didn’t do this.”
There’s a vehemence, a certainty in her voice that surprise them both. For a moment they look at each other, locked in an understanding she didn’t think they’d ever have again, and for the first time Claudia realizes that, however long it might take her to forgive Leena, it’s probably going to take Leena longer to forgive herself. It doesn’t fix everything, doesn’t turn back the clock or wipe the slate clean, but it might just be a start.
Finally Leena gets up from where she had been sitting, and hands her another brush. “I guess my point is . . . if I had a Farnsworth, I’d probably use it to check up on Artie, too.”
- + - + - + - + - + -
Two nights later Artie calls her.
She nearly flips out of the hammock at the sound. Realizing after a second of disorientation that she’d fallen asleep waiting for him to get back from Minnesota or Maine or whatever crazy, secret, innocuous place the Regents drag him to when they want to interfere.
Fumbling a little to keep her balance, she flips it open. “Yeah, Artie. Yeah, I’m here.”
She tries to sound confident and competent, the way she imagines Myka does, even as she’s ignoring deep pit in her stomach at idea of whatever emergency has caused him to call.
“Still at the Warehouse?”
“Yup. Tech support and all around research genius at your service. Just tell me what you need.”
“Go out on the balcony.”
It’s a strange request, but not necessarily the strangest. She’s hoping whatever he needs doesn’t involve the zipline, because yes . . . cool, but also slightly insane, and she’s really not up to mortal peril five minutes after waking up. Still the instruction calms her down a little, because if it had been a defcon five type moment he just would have a rattled off a series of rapid-fire demands.
“Oookay, cryptic. I’m out here, what’s up?”
“Knight to F2.”
For moment she’s struck dumb as she stares down at the board still set up on table-one of three they’re currently playing. Then with smile that she knows he can see she moves the piece.
“Check.”
Claudia looks back up at the screen, eyes shining, a laugh in her voice, “Black wins in five moves.”
Artie smiles at her, tired and sleepy and alive and wonderful. “Score one for the old man.”
“The old man better be prepared to get his ass kicked when he gets back.”
“Oh little girl-” He growls, trying to sound imposing, but the exhaustion in his face and the amusement in his eyes interferes, and finally he gives it up. “Just get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.” Then before he can sign-off, she calls out trying to keep him with her just a little longer. “Artie?”
“Hmm?”
She wants to ask what Leena said to him (because it must have been her), wants to say thanks, say stay with me, say anything that tells him all the things she never said before he died and she hasn’t figured out how to say since. Instead all she says is:
“Side table at the B&B. Queen to B6. Checkmate.”