Post Reset Fic
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Words: 1,004 Chapter 1/?
Disclaimer: Not mine. I would never squander H.G. Wells that way.
Spoilers: Through Season 2, Ep. 12, Reset.
Author’s Note: I hated the way Season 2 ended. I hated the waste of such an amazing character, seemingly written out of character to me, at least. I hated the waste of such amazing chemistry between Myka and H.G. So, I decided to fix it. Multi-chapters but I promise to finish them quickly. Honest. My first attempt at Warehouse 13, by the way, so be kind as I get the voices down.
Thanks to darandkerry for the quick beta. Love ya, Tex-ass!
Chapter One
Buffalo, Wyoming:
She drove west on Interstate 90, across the windswept plains of South Dakota into Wyoming. The SUV hurtled down the highway, the road a wide gash of silver through the flat, desolate countryside, rocks and scraggly brush giving way now and then to outcroppings of evergreen and hardwood, brief oasis of green in a monochrome desert.
Desert. Fitting, she thought, that this debacle, this travesty had all been born in one desert, half a world away, only to end here in this equally unforgiving landscape. She didn’t deserve forgiveness; not from Artie, not from Mrs. Fredric, not from anyone. She’d had the temerity, the hubris to roll the dice in a game with unfathomable stakes; she had risked not only her friends, her team, the Warehouse, but the world itself, all for a pair of dark eyes and soft lips, for a voice that promised salvation and delivered hell. All for Helena.
A bitter grimace twisted her mouth, a horrible caricature of a smile, as her lips soundlessly formed the name, a childish fear rising inside her that if she said it out loud, the woman herself would appear, like an apparition from Alice’s mirror.
Helena. How appropriately named, Myka thought harshly. Like her namesake, she had turned sibling against sibling, had brought mighty empires crumbling to dust, had nearly laid waste to the whole world, the towers of Ilium burning around her. All for the promise of love.
The tears she’d refused to shed rose like bile in her throat. Since the moment she’d awoken in Warehouse 2, millennia of dust and sand coating her skin, coating her throat, the images had been playing on some torturous repeat cycle in her mind. Images of black hair spreading across her pillow, of silken skin glowing translucently pale in the moonlight slipping in through the curtains. Images of the elegant H.G. Wells coming undone, iconic figure reduced to flesh and bone, to blood pounding against a pulse point in a slender neck.
Like Paris offering the golden apple, she had offered up her good name to Mrs. Fredric, to the Regents, just for the prize of having Helena in her life. And like Paris, it had all been for naught. Oh, yes, her Ilium had been spared that final thrust of the sea-god’s trident, but at the cost of her very soul. At the cost of everything she held dear.
The windshield of the SUV began to blur as the tears finally broke free, spilling over the dam like a raging flood. She just managed to pull the truck over, the tires catching the graveled edge of the road, sending a spray of stones in her wake as she slowed to a stop. Blindly throwing the door open, she stumbled out, the toe of her boot hitting the corner of the running-board, sending her sprawling onto the unyielding concrete of the highway. Pulling herself onto her knees, Myka Bering let the waters rush over her, her body quaking with sobs as she knelt on the hard, dry ground along Interstate 90 and prayed to
drown.
Univille, South Dakota:
“Claudia, go to the Warehouse and find Miss Pittypat’s smelling salts,” Artie Nielsen ordered, not looking up from the supine figure on the bed. “They should be in the same aisle as Joe Lewis’s gloves.”
“Miss Pittypat?” Claudia queried, the worried frown creasing her forehead making her look far older than her nineteen years.
“Gone with the Wind,” Artie supplied brusquely, “which is what you need to be. Now, Claudia.”
“Are you sure those will help her?” Claudia asked, the fear in her voice quite evident to the other occupants of the room.
Before Artie could respond another voice cut in, this one calm and melodic and infinitely soothing. “Claudia, I know that you’re worried about her, but the best thing you can do to help her is to go to the Warehouse as Artie asked and get the artifact.”
“I know, but when she didn’t come down for breakfast this morning and I came up here to get her, I thought she was just sleeping in. And so I didn’t wake her up and I should have and I should have told you, or Pete or called Artie then and I didn’t and now…” Claudia rambled, words tumbling from her lips like the popcorn Pete had spilled all over the carpet last week.
“Claudia. Claudia. I promise, we won’t let anything else happen to her. Trust me.” Claudia stared into the speaker’s eyes, a trace of her anxiety seeping away at the sincerity she found there. She released the breath she’d been holding, forcing her feet to take her toward the door, to take one step into the hall.
“You promise? You’ll let me know if something else happens before I get back?” Claudia demanded.
“You have my word. Claudia, you know I would never let anything happen to Myka. Ever,” H.G. said firmly, one hand gently grasping the cool, unresponsive fingers of the woman on the bed. Myka’s fingers.
“Claudia, go!!” Artie shouted, clearly impatient with the show of patience. As the sound of Claudia’s sneaker-clad feet disappeared down the stairs, Artie whirled on the woman standing by the bed. “And you. When I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Which will be around the same time that hell freezes over again. Pete should be here in a few minutes. Maybe he has some idea why Myka’s doing a Rip Van Winkle impression.”
As she had done since returning to the Warehouse, H.G. simply ignored the jibe, her focus instead on the face of the woman laying unconscious on the bed. One slender finger reached out, catching the first tear as it made its way over the high curve of Myka’s cheekbone. Dark eyes rose to catch Artie’s look of distaste and suspicion.
“I wonder what she’s dreaming,” Helena mused softly.
“Nothing good,” Artie supplied, “Clearly, nothing good.”
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Words: 1,004 Chapter 1/?
Disclaimer: Not mine. I would never squander H.G. Wells that way.
Spoilers: Through Season 2, Ep. 12, Reset.
Author’s Note: I hated the way Season 2 ended. I hated the waste of such an amazing character, seemingly written out of character to me, at least. I hated the waste of such amazing chemistry between Myka and H.G. So, I decided to fix it. Multi-chapters but I promise to finish them quickly. Honest. My first attempt at Warehouse 13, by the way, so be kind as I get the voices down.
Thanks to darandkerry for the quick beta. Love ya, Tex-ass!
Chapter One
Buffalo, Wyoming:
She drove west on Interstate 90, across the windswept plains of South Dakota into Wyoming. The SUV hurtled down the highway, the road a wide gash of silver through the flat, desolate countryside, rocks and scraggly brush giving way now and then to outcroppings of evergreen and hardwood, brief oasis of green in a monochrome desert.
Desert. Fitting, she thought, that this debacle, this travesty had all been born in one desert, half a world away, only to end here in this equally unforgiving landscape. She didn’t deserve forgiveness; not from Artie, not from Mrs. Fredric, not from anyone. She’d had the temerity, the hubris to roll the dice in a game with unfathomable stakes; she had risked not only her friends, her team, the Warehouse, but the world itself, all for a pair of dark eyes and soft lips, for a voice that promised salvation and delivered hell. All for Helena.
A bitter grimace twisted her mouth, a horrible caricature of a smile, as her lips soundlessly formed the name, a childish fear rising inside her that if she said it out loud, the woman herself would appear, like an apparition from Alice’s mirror.
Helena. How appropriately named, Myka thought harshly. Like her namesake, she had turned sibling against sibling, had brought mighty empires crumbling to dust, had nearly laid waste to the whole world, the towers of Ilium burning around her. All for the promise of love.
The tears she’d refused to shed rose like bile in her throat. Since the moment she’d awoken in Warehouse 2, millennia of dust and sand coating her skin, coating her throat, the images had been playing on some torturous repeat cycle in her mind. Images of black hair spreading across her pillow, of silken skin glowing translucently pale in the moonlight slipping in through the curtains. Images of the elegant H.G. Wells coming undone, iconic figure reduced to flesh and bone, to blood pounding against a pulse point in a slender neck.
Like Paris offering the golden apple, she had offered up her good name to Mrs. Fredric, to the Regents, just for the prize of having Helena in her life. And like Paris, it had all been for naught. Oh, yes, her Ilium had been spared that final thrust of the sea-god’s trident, but at the cost of her very soul. At the cost of everything she held dear.
The windshield of the SUV began to blur as the tears finally broke free, spilling over the dam like a raging flood. She just managed to pull the truck over, the tires catching the graveled edge of the road, sending a spray of stones in her wake as she slowed to a stop. Blindly throwing the door open, she stumbled out, the toe of her boot hitting the corner of the running-board, sending her sprawling onto the unyielding concrete of the highway. Pulling herself onto her knees, Myka Bering let the waters rush over her, her body quaking with sobs as she knelt on the hard, dry ground along Interstate 90 and prayed to
drown.
Univille, South Dakota:
“Claudia, go to the Warehouse and find Miss Pittypat’s smelling salts,” Artie Nielsen ordered, not looking up from the supine figure on the bed. “They should be in the same aisle as Joe Lewis’s gloves.”
“Miss Pittypat?” Claudia queried, the worried frown creasing her forehead making her look far older than her nineteen years.
“Gone with the Wind,” Artie supplied brusquely, “which is what you need to be. Now, Claudia.”
“Are you sure those will help her?” Claudia asked, the fear in her voice quite evident to the other occupants of the room.
Before Artie could respond another voice cut in, this one calm and melodic and infinitely soothing. “Claudia, I know that you’re worried about her, but the best thing you can do to help her is to go to the Warehouse as Artie asked and get the artifact.”
“I know, but when she didn’t come down for breakfast this morning and I came up here to get her, I thought she was just sleeping in. And so I didn’t wake her up and I should have and I should have told you, or Pete or called Artie then and I didn’t and now…” Claudia rambled, words tumbling from her lips like the popcorn Pete had spilled all over the carpet last week.
“Claudia. Claudia. I promise, we won’t let anything else happen to her. Trust me.” Claudia stared into the speaker’s eyes, a trace of her anxiety seeping away at the sincerity she found there. She released the breath she’d been holding, forcing her feet to take her toward the door, to take one step into the hall.
“You promise? You’ll let me know if something else happens before I get back?” Claudia demanded.
“You have my word. Claudia, you know I would never let anything happen to Myka. Ever,” H.G. said firmly, one hand gently grasping the cool, unresponsive fingers of the woman on the bed. Myka’s fingers.
“Claudia, go!!” Artie shouted, clearly impatient with the show of patience. As the sound of Claudia’s sneaker-clad feet disappeared down the stairs, Artie whirled on the woman standing by the bed. “And you. When I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Which will be around the same time that hell freezes over again. Pete should be here in a few minutes. Maybe he has some idea why Myka’s doing a Rip Van Winkle impression.”
As she had done since returning to the Warehouse, H.G. simply ignored the jibe, her focus instead on the face of the woman laying unconscious on the bed. One slender finger reached out, catching the first tear as it made its way over the high curve of Myka’s cheekbone. Dark eyes rose to catch Artie’s look of distaste and suspicion.
“I wonder what she’s dreaming,” Helena mused softly.
“Nothing good,” Artie supplied, “Clearly, nothing good.”