DISCLAIMER: The characters of H.G. Wells, Myka Bering, Pete Lattimer, Artie Nielson and Mrs. Frederic are not mine. The ones you don't recognize probably are. I do not own, nor do I have any official association with Warehouse13, SyFy or pretty much any other profit making entity. No infringement is intended. I'm simply borrowing the characters for a bit.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, Warehouse13headcanon.tumblr.com is officially prompt crack. This fic is based off one of the submissions.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com
SPOILERS: Season Three finale.
Small Memories
By Racethewind10
It's been a week.
Seven days since Sykes played his endgame.
Seven nights since Myka's home was destroyed.
An eternity since her heart died.
Myka doesn't really sleep anymore. If her insomnia was bad after Sam's death, it is nothing compared to the nightmares that stalk her now, lying in wait for her to close her eyes. Pete knows of course. He can see the dark shadows under her eyes and the slump of her normally straight shoulders.
He doesn't say anything though. Words have never been his strength and right now he knows just how utterly futile they would be. And in truth, Pete is lost as well. All of them feel like they are floundering; adrift in a tide they can't swim against.
Myka knows she's being dragged under.
She just can't bring herself to care.
But it's been a week and now they are having a memorial service. Jane orders it. It's hard to tell who is angrier about it: Claudia or Myka. The only difference is how they react. Claudia is vocal, lashing out. Myka turns inward.
The regents agree, however, and if there is one thing the Agents relent on, it is the need to honor Mrs. Frederic.
The service is simple and beautiful, held in the orchard behind the B & B. The summer sky is cloudless and a gentle breeze rustles the tall grass and the trees above.
Myka is barely registers any of it.
She stands next to Claudia and one hand clings to the younger woman's fiercely. They're going to leave bruises on each other and neither cares. Myka's other hand grips Helena's locket. She can't bring herself to wear it just yet - she doesn't feel she deserves it - but she can't let it go either. So her knuckles turn white as the gilded edges dig into her palm while Myka stands silently and doesn't cry as some person whose name she doesn't give a damn to remember says meaningless words over the woman who was her protector and guide, the man who was her friend, and the lover who so effortlessly captured her heart and soul.
Myka doesn't even try to sleep that night. The obvious futility isn't worth the energy she knows it will take to struggle against it, and so instead of slipping into bed, the agent sits cross legged on the covers. The room is lit only by the soft glow of her bedside lamp and she's left the window's open. Outside the night is gentle and still, as if hushed in respect for what is to come.
Even the normally cheerful crickets seem silent and distant.
Myka is utterly alone, which is how she wants it. She has her own memorial to complete.
In front of her, nestled on the soft homemade quilt, is a hand carved mahogany wood box. Its simple, only polished wood with no adornment.
It took Myka forever to find the right one.
It's the exact color of Helena's eyes.
Trembling fingers slide over the polished surface. Unlike metal or stone or plastic, there is a living warmth to wood that never truly fades. That and the color are why Myka chose it. She doesn't care if its ridiculous and sentimental. This way, there will always be some connection to the woman she loved that lives.
Myka Bering always prided herself on not being one of those women. She had loved and lost yes, but she was rarely girlish or sentimental. She didn't collect trinkets and mementos: Those things that seemed to hold such value to others had always seemed mere clutter to the agent.
And then Helena came along and changed everything.
It started so simply - nearly by accident. A button from one of Helena's vests fell off. Myka found it under the couch one afternoon and recognized it immediately. Her first impulse had been to call for the older woman who she knew had been looking for 'that blasted thing.' But as Myka held the button up to the afternoon sun, she found herself falling silent. It was beautifully made - the antique silver coating and detailed design something you simply didn't see anymore. It was quintessentially Helena and with a sudden mischievous twinkle to her eyes, the agent pocketed the tiny trinket. Perhaps she'd give it back to Helena…someday…after appropriate payment had been made of course.
After that collecting such small keepsakes came easier to her and the button was joined by other items.
The post-it notes Helena seemed to gain endless enjoyment from leaving for Myka in the most unusual places.
The ticket stubs from the time Myka took Helena to the cinema and they watched Harry Potter.
A dart from the games at the County fair. Helena had gallantly tried to win a prize for Myka, but when she failed to do so, claimed the game had been rigged and swiped a set of the darts to "prove they've been tampered with."
A picture - snapped by either Claudia or Pete, she wasn't sure which - of a candid moment at Leena's birthday party. There was chaos going on around them, but Myka and Helena were simply staring at each other and the expression on Helena's face was achingly tender.
There are a few more items and Myka lifts each one in turn, holding it in her hands and letting the memories flow freely. Images of her time with Helena flicker through her mind. The older woman laughing in delight at some new discovery, her eyes sparkling with challenge as they sparred at Kempo, the way her lips looked, parted and kiss-swollen as her hair formed a halo of tangled shadows around her while she lay, careless and open and beautiful on Myka's bed.
And all of the images now tinged with ash.
Tears slip unheeded down the agent's face as she replaces every item back in the velvet lined box with something very akin to reverence until only the locket remains.
Blinking to clear her sight, Myka fumbles at the bedside stand and finally grasps the photograph and scissors she'd placed there earlier. Working carefully and slowly, she cuts into the shiny paper until she has the right sized square. Then, forcing her fingers not to tremble, she slips the picture into the locket.
Next to the faded black and white picture of Christina, Helena now looks back from the frame in all her insouciant, arrogant, brilliant, tender glory.
The clasp makes a tiny click as Myka shuts the locket and with hands that she can no longer make steady, she lifts the chain around her neck. The metal is cold at first but warms to her skin quickly, taking her heat.
It is lighter than Myka expected.
Her own memorial completed, the agent gently places the small mahogany box in the drawer of her nightstand and shuts off the light. She isn't tired. She isn't really anything but numb, but there is nothing else for her to hold onto as a distraction, so she climbs under the covers and rolls onto her side so that she is looking out the window.
Outside the moon's light washes the world in silver, soothing and cool, but that balm does not reach Myka's eyes: Eyes which remain open and unseeing as the mind behind them clings to the past.
The world spins and night moves toward day and still Myka lies awake, her hand gripping the locket and her heart locked away in a small wooden box next to her.
The End