A testimonial to all of the important things in life. I'm a queer rabid fangirl femslash shipper of Bering and Wells. My love for them, the characters, and the actresses who play them knows no bounds. They are the Captains of the S.S. Bering and Wells. Joanne Kelly and Jaime Murray, I salute you! In this blog, you will also see lots of reblogging of anything and everything Bering and Wells, Warehouse 13, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, History, LGBTQ community, and whatever random cool bits I find. I'll be posting various stuff from my own AU creation (that includes a large Canon!) now and again. It's a fushion of Warehouse 13 and Buffy the Vampire Slayer called 'Warehouse 13: The Slayerverse'. Myka Bering is the Chosen One who falls in love with a time traveling Victorian vampire by the name of Helena G. Wells, as they vanquish evil and redeem a broken soul. Wayhaught and Madarcher are my other OTPs.
Who knew passive aggression in a flower shop could reap such rewards?
“How do you say ‘piss off’ in a flower?”
Before Myka could open her mouth, a $20 bill was slammed down onto the flower shop’s counter.
“I can pay more if necessary.”
One did not usually see such aggression in a flower shop.
“Uh, let’s see…” Myka bit her lip, flustered. While this woman was obviously very angry, she was also stunning. Her glorious raven hair, lovely features, and British accent were all very distracting.
With a little shake of her head, Myka regained her composure. “Well, to be really effective, I think you should send a bouquet.”
“A bouquet?!” The woman’s voice rose in incredulity. “All I want is some bloody plant or one flower!”
“If you wait just a moment, I will explain it,” Myka retorted, feeling annoyed. Being interrupted was a pet peeve, even it was by a hot British woman.
The woman rolled her eyes, and gesturing impatiently, said, “Fine. Proceed.”
Myka smirked, suddenly feeling confident and began picking various flowers.
“Foxglove signifies insincerity, geraniums for stupidity, Meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations for you have disappointed me, and orange lilies for hatred.”
Myka wrapped the flowers up, and said, “The bouquet is really quite beautiful, and-” leaning into the woman, she whispered, “full of loathing.”
Retreating from the woman’s personal space, Myka felt very proud of herself for creating such a metaphor for passive aggression.
The other woman seemed stunned, but then laughed, seemingly delighted.
“I must say, that sounds exactly what I’m looking for.” Now it was this woman’s turn to invade personal space, and she confided with amusement, “I certainly would not have believed that YOU would come up with the perfect bouquet for telling someone to piss off .”
“I happen to know a lot about flowers!” Myka protested, pulling back from the woman.
How dare this woman question her knowledge of flora and fauna!
“Granted I’m a grad student right now and this has nothing to do with my area of study. Sure, this is a part time job, but I want to do a good job so I made sure to do a lot of research and-”
The beautiful woman waved her off and interrupted, “That’s not what I meant at all, darling.” She smirked, and added, “I meant you look entirely too…nice…too innocent to think of such a thing.”
Myka frowned. “Hey! I can be mean!” She tried her best to look mean, but the woman only raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching like she was doing her best not to smile.
“I apologize. I did not mean anything derogatory. In fact, I quite admire the quality of being pleasant, which is something I frequently lack as evidenced by the flowers. But it is much more intriguing to meet someone who is more than meets the eye.”
“I’ll have you know I am full of surprises, and am certainly not innocent.” Myka flushed as she realized she sounded like she was flirting with this woman.
The woman eyed Myka up and down. “Apparently not.” Then leaning on the flower counter towards Myka, she asked, “What time do you get off today?”
“What?” Myka replied, thrown by the sudden change in topic.
“What time do you get off today?” The woman repeated. “I should know when to pick you up.”
“Pick me up,” Myka parroted. What the hell is this woman saying?
“Yes, darling. From the sign, you close at six, and most likely have closing duties to perform.” The woman glanced around the shop, seemingly to size it up. “Considering this shop is so small, I gather no more than fifteen…twenty minutes at the latest, so perhaps 6:15?”
“What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about dinner. I know a lovely little Italian restaurant-”
“Are you asking me out on a date?! I don’t even know you!” Myka protested, incredulous.
“Oh! Please forgive me. My name is Helena Wells.” She bowed slightly. “And your name is?”
Before answering, Myka briefly wondered if this woman was some sort of stalker.
Or maybe she was just one of those overly confident beautiful people who went around flirting and asking random people for a date just because they could get away with it.
Myka realized she instead hoped there was an option three: this woman, Helena, may be one of those beautiful people, but she wanted to go on a date because she found Myka attractive.
Not quite how to handle the situation, she replied, “Uh, Myka. My name is Myka.”
Helena smiled. “Myka. That is a lovely name.” Now she became all business. “How much do I owe you for the bouquet?”
The abrupt break in flirting and return to shop business grounded Myka, who could now concentrate on something other than this sinfully attractive woman who didn’t exactly ask for a date…it was more like demanded it.
Who knew working retail could reap such rewards?
“$23.99.”
She reached into her pants pocket, and pulling out a wallet, she handed Myka an additional ten to the original twenty still sitting upon the sales counter.
“Keep the change.” Helena winked, and turned around. Just before she left, she called out, “I shall be waiting for you across the street at the coffeehouse!”
The door closed before Myka could answer. She rubbed the back of her neck, wondering what just happened.
Suddenly she decided didn’t care; she had a date with a sexy, hot Brit.
Myka grinned as she watched Helena climb into her Bentley, and drive off.
Pete would be so jealous.
Digging out her cell phone from her jeans pants pocket, she called her best friend.
The Spawn of the Great Joraffe and the Unicorn Queen
Notes: So, I know it’s the end of January, but this was an unfinished story I was attempting to write for Christmas which had made me frustrated because I couldn’t figure out how to end it. I needed a break from my other stories, so I went back to this one, and it actually began to flow, even though I had a number of holes to plug.
There is a book I mention at the very end titled “Unicorn Giraffe.” This children’s book actually exists. It’s by Teddi Rutschman and Laura Botsford (whom I hope would be pleased at the free press they are getting right now). While I’ve never read it, from what I can tell, it looks beautiful with a lovely story perfect for a child of Helena and Myka’s. The sentence Helena reads to her son is the actual sentence at the beginning of the book.
This story came to mind partly because of an inside joke in the Bering and Wells fandom regarding Jo and Jaime. For various reasons, Jo became known as the “Great Joraffe” and Jaime as the “Unicorn Queen”. I also was given a plush animal that looks very much what I described and couldn’t help but think how it could be the love child of the stuffed animals the Great Joraffe and Unicorn Queen with a rainbow mane.
Also: Fluff. So very much fluff! But we all need that right now, I think.
—
Summary: The big eyes of the little multi colored spotted plush animal with a little unicorn on top of its head stared at Helena with what could only be described as wonderment…if the bloody thing was alive.
The big eyes of the little multi colored spotted plush animal with a little unicorn on top of its head stared at Helena with what could only be described as wonderment…if the bloody thing was alive.
Which it most definitely was not.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes! I’m going to buy it. You can’t tell me Choo Choo Charlie won’t love this?!”
“While he may, Myka won’t.” Helena rolled her eyes. “And why on earth must you call Charles ‘Choo Choo Charlie’? Is it just to aggravate me?”
Pete grinned. “While I do love to aggravate you, HG, it’s an American thing from an old TV ad. Besides, it’s your own fault; you bought him that train set to begin with.” He elbowed Helena, teasing, “And don’t act like you’re all upset about it. You love to play it with him as much as I do.”
Helena did her best to hide her smile. She really did enjoy it to the point of making her son an intricate train track, and buying him additional pieces and train cars. Sunday afternoons were often devoted to Thomas the Tank Engine, building model trains together, and playing with the train set in the basement.
The inventor’s special surprise for Charles on Christmas Day: a brand new Steampunk train designed and built with the help of Claudia. There was also an even more detailed track that for one thing, required one to solve puzzles along the way.
“Oh my god! Squeal of delight!” Claudia rushed over, and seized the plush animal-thing out of Pete’s hands.
“Hey! I wasn’t done yet! Me and the spawn of the Great Joraffe and the Unicorn Queen are creating some awesome dance moves.”
Shoving Pete out of the way, Claudia squeezed and hugged the garish toy. Closing her eyes, Claudia cooed, “Oh, you are so precious, aren’t you, little…uh…” Claudia’s eyes opened, and she regarded the plush animal thing. “I’m thinking we need a name here, H.G.”
“Oooo, yeah!” Pete placed his hand under his chin, rubbing it as if contemplating some great universal question.“Now, let’s see: Joraffe Jr.?”
Claudia waved a hand, dismissing him. “Too easy, and too boring, Pete.”
“Well, what do you have?” Pete snagged it out of her hand and held it high above Claudia, who kept jumping and swatting at it to no avail.
“Come on, Pete! Give it back!”
“Weeeee! Look what I can do!” Helena was surprised Pete could make his voice go that high pitched, and watched the man child make the plush animal thing do various jumps and impossible athletic endeavors.
Helena rubbed her temple. She knew her four month pregnant wife would likely show up any minute and feared Myka’s reaction.
It was one week before Christmas. Helena and Myka were visiting Mr. and Mrs. Bering in Colorado Springs, and decided to revisit this charming store featuring all kinds of wonderful baby and nursery items. This was their second child, but now it was Myka’s turn to carry the child, and she was not happy about it. Not one bit. Helena refused to give her a free pass stating, “I’ve already done this twice now. Besides, Dr. Calder doesn’t think it would be safe for me to carry another.”
When they were married, the idea of children was not on the list, but the Warehouse had other ideas. Helena did not come to the Warehouse often but Myka had needed some help with organizing and deciphering some of Warehouse 12 files, not to mention Caturanga’s illegible writing. One thing led to another in the library…and now nine months later, Charles Christopher Peter Bering-Wells was born. (“That’s what you get for being naughty in the Warehouse, Mykes,” Pete had teased.)
Everyone was in shock it was a boy. Myka kept babbling about how science is science and they both had no y so why is there a y…
Pete was ecstatic, declaring the Warehouse knew another male was needed, and swore there were days he felt like he was swimming in estrogen. Steve took exception to this, pointing out there was also him and Artie to help in the testosterone department. Pete came back with the rebuttal that if you add Abigail, all the guys were out numbered. Plus, there were days Pete could have sworn Myka multiplied just to torment him.
Myka on the other hand was pissed Pete made this all about him, but her eyes were full of happy tears when little Charles was born. For her part, Helena was just happy to have a healthy baby.
She was also in a way relieved. Helena didn’t think she could have stood giving birth to another little girl. It would have been overwhelming, bringing back too many memories. It seemed strange to say, but somehow she felt the Warehouse sensed this, which would explain why she gave birth to a son.
Charles was now four, and the apple of everyone’s eyes, and he knew it. Helena swore there were days she could see her brother in little Charles’s mischievous expressions. It brought back happy memories of her and her brother Charles as children. Helena was usually the instigator, as most of the ideas were hers, but Charles was always a ready and willing comrade in arms. The days she saw that expression on her son’s face were the days she missed her brother the most.
Adding to Charles was always open ended: they simply never discussed it. Helena suspected Myka knew having Charles was a blessing, but was well aware of the spark of darkness within Helena. If anything happened to Charles, Helena doubted even Myka could hold her back. To add another child…
Now a consultant to the Warehouse, Helena held a non related Warehouse job as well. She was still afraid of the lure, the temptation to use artifacts no matter how many times everyone else (including the Warehouse) knew she would not.
The Regents it seemed were in agreement with her as they disapproved of her returning as an agent (despite the protests of the rest of the Warehouse team). There was the discussion of Helena becoming a Regent, but she simply didn’t want that sort of connection anymore. However, Helena did enjoy acting in a consulting capacity, and the Regents gave their approval. Helena’s expertise from situations relating to Warehouse 12 was invaluable, as well as her genius level intellect. And much to the delight of one Claudia Donovan, Helena was allowed a certain…leverage as well.
Or really, it was more of a plausible deniability on the part of the Regents. Claudia Donovan originals (or improvements for that matter) were never officially sanctioned. However, considering these inventions improved life in the Warehouse and the field (especially achieving a higher retrieval rate), Helena’s role was overlooked.
Claudia had declared working with Helena as “the most awesome of awesome”. Helena still did not understand the girl’s use of language, but understood enough to know this was a good thing. Helena was simply pleased her version of the MicroRay had saved Claudia’s pseudo father’s heart.
Afterwards, Artie’s attitude towards Helena as Claudia’s mentor softened. His gruff paternal demeanor towards anything connected with Claudia was still there but the ire towards Helena for past misdeeds had disappeared with the cravat that Helena hurting Claudia in any way, shape, or form would carry serious consequences up to and including bronzing. Helena got the message loud and clear, and felt an odd kinship with Artie as a parent.
The need to invent, to discover, to imagine, had never really left. She found that out with Nate who seemed mystified, and while not the exact cause of their relationship ending, was at the least a symptom of the cause. Emily Lake was a mask, and after the jaw bone incident, Helena G Wells started to peel the rest of the torn mask away; and that person was not someone safe enough, not someone who could be the PTA soccer mother Nate and Adelaide needed.
When Helena and Myka finally admitted their feelings, the urge intensified. It was like rediscovering a part of her she’d buried for so long and she reveled in it.
Once Helena and Myka were married, they bought a house in Univille, and between consulting for the Warehouse and inventing, Helena worked part time at the local bookstore, much to Myka’s delight. It gave Helena solace, being surrounded by literature. They were all like old friends; the smell and texture brought to mind her days in London with informal scintillating intellectual discourse in a group much like the Algonquin round table.
There was also a laboratory in the basement of their home. When she became pregnant with Charles, it was decided this must change. Helena simply bought one of the pieces of land nearby and built a laboratory, much to Claudia’s excitement.
While Helena enjoyed the computer, her love for the physicality of the written word on parchment had never ended; the feel of crisp paper between her fingers, and the smell of the ink as it dried. To Myka’s elation, the Victorian began to write again.
Eventually, Helena gained the nerve to submit a story to a science fiction magazine. Initially rejected (Myka threatened to fly to the company’s headquarters and tell them off), Helena retooled a few things, realizing her style of writing came off a bit antiquated.
At last, she had a story published, and decided to focus on a novel next. Helena loved her wife, but Myka hovering around her as she wrote proved too much. Eventually, they came to an understanding; when Helena was writing she was not to be disturbed, barring an emergency.
With that understanding, things flowed easily enough. While Helena becoming pregnant with Charles was unexpected, she was determined to not make the same mistakes she made with Christina.
One or both of them were always with Charles. During those moments when they were unable to, Uncle Pete, Aunt Claudia, Uncle Jinks, or Grandpa Artie would keep careful watch. It took a long time before Helena would even allow this; there were continual flashbacks to Christina’s death. Not just the fear, but the guilt at having left Christina with a young weak maid unable to fight off the huge men during the robbery.
At last, with time, patience, and convincing, Helena was assured her friends were capable of protecting Charles. Myka had pointed out they were all Agents, and were more than capable of shooting and fighting off intruders.
So, Helena relaxed. And with it, came the enjoyment of motherhood again; just simply the true joy of sharing things with her son.
There had been questions from Myka’s relatives (especially her mother and Tracy) over when they would add to their family. They had been convinced Charles was the result of a experimental procedure allowing two women to procreate, and the insistence to add another child intensified.
Myka at first was annoyed, but as time went on, the thought to share things with a daughter as well grew.
Charles had a lot of Wells in him, and Myka was hoping to have a child with more Bering, even if she would never admit it. Their son was never keen on athletics, and while he loved to read, his love of trains and anything mechanical, took precedence. Helena knew Myka wanted to have a child that would someday fence with her, perhaps join the debate team, and read as if the books were the very essence of life itself.
Every so often, Myka brought it up. After many nights of talking and crying about Christina, Helena was ready to try for a girl. This time, they used an artifact. As Myka put it, “we are never, ever doing it in the warehouse again!”
As Charles was considered some sort of fluke, they expected a girl this time, as “science was still science” (as Myka put it). Once Myka was pregnant, they eventually discovered they were indeed having a girl.
Myka was taken off retrievals, and while she knew it was coming, it made Myka agitated. The inventor had faced certain restrictions while pregnant but she was still able to tinker, write, and work at the bookshop. Myka wasn’t able to go out and do what she loved best: be a Warehouse Agent.
So here they were, joined by Pete and Claudia. It had just so happened there was a curiosity nearby Colorado Springs, which was snagged, bagged, and tagged in record time. Artie graciously granted Pete and Claudia an extra two days to spend in Colorado Springs. Pete was very happy to see Mrs. Bering and most especially, her cookies.
Helena’s iPhone buzzed in her pocket. It was Myka, and she would be here any minute.
“Just stop!” Helena reached over and grabbed the plush animal thing, and predictably both fussed like two little children.
“Aw, come on, HG!”
“Yeah. We haven’t settled on a name yet.”
“I don’t really care. Myka just finished at the bank, and will be here in a couple of minutes. You both know how she has reacted to your incessant teasing about that…animal…family…you seem to have created for Charles.”
Helena dimly registered the tinkle of a bell but was focused on this ridiculous conversation involving the…offspring?…of two plush animals in Charles’s room.
“I thought she liked it,” Pete lamented.
Helena’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Every time you mention it, she hits you!”
“She always hits me! How am I supposed to tell the difference?”
Helena did have to concede a point there.
“The difference between what?” Her wife said evenly behind her.
Pete’s eyes widened and he grabbed the stuffed animal thing from Helena’s grip prompting a glare from the inventor. Pete whipped the garish animal thing around his back out of sight so fast Helena would have been impressed if she wasn’t more worried about the situation at hand.
The situation called for her best charm. She sauntered over, and wrapped her arms around her wife. Whispering in her wife’s ear, Helena intensified her British accent, knowing for some reason she had never been able to understand, her accent was a turn on for Myka.
“Now, come, come my darling. Just ignore Peter. Let’s instead think about having a wonderful candlelight dinner at the Mediterranean restaurant we saw on the way into town. We can leave Charles with your parents overnight, and have a lovely dinner and return to the hotel where I can pamper and make love to you.” She softly kissed Myka’s ear. “Je vous adore, mon amour.”
Myka’s body however remained rigid, and when Helena pulled back, Myka’s face was expressionless. Drat. Not even her best seduction method was working. Helena absently wondered if she was losing her touch.
It was obvious that not only would Myka not let this pass, she would most likely yell at Pete in the store when she learned the meaning behind Pete’s statement.
But fortune smiled upon the group, as little Charles Bering-Wells and Mrs. Bering entered the store. The little boy ran to Helena, hugging her legs. His little arms reached up to be lifted into Helena’s arms.
“Mummy!”
Helena’s eyes lit up and she gave him the smile reserved only for her son. Charles was getting to the point where he was too heavy to hold for any long period of time, but Helena refused to acknowledge this. Her body however had other ideas, as she felt the strain in holding him for a length of time. Helena knew it wouldn’t be long before she had to stop (most likely a month, if she were lucky) but she was determined to make the most of this cherished ritual other parents enjoy. Christina had reached the point of being beyond this stage when she was killed, but just holding her own child in her arms again returned that joy to her heart.
Helena adjusted her arms a bit, and said, “Hello, my little engineer. Have you been having fun with your grandmother?”
Charles nodded enthusiastically, his engineer cap bobbing slightly on his head.
“Where’s your new hat, Charles?” Myka reached over to fuss with Charles’s cap, and the young boy scrunched up his nose, and wiggled so much Helena was forced to set him back on the ground.
“I want to wear this hat, Momma. Mummy said I could wear it.”
Helena cringed as Myka turned, giving her a hard look, and Helena knew she was in trouble.
“Well, Mummy seems to have forgotten that the temperature is thirty degrees outside-much too cold for wearing your engineer cap.” This statement was more for Helena’s chastisement rather than directed at their son.
“Darling, it is true I said Charles is allowed to wear it while we enjoy our time together with the trains…” she looked down at her son “I did not mean everywhere.” Her son was wearing his puppy dog face which Helena had a hard time resisting, but Helena knew Myka was right; Charles would be sick with the lack of warmth on his head, and no covering on his little ears.
Kneeling down, Helena caressed her son’s cheeks.“You know, even engineers get cold, and need the extra warmth. Besides, it would be terribly difficult to enjoy Christmas in bed. You would miss Grandpa Artie’s cookies, going caroling, decorating the tree, opening your presents under the tree, and our Christmas feast with Christmas crackers.”
A small pout was almost Helena’s undoing as she removed the engineer’s cap, smoothing down his chestnut hair. “Now, darling, they have some lovely stocking caps right over there.” Helena pointed to a display next to the cash register. “And you may pick whichever one you like.”
Helena rose, and noticed a contrite expression on her mother-in-law’s face. "I’m sorry, Myka. I couldn’t get him to put on a warmer hat before we left the house.“
"Charles, is this true?” Helena looked down at her son, frowning. “You know to obey your grandmother.”
The little boy bowed his head in shame, and then mumbled,“I’m sorry, Mummy.”
Helena sighed. “All right, no punishment this time, I suppose.” Charles looked back up at her, and smiled. “But next time this happens, young man, there will be no Thomas the Tank Engine and playing with your train set for at least a week.”
The smile dimmed, and Charles grew serious. “Yes, Mummy. I will listen to Grandmother from now on.”
“Good.” Helena nodded approvingly.
“Mom, we can take it from here.”
“What time will you be coming over for dinner?”
“Soon. I’ll give you a call,” Myka replied.
“Okay.” Mrs. Bering kissed Myka on the cheek, and glanced at Helena. “I’ll see you two later. Make sure Myka gets to the house all right, Helena.”
“Mom! I’m not an invalid. I can get myself over there just fine, thank you very much.” Myka crossed her arms, and pouted, looking very much like Charles at the moment. Helena bit her lip not to smile; Myka was adorable.
Mrs. Bering rolled her eyes. “Goodbye, Charles.”
“Goodbye, Grandmother!” Charles hugged her and then Mrs. Bering walked out the door.
“Mykes, I’m still invited to dinner, right?” Pete was wearing his best puppy dog face.
Myka sighed, relaxing her posture. “Yes, you and Claudia are both invited, like I told you.”
“Yay!” Pete cried happily, as he and Charles gave each other high fives.
“I don’t think I can deal with going over there tonight, Helena.” Myka whispered.
Helena kissed her wife’s hair. “It’s only for tonight, love. And we will most definitely be returning to the hotel later.”
At that moment, Pete demonstrated his bull in a China shop tendency, and knocked down the display of stuffed animals behind him which just happened to have more of that god awful multi colored plush animal…thing.
Various forms of Pete’s name were cried all at once.
“Pete!”
“Peter!”
“Dude!”
“Uncle Pete!”
“Whoops.” He bent over to pick up the animals while Claudia began to reorganize the display.
“Don’t worry, Mykes and H.G., we got it. No problemo.” Claudia said, waving off the clerk who was set to come over. “Sorry about that!” She called, and smiled at the clerk, who seemed to hesitate, but was interrupted by a customer ready to pay.
A quick glance at her wife revealed Myka with closed eyes trying to regulate her breathing. Helena placed her hand on Myka’s back, rubbing soothing circles through her coat, and was very thankful Myka didn’t push her away.
Opening her eyes, Myka leaned into Helena, who just wrapped her arm around her wife. It was time to go home. Just as Helena was about to open up her mouth and relay just that, her son exclaimed, “Mummy, look! This animal looks like both you and momma!”
The little boy grinned as he held up the prized ghastly thing.
Myka didn’t answer. Helena saw a mix of confusion and incredulousness on her face.
“Charles, darling-” Helena began.
“Told ya!” Pete smiled wide at Helena as he pranced a bit in place and Helena feared another accident.
Helena felt Myka’s back grow rigid again, and she withdrew from Helena’s touch. Helena internally sighed. Why must Pete be so…Pete?!
“What the hell are you talking about, Pete? That-that thing does not look like us.”
Undeterred, their son informed, “It looks like the Great Joraffe and the Unicorn Queen mixed up together.”
Helena feared Myka would blow a gasket, but then Charles continued, “It’s like me being a mix of you and Mummy!”
Helena immediately sensed Myka’s body relax and thought she heard sniffles.
“Myka, darling, are you coming down with a cold?”
Myka turned, causing Helena to only hear a muffled answer. Her wife drew out of her pocket a Kleenex, and blew her nose while still sniffling.
Charles tugged on Myka’s coat. “Are you sick, Momma?”
He sounded so concerned and sweet it was no wonder Myka turned back and bending down slightly to hug him close to her legs, kissing his dark hair.
“No, no, baby, I’m fine. Momma is just a little…out of sorts today.”
Charles raised his head to stare at Myka with worried wide eyes. “Why are you out of sorts?”
“Um…it’s just sometimes when women are pregnant, it gets hard to control their emotions.”
“Does this mean you won’t be able to have Christmas with us?”
Helena decided to take control of the situation as Myka appeared to be on the verge of losing it again.
Leaning down, Helena looked her son in the eyes. “Momma will be just fine, Charles. Now, be a good boy, and go find which hat you would like to wear. After that, we will all go back to Grandmother Bering’s house, and have hot chocolate.”
Glancing one more time at his momma, Charles withdrew slowly from Myka’s grasp. “Okay, Mummy.”
Helena smiled and then instructed, “Hand Claudia the plush toy to return to the display before you leave.”
Claudia jumped in, and held her hand out, saying,“Come on, Charlie. Let’s put this animal back on the shelf, and go over to the hats. I bet we can find one you will totally rock.”
When Claudia and Charles were over perusing the hats, Pete tried to make his escape. “You know, there is this new restaurant I saw open in the next town over. I’m gonna go get the car, and then Claud can meet me outside when her and Charlie are done.”
Myka laid her hand on his arm. “Pete, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.”
“It’s okay, Mykes.” He grinned sheepishly.
“I know you meant the best…in your own way.” Then she added, “But that animal thing-” she pointed at the garish toy “does not look like-like-”
Pete grinned widely.“The spawn of the Great Joraffe and the Unicorn Queen?”
Helena scoffed, while Myka pinched her nose. He grabbed the plush animal again, and once more did a (admittedly more subtle) dance with the thing.
“Pete! Fine! You can give it to him for Christmas.” Myka gave in.
"Yippee!”
“Just put it back, and come in later to buy it please.” Myka glanced at Helena who was rolling her eyes.
Helena sucked in a breath, and conceded, mumbling, “Righty ho, then.”
Pete grinned widely at Helena. She shook her head at his enthusiasm, knowing he really did have a good heart.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I think it’s time to buy Charles’s hat, so we can leave.”
“Agreed,” Myka responded, and Helena was pleased to see the smile on Myka’s face.
Walking towards Charles, Helena called, “Have you found a hat, my little man?”
Holding up a hat with the craziest, most obnoxious design Helena had ever seen, he exclaimed happily, “Yes, Mummy!”
Helena closed her eyes, and wondered if this day would ever end.
—–
It was the beginning of February with Christmas long since over.
The snow softly fell in the chilly dark night, while inside Charles’s bedroom, Helena tucked her son into his warm bed with Thomas the Tank Engine sheets and comforter.
“Mummy, read the story to me again.”
“Which story, darling?” Helena asked.
“The one about the giraffe unicorn.”
“You mean 'Unicorn Giraffe’?”
“Yes. That one.”
“All right.” She walked over to the windowseat where the book rested next to the Great Joraffe, the Unicorn Queen with a rainbow mane, and a garish plush toy sporting a tiny engineer cap fashioned by Claudia.
“Mummy, can you bring Choo Choo Joraffe Jr. too?” Charles asked in a sleepy voice.
Helena rolled her eyes, but did as asked. Bringing it over with the book, she commented, “Have you considered a nickname, Charles? 'Choo Choo Joraffe Jr.’ is rather a mouth full.”
Charles happily accepted the offered toy, and hugged it fiercely to his chest.
“No, Mummy. Choo Choo Joraffe Jr. is his name.”
Helena internally sighed, but looking at her son so happy with the little plush animal thing softened her feelings.
“All right, my darling. Choo Choo Joraffe Jr. it is then.”
He grinned.
“Now scoot over, so I can come onto your bed and read the story.”
Charles happily complied, and Helena crawled up to lean against the headboard, book in hand. As Charles snuggled into her side, she opened the book, and began.
“It was in a land called Lemony a place faraway from where we are now where only friends of the Aftertime could visit.”
As Helena read the story, she felt at peace, full of happiness and love, emotions she never expected to find again.
—–
The story finished and Charles fast asleep, Helena gently extricated herself from her son’s grip and rose from the bed.
She kissed his tiny head, whispering, “Sweet dreams, my little lamb.”
Helena replaced the book 'Unicorn Giraffe’ on the windowseat, and as she closed the bedroom door, she mused, wondering how such a little garish plush animal thing could bring so much so much happiness.
Summary: Helena G Wells wakes up in Sleepy Hollow, New York, some 250 years in the future, only to discover the man she beheaded in the past has arrived as well. The headless man now rides a white horse, and Helena realizes he is Death, one of the four horseman of the apocalypse. Can she convince lt. Myka Bering of the Sleepy Hollow PD to help her track down, and destroy this harbinger of evil?
Notes: I sincerely apologize to kla1991. I was supposed to post this fic onto kla1991's tumblr page a week ago as I am their Secret Santa. Some RL issues intruded (namely the flu, but now serious problems with my epilepsy, as in I may have to quit my job due to too many seizures).
Helena is the Ichabod Crane in this story, just like the tv show. I love season one, but I feel the show lost its way afterwards. I thought Helena would make a great Ichabod as she is a British time traveler herself. In fact, the coat and outfit Helena wears in "3...2...1" reminds me a bit of Ichabod's outfit on the show. It also helps at one point I saw a manip (or drawing, I forget) on tumblr with Helena and Myka as the two leads in the show. Except Myka and Helena's relationship will eventually turn romantic, unlike the show's two leads in the show, which was a shame because I totally shipped them!
Chapter One: Welcome to Sleepy Hollow, Helena G. Wells
Hudson Valley 1781
The forest was wrought with the smell of gun powder, which was so strong it could overwhelm ones senses.
A slight woman, dressed in a Revolutionary War uniform, fired off shots from her pistol, seeking to kill as many Redcoats as possible.
Suddenly, a white horse and its rider, inexplicably untouched by any semblance of the battle raging around him, came to a halt not far from Helena G. Wells. The Redcoat of a big, bulky build, took slow, deliberate steps towards Helena, and only Helena. As if she was this man's sole target and nothing else mattered.
And Helena suddenly was aware this man was the one Helena had been directly sent to kill.
Helena still had two shots left, and fired directly into the man's chest, who took them without stopping. Helena soon realized she was in trouble, for the man carried a broad ax, and any soldier that tried to stop him was summerly dispatched in the most gruesome fashion.
This was no ordinary man, Helena thought. This was some kind of demonic creature hiding behind some sort of leather mask. The chance of her survival was minimal but it was vital she dispatch this fiend. Besides, Helena was no coward. If she was to be beaten by this monster, she would not go down without a fight.
The demonic figure swung his axe, but each time, Helena was able to avoid its hit. She tried to use her expertise of kempo in defense, and hoped to knock the creature off balance, and use its weapon against him.
Luck was with her; she knocked this monster off balance. However the luck soon turned. With surprise, she felt the blade cut her stomach. However, during his fall, the creature dropped the axe. Before Helena fell from her injury, she summoned enough energy to grab the axe, and cut off the creature's head. As she completely fell onto the leaves already showing signs of her blood, Helena passed out.
-----
Sleepy Hollow Present Day
The dirt was damp, and the moment she became conscious, Helena clawed and fought her way though it, soon breaking through the loose soil.
Helena continued to pull herself completely up through the hole, able to only roll her body about a foot away. Was this her grave? Helena sat up, shook her head, and began to roughly brush off the damp earth. Seeing was difficult; only bits of sunlight shown through cracks in what appeared to be a cave.
Helena stumbled to her feet, touching her stomach where she had been wounded so severely. To her surprise, it had healed. After the battle, Helena was sure she would die.
There was suddenly a hazy memory of being in a triage area, a civilian nurse trying to stop the bleeding. "Don't die yet, Helena. Please. We can help you."
Helena shook her head trying to remember more but it wouldn't come. She knew the voice but unfortunately was unable to place it.
Helena studied the area where sunlight filtered through the top. It seemed loose enough where one good toss with a rock could break through.
Luckily, rocks scattered on the earthen floor would most likely do the trick to set her free. After a number of tries a bigger hole, streaming sunshine shined through causing Helena to block her eyes a moment as she was so unused to such brightness.
The path upwards was not unsummountable, and Helena considered utilizing her grappler. She felt around her pockets. However, she frankly had serious doubts about the ability of the grappler's hook to catch hold of something firm in order to lift her through the hole.
As the grappler was not on her person, Helena made a cursory check on the cave she was trapped within, but could find no trace of her invention. Despite the temptation to keep looking, the need to leave this earthen prison was more immediate, and not just for the basic necessities of food and water. She would return for the grappler at a later date. Helena had no wish to be trapped in here when night came.
Steeling herself, she climbed easily enough. Helena poked her head out the hole to see forest. The warmth of the sun was incredibly welcome, as until that moment, Helena hadn't realized how cold she really was.
Lifting herself through, she surveyed the land wondering if she was still at the site of the battle. There was no scent of gunpowder, and the area looked untouched by anyone. No boot prints were to be found.
After a moment, Helena took off, half walking, half stumbling through terrain she could not identify.
-----
It had been an hour when Helena broke through the unfamiliar forest, and came upon some sort of road. She sat down on her haunches to examine further, and ran her hand across the surface. Granite with some sign painted on it.
Suddenly a loud noise caused her to jump up, and she was very nearly run over by some sort of...vehicle?
Before Helena could gain her equilibrium, a sound of a horn blared so loud, and she had to cover her ears. Another impossibly large vehicle brushed past her.
Deciding it was time to flee, Helena stumbled and then ran down the endless road with no ending in sight, unknowingly passing a large sign that said: Welcome to the Village of Sleepy Hollow.
-----
Sheriff Artie Neilson took another bite of his messy hot apple pie a la mode.
Myka grimaced slightly. Artie's fondness for this dessert reminded her of her pal Pete and his sugar loaded appetite. Although, Artie seemed to limit it more towards this pie and his own baked cookies. Myka wasn't fond of sugar, but would relent to eating one or two cookies, telling herself it was to make Artie happy when in reality, she secretly enjoyed the treat. The amusement in Artie's eyes showed he knew the truth, despite Myka's put upon distaste for the cookies.
Myka knew she would be teased even further if he knew of the twizzlers she hid in her desk at the police station. Only Pete knew and took the opportunity to continually tease her. However, he knew well and good he was in for it if he should let others know. Myka's punches were painful even in supposed jest. Suspects unprepared for a Myka punch often were in such pain afterwards, ice packs and multitudes of ibuprofen were needed.
"You're going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep eating those pies, Artie."
He pointed his fork at her. "My heart is perfectly fine. I had Vanessa check it just a week ago."
Myka smirked, knowing full well Artie's visit to Doctor Vanessa Calder was more personal than professional. She was about to make a comment when the waitress set a coffee cup down in front of her.
"Here ya go, Myka. Anything else?"
"No thanks, Jackie. I'm fine."
She stirred in a bit of cream, and before she had a chance to sip any coffee, Artie started in.
"You know, Myka, there are some unsolved murder cases I was planning on getting to soon. I could use your eye for detail."
Myka set the coffee cup down, and rolled her eyes. "I know what you're doing, old man, and it's not going to work."
Artie shot her an innocent look. "I'm just saying, there is a lot going on here, and those idiots at the station wouldn't know what to look for, even if the evidence bit them in the ass."
"Artie, I am going to Quantico next week, and that's the end of it. You know the FBI only picks 240 people a year." Pausing, her insecurity surfaced. "I'm lucky to even have been considered for the program."
Artie finished up his dessert, and wiped his beard with a napkin. "It had nothing to do with luck, Myka, and you know it. You know I've never been one great with...well...feelings of any kind but..." Artie stared at Myka and she could see pride there, which filled her with happiness. "You are one of a kind, Myka, and I know you'll get through just fine."
She wisely didn't say anything, not wanting to embarrass him any further. Artie cleared his throat, returning to his gruff self. "It's time to go. Get a to-go cup if you insist on taking the coffee with us." He pushed away the empty plate, and grabbed his hat.
Myka smiled a bit and shook her head before rising from the booth. "I'm good."
They headed to the door, Myka leading. As they made their exit, Myka never saw the priest in another booth stare at Artie who quizzically stared back.
-----
Myka was about to open the police cruiser door when a call came over the radio. Grabbing the mike, she answered, "Go ahead, Charlie 101."
The police operator responded with "There's some kind of disturbance over at the Schroeder Farm. Horses are acting up or something."
Myka rose an eyebrow at Artie. "Sounds like coyotes, Mabel."
"Probably," Mabel said flatly, and Myka could easily envision the eye roll at the answer; they responded to calls from Schroeder at least once a week, which inevitably turned into nothing more than the old farmer's imagination.
"On our way."
"Copy that. Charlie 101 out."
Artie went around to the driver's side. Taking off his hat and tossing it into the back, he remarked, "Guess to Schroeder's it is."
"Guess so," Myka replied and slid into the passenger seat, shaking her head.
She sure wouldn't miss the routine calls as being part of Sleepy Hollow's finest.
-----
The wind was kicking up as they drove up, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a light shining through the window, and Myka wondered if Schroeder was around. They heard the horses whining over the wind. If she could hear them this loudly amidst the fierce wind, something really had them spooked.
Artie instructed, "I'm going to check the barn. See if Schroeder is home. Be careful if it really is coyotes. They may still be around."
Myka followed the commands, choosing not to respond to the needless warning. She'd handled these type of calls plenty of times.
Sighing, she knocked on the door, calling, "Mr. Schroeder, it's Lt. Bering." Myka waited for a response, but there was only silence, so she pounded on the door. "Mr. Schroeder, it's Lt. Bering from Sleepy Hollow PD! Are you in there?" Myka considered going in, but knew she had no real reason for doing so without a warrant.
Holding out her small sturdy flashlight, Myka began to walk around, her right hand on her gun, ready to pull it out of her holster if necessary.
"Mr. Schroeder!" She didn't need Pete's vibes to tell her things weren't right. Myka decided to withdraw her gun, and held it by her side. Seeing Schroeder's old pickup parked in its usual spot, Myka carefully walked over.
The high wind was now followed by the occasional boom of thunder. Rounding the back of the truck, Myka saw the door open with the car light on. "Mr. Schroeder!"
The moment she saw Schroeder's headless body, Myka almost lost any food in her stomach. Her flashlight fell from her hand, and she stumbled back a bit, nearly stepping on Schroeder's rifle and his severed head.
Still holding onto her pistol, she took a quick look, and grabbed her mike hooked to her shoulder.
"Artie! I found Schroeder. He's been beheaded, Artie!"
-----
The barn lights had been on when Artie had made it to the barn. Not wanting to let the horses out, he slowly closed the barn door behind him.
There had been nothing on his way. No coyotes, no anything. The horses in here were still whining, but there were no other animals in sight.
"Hey, there. What's got you so spooked?"
Right as he spoke, Myka's shout came over his mike. "Artie! I found Schroeder, and he's been beheaded, Artie!"
Artie's eyes went wide. Did they have a serial killer on the loose?
"Got it. I'm in the barn now. Call it in. I'll be right there."
He could hear his heart thumping in his ears. Suddenly appearing about ten paces away, was a sight he never expected to see: a large male body dressed as a Redcoat from the Revolutionary War, wielding an axe, and completely missing his head.
Artie went into police mode as the creature stalked towards him. "Police! Stop right there!" It never stopped in its tracks, and Artie shot the headless man in the chest three times and ran out of bullets. Before he could do anything, the creature was upon him. As the headless man swung his blade, Artie knew in that moment, he was going to die.
-----
Myka called for backup, and ignoring Artie, she ran to the barn.
She had just made it to the barn door, when an axe cut through the wood.
“Shit!” she swore.
Stumbling back, Myka was nearly hit by the door which burst open as a white horse ridden by someone dressed as Redcoat, and was...headless.
Myka could not believe what she was seeing. The horse stopped, reared up, and the rider appeared to look right at her, the axe still in his hand. She was aware enough to notice the tattoo on the back of his right hand. The rider then swung around, and galloped off into the night.
Scrambling on all fours, Myka witnessed Sheriff Nielsen's head roll out, closely followed by his headless body laying close by on the floor to the entrance of the barn.
White as a sheet, she grabbed her mike from her shoulder.
"Officer down! Officer down!"
-----
Sam heard the call over the radio during his quiet patrol.
"Got it!" He feared it Myka, and didn't think he could stand it if it really was.
Sam flipped on his siren, and swung a u-turn. Just as he sped up, someone ran in front of his police car. Skidding on the brakes, he managed to stop a few feet from this person, and jumping out, he immediately withdrew his pistol.
"Hands up!"
The person was so dirty, the sex was undiscernable, and they simply stared at him, as if unable to understand the simple command.
Sam knew a good number of Sleepy Hollow residents, if not personally, then on sight. This person he did not recognize, and as such, gave immediate credence to being responsible for an officer injured, or worse, dead.
"Place your hands on top of your head, turn around, and kneel."
There was hesitance, although he was certain the person now knew the command.
"Do it, or I will shoot you."
They slowly raised their hands with obvious reluctance to do so, but turned and kneeled on the ground.
Sam withdrew his handcuffs, and as he got closer, he could tell it was a woman dressed in some sort of old fashioned waistcoat and breeches. Ignoring the strangeness, he cuffed the woman and began to read her her rights.
-----
Myka stared at the woman in the cell, still handcuffed.
Was she a member of one of those reenactment American Revolution groups? Myka had seen her fair share in Sleepy Hollow. But this woman's outfit seemed more authentic, if possible.
And a woman dressed in the garb of a soldier also struck Myka as odd. She knew of women pretending to be men fighting in the Revolutionary War. Despite the male garb, this woman apparently did not hide the fact she was indeed female.
And rather beautiful even if filthy.
Myka cleared her throat and shook her head, attempting to dismiss that thought from her mind.
The sound of the jail door opened, and while Myka continued to stare at the prisoner, she heard Sam walking over to her.
"This is the person who killed Sherrif Nielsen, isn't it," Sam stated more than questioned. The surety in his tone told Myka he was trying so hard to impress her.
Myka didn't want Sam's neediness right now; not ever really. She had broken it off with him; he just couldn't accept it. But the reminder of why they were here made Myka sick again.The memory of both Sheriff Nielsen and Old Man Schroeder's severed heads rolling on the ground next to their bodies was very vivid.
It was the most gruesome sight she had ever witnessed. Not only that, but Sheriff Nielsen, while gruff, was a great mentor and friend. She'd known him as a youngster and at times he felt more like a father than her own.
"I tell you I killed no one." The British accent, which at any other time would have made Myka swoon, led Myka to wonder if this woman was even in this country legally.
Whatever the case, she did not match the description of the killer. Myka however instinctively knew this woman held some connection to the events.
"No, she isn't, Sam. For one thing, the person who killed Sherrif Nielsen and Schroeder, was a man." Myka neglected to mention no head, but she couldn't run the risk of her fellow officers slapping her with a 5150. Despite the incredulousness of it all, she knew what she witnessed.
"The man wore the uniform of a Redcoat, and had some sort of brand on the back of his right hand."
There was recognition, along with something akin to dread on the woman's face as she interrupted, "Was it of a bow? And did he wield an axe?"
Myka was right; this woman did know something. "Yes. How did you know this?"
Instead of directly answering, the British woman mumbled as if to herself. "No, no, no, no...it cannot be."
"So you know him."
"Yes, I do."
"From where?" Myka questioned.
The woman looked into Myka's eyes. "Not from where, but from when. The moment I cut off his head."
HI! Bering and Wells Secret Santa here. I make gifs and sometimes graphics and wanted to ask if you have any preferences for your gift? Do you want angst and pain or are you in a mood for fluff and silliness, or maybe there is an AU you'd like to see? Can't wait to start working on your gift. Happy holidays!
Hi Secret Santa! I would love it if you do some gifs (or any graphics really) that could go along with one of my fics I posted on here (they are actually all under the hashtag "my fic"). If not, I'm always in the mood for fluff and silliness. But seriously, whatever you do will be awesome and I will very much appreciate it. Thanks!
Here’s a fun bit of casting quietly nestled at the bottom of ABC’s press release for the next episode of Once Upon a Time: genre-TV fave Jaime Murray will be guest-starring.
Alright, guys, you know the drill! Please reblog this post if you’d like to participate in this year’s Bering and Wells Holiday Gift Exchange! We’ll have everyone paired by the 22nd, so please reblog the post before then. Also, please keep your ask boxes open so that we can send you a message with your Secret Santa. Respond to the message privately (don’t post it on your blog – it’s a Secret Santa, after all) to let us know that you’re all set and ready to participate. Finally, please make sure that you can actually commit to making something for your partner before you reblog this post. We don’t want anyone to be left without presents, and it’s kind of tricky to reassign people.
This chapter is Myka's POV, and is all about reflections (hence title) of her life as a Slayer, the choices she has had to make, the guilt and shame she feels, feeling lost and confused. How does she view herself, others, etc. It's very much a parallel to the Prologue.
The first part occurs right after Myka was Called to be a Slayer in 1996. The second half of the chapter is Myka, a freshman at UC Sunnydale in 1999. It is the same date (Oct. 22nd) as the first half. I know the format is a little weird. Myka is having 1996 as a memory/flashback with a memory inside the flashback. I leave the memory of 1996 in plain text, separating it with ~~~. The memory within is in italics, separated by a ///. Regular scenes are separated by ----. Hope you guys won’t be confused.
The first half takes place the night of The Harvest. I took a few liberties with it so there is a few differences than The Harvest in BtVS.
Each part is from one person's POV and the next part may be a different character's POV. From this point forward, I won't tell you at the beginning of each part whose POV I am using. I figure you guys are smart enough without me telling you.
Hopefully those unfamiliar with BtVS will figure things out.
A Watcher is assigned to every Slayer by the Watcher's Council. Rupert Giles is Myka's. He trains her and prepares her. Everybody calls him by his last name.
I had to split this up into two parts because it’s so long.
I am having problems figuring out how to post the link to my prologue on here. Maybe it’s because I’m using an iPad. So just look for my prologue right below this on my tumblr blog.
“You do care," said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.”― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
~~~~~~~~~~
Sunnydale, California October 22nd, 1996
Myka Bering does not fail.
No ifs, ands, or buts.
And Myka Bering is responsible.
Therefore, as Myka Bering, I do not fail at anything because I am responsible.
I'm told I am brave and strong, and carry the weight of the world.
You see, I am a Vampire Slayer. The Chosen One. The one girl in all the world, chosen to fight the forces of darkness...blah, blah, blah.
My main job? Kill the vampires.
But you know what?
Vampires never, ever leave.
It's like the 'Circle of Life'...well, actually I guess it's like 'Circle of the Undead'.
There is no Simba destroying Scar in the end to become the Lion King, with a wonderful, happy Disney ending. My life is so far from Disney, Walt wouldn't know how to handle it. After all, there is no happy ending for me.
You see, every time I stake a vampire, their Childe take their place.
What's a 'Childe', you may ask?
Each time a human is turned into a vampire, the newly turned vampire is called a Childe. The other vampire is the 'Sire' of this Childe. It's the undead version of becoming a parent. It's a whole big sucky thing. They suck you, you suck them, fluids are exchanged...okay, that was going inappropriate visual places, but I think you get the picture.
So, usually I have to stake at least one Childe, sometimes multiple Childer. Then the Childe sires their own Childe... At any rate, the cycle goes on and on and on...
Like I said, a vampire 'Circle of Life'.
And of course you can't forget the vampires have to actually eat. To them, people are nothing more than happy meals on legs...sucking them dry until the person is a bloodless corpse.
This is why I can never let one vampire exist.
Oh, and there is one more thing: I live on the Hellmouth.
Or "the mouth of hell"? Get it?
Demons galore love it here, and a majority of them have one goal in mind: open this mouth of hell so they can frolic and play while destroying the world and humanity. Vampires may be demons but they are actually a walk in the park compared to facing hell gods.
Yeah, that's right, what do I do for fun? I avert an apocalypse!
This is why if I quit, a person will die. People will die. The world will die.
Therefore, Myka Bering is not allowed to stop.
And it will never ever stop for me until the day I die.
--------
Giles knows.
He was callous at first, or at least, it seemed that way. "One girl in all the world, chosen to fight the demons," he spouted.
But behind that stuffy British Watcher demeanor, I could see him begin to care. He looks at me with sadness in his eyes, and tries to be my stalwart standing fast, but he knows I'll be lucky to live long enough to graduate high school.
And I know it too.
He trains me. I become excellent with a sword, can handle a staff with ease, shoot vampires at fifty paces through the heart with my crossbow, and my fighting skills are so good, I know professional martial artists would struggle against me.
I learn Sumerian, and Giles is incredibly impressed by my knowledge, my eidetic memory, and how fast I learn.
He will offer me bits of wisdom, and while the words are meant to comfort and help me rationalize, they will fall flat.
In reality, Giles has become more of a father to me than my own father ever was. He spends time with me, he is my mentor, encourages me, and even cares about me in his own British awkward stuffiness.
I don't tell Giles though. He would get all flustered, protesting he is only fulfilling his duty as my Watcher, but we both know anyways this is a lie, and that's good enough for me.
This is why I don't tell him about the first time I had to make a choice; a choice between who lived and who died. Giles would make platitudes, and although I'd see his Watcher mask on, I'd see the struggle of the caring 'surrogate father' in his eyes.
And to be quite frank, I want neither. I just want to be left alone. Maybe I'm a masochist or something, but I refuse to talk about it with anyone. I think in my mind, I shouldn't be let off the hook for this. In some twisted way, I feel the pain of it reminds me of the consequences and makes me work harder to save everyone.
Regardless, making this choice happens again and again in the course of my life as a Slayer. I know realistically I'm only one person. After all, I can't be everywhere at once. Still I torture myself every time I make this decision, replaying it over and over in my mind, a dozen different scenarios in which the sacrificed person(s) lives.
This first time I made the choice of who lives and who dies, I'm still new to this Slayer gig. I'm just a fresh faced gangly nerdy fifteen year old. I still have random spurts of cuddle time with Mr. Bear, lament because my latest crush pays no attention to me, babble when nervous and shy, and wear a Scooby Doo wristwatch.
I'm not ready for the consequences. I am confident, bordering on arrogant because I feel smart and strong. I don't care about Giles's words of caution, I can handle anything.
I believe I can save everyone. This isn't the case, and one of hardest lessons I've ever learned.
After it's over, I try to rationalize. It was for the greater good, I tell myself. I had no other option, I tell myself.
When I fall asleep, these excuses fall away and I see them for the lies they really are.
I see those frightened eyes again, begging me to help, and I always do the same thing: I turn away to save the world, condemning the young girl to death.
Then I wake up, willing myself not to cry.
--------
This first time I had to choose was the night of The Harvest.
The Harvest ritual can only be attempted once in a century; on October 22nd, and done right here in Sunnydale.
And I happen to be the lucky Slayer who has to deal with it.
The Master, a 1000 year old powerful vampire, wanted to break out of the magical barrier holding him; his biggest aim to bring about hell on earth.
The Master chose Luke, his favored, strongest vampire as his vessel, and every drop of blood Luke drank made the Master more powerful. The Bronze nightclub on the outskirts of Sunnydale, full of teenagers with the fresh red blood of youth coursing through their veins, provided the perfect location and the perfect main course.
And I am running late for the party.
--------
The dust of the vampire I slay swirls around, invading my senses, choking me.
I hate that part.
I step back, waving my arm, trying to not inhale anymore, and stop my coughing fit. I stuff my stake back into my jacket pocket and check my watch.
Why I do this, I don't know. Habit maybe? The damn battery died earlier this evening. It's still stuck on 5:30 pm.
Giles found out Luke and his vampire lackeys were showing up by 8:30. This is an important ritual, and it was for the Master, so I knew better than to chance being late. Unfortunately, circumstances (or should I say my mother) made getting here any earlier difficult. Tonight, I had to go through my bedroom window. I have the feeling I will be grounded for life if she finds out.
Being a Slayer and a teenager are really not compatible.
As I race to the Bronze, I can't shake the urgency, and I almost crash into the front door of the Bronze I'm running so fast. I'm about to rush in, when I hear a cry for help.
I whip my head around to see a vampire, in full game face, holding a young girl. For a brief second, I see the pleading and fear in her eyes before she is dragged into an alley. Just as I set to go after her, I hear cries and screams inside The Bronze.
The Harvest has started.
I don't have time to save the girl, and save the world from the Master.
I have to choose.
And I chose the world.
And I will never forgive myself for it.
--------
It doesn't really take long to stop Luke and his lackeys. But the fact he had already drained one person and was ready for another, feels like just one more thing to add to my rack of guilt.
Giles with my best friends Pete and Claudia finally show up to give an extra assist. I don't know what held them up, but that's a question for another time. I stop the ritual, kill Luke, and his lackeys are either dusted or escape, running away with their tails between their legs. People seem mainly disoriented as we watch them get their bearings, and Giles assures me they will forget this tomorrow. The human mind has a way of compartmentalizing things. Tomorrow, instead of bloodthirsty vampires it will become gangs on PCP.
Ignorance is bliss, I guess. I can't decide how that makes me feel. Worried they won't be cautious enough? Happy they can delude themselves this horrid reality to live in a safer fantasy? Or maybe envious, as I'll never be that innocent again, condemned to live in the stuff of nightmares.
I feel the danger has passed, and tell everyone it would be safest to go home, and fortunately they capitulate. One boy in particular concerns me. Well, shakes me really. He lost a lot of blood, and I just made it in time to stop Luke from fully draining him. Giles, Pete, and Claudia take the boy out the back entrance to where Giles had parked his car, deciding to take him to Sunnydale General Hospital.
I'm still full of energy and figure I can burn it off on the way home. I head out the front entrance of The Bronze, feeling pretty positive overall. Hey, we just saved the world!
The Bronze doors close behind me, and that's when I see a figure emerge from the shadows. It's the girl I had to sacrifice to save this unforgiving world.
Except she is now longer a girl.
She's a vampire.
As the demon began to mock me for my choice, I remember a lecture from Giles right after I was Chosen.
/// "There will be times where you will have to make a choice as to who you are going to save. I know it's hard, but that's just the way it is. You will get into positions where you must make the decision-"
"Of who lives and who dies?!" I interrupt, practically screaming at Giles, who is placidly leaning against the library table. "I get it. Yeah. I play God! I get to decide if my neighbor Mrs. Connor down the street will die or Joey from my science class. Well, let's see. Mrs. Connor yelled at me yesterday for accidentally crushing her flowers, and Joey loaned me a book, so guess what? Joey gets to live!" My arms are crossed, brow furrowed, sarcasm lacing each word.
Giles's glasses come off and he withdraws a handkerchief from his pocket. He indulges in what I later learn is his habit of cleaning his glasses when something (or someone) is being particularly difficult to deal with.
After a moment, Giles puts his glass back on and says softly, "It's part of being the Slayer, Myka. And there will come a time, when you must decide if the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. And as your Watcher, Myka, I'm here to tell you, they do not."
"And what would Rupert Giles tell me?" I ask pointedly.
He gives a small, sad smile. "Rupert Giles would like to tell you there are times when the needs of the one can outweigh the needs of the many.
"But you see, Rupert Giles is not in charge of a Slayer who must battle hell itself, save the world, and yes, must decide who lives and who dies." ///
The memory is over and the vampire has moved closer, still taunting my decision and reminding me of my foolish arrogance.
"She was so frightened, this girl in this body. Soooo scared. And where were you, Slayer? You saw her. I know you did, as she was dragged behind the alley. But no, you chose to forget this frightened girl and now you don't even care."
I hear enough. I take the stake from my jacket, and stoically do my duty.
I dust the demon with the dead, innocent girl's face, and I hate myself for it.
~~~~~~~~
UC Sunnydale Sunnydale, California October 22nd, 1999
"Myka! Hey, Mykes!"
The male voice serves as a jolt, and I'm thrown back into real time.
It's all so vivid still, and so painful. Unfortunately, I know why my mind begins to replay that same memory.
Tonight is the three year anniversary I first chose the world and sacrificed an innocent.
I remove my sunglasses and wipe my eyes, annoyed at the tear stained sleeve, proof I lost control of my emotions. I curse myself for the lack of stoicism a Slayer must maintain in order to fulfill her duties. The damn sunglasses have the audacity of being tear stained as well. Using my other sleeve trying to clean the sunglasses, I'm hoping my long, curly mane will cover my face that I'm sure still shows signs of tears.
I know the male voice belongs to Pete Lattimer. I don't want to talk to him about it, even if he is my best friend.
We've been through so much together. Pete was there when I was Called, witnessing a mere human girl who in a matter of seconds (with a rush so powerful I'll never forget), become the one girl chosen to fight the evil in this world.
My other best friend Claudia Donovan, techie extraordinaire, was there too but Pete is my rock. When things become overwhelming, I go to Pete. As juvenile as he can be at times, he has a heart of gold. He listens, gives me a big Pete hug, and then declares it's time to make his special Pete pancakes. The amount of sugar is outrageous, but I happily eat the pancakes even if it's two o'clock in the afternoon or eleven o'clock at night. My world rights again, all because of his goofy grin and kindness, and chocolate chip pancakes.
But today, the lure of a Pete hug and Pete pancakes doesn't seem appealing. If I'm honest with myself, I realize they haven't seemed appealing since the summer.
I just began my freshman year at UC Sunnydale, and should exalt at the world of academia. It's everything I always wanted; studying and learning are valued. People voluntarily came here for these things, unlike high school where it was mandatory whether you wanted it or not, and there were many who did not.
At college you are entering adulthood, leaving the trials and tribulations of adolescence behind. For me, someone who prized academia, you would expect joy. For someone who felt awkward and socially inept as a teenager, you would expect happiness at people not really caring if you wore weird clothes or feeling like the biggest nerd on the planet if you could quote Shakespeare, had read every single book there ever was, and knew four different languages.
However, I still couldn't reveal that part of me that eclipsed everything else: The Slayer. It's so ironic that everything here that should bring me joy, only brings sadness because I know I will never live long enough to even graduate.
Pete graduated high school with me, but he still lives in his mother's basement and didn't come to college, choosing instead to find a job to help his mother with the bills. I know he wants to go to college, and so does his mother (she is an elementary school teacher, for god's sakes), but Pete wants to wait a year. The Lattimers have always struggled. Pete's father died when he was ten, and his mother has struggled ever since with paying off the mortgage and raising both Pete and his sister Jeanie. She also became a guardian of Claudia who lost her parents in a car crash over a year ago, and it will be another year until Claudia graduates from high school.
But he is Pete, and he is more loyal than anyone I know. He would never leave his family to struggle when he had the power to help right now, even if he had to sacrifice his dreams to do so.
Unfortunately, we grew apart. Pete, Claudia, and I were so tight in high school. Pete and I became busy with different things, and I felt he couldn't relate to being in college. There were times I would try to discuss things with him, but his answers, his solutions were framed within the context of high school.
We still hung out periodically. He would help with research or helping to patrol. Even after nearly three years, I've never stopped worrying about choosing between Pete and saving the world. I worry he will get hurt or die just because he's trying to help me. It's my job. I'm the Slayer, and I worry he'll die in my place.
"Mykes, I wanted to see if you wanted..." Pete trails off. "What's up? Everything ok?"
Through my curls, I see him standing there, just inside the table umbrella, his concerned, caring face and body blocking out the harsh glare of the sun.
I slide my sunglasses back on my face, and hope he doesn't notice me stuff a flyer into my jacket pocket. A college student is missing, and I have a pretty good idea where he is.
"I'm fine,” I say, smiling too wide to be believable. "I'm just...you know...uh..." I taper off, panic creeping in.
Oh great. I can't think of an excuse. Pete knows me almost better than anyone, and I'm fairly certain he can see through the lie.
Pete raises an eyebrow. "Come on, Myka. I know you, and hanging around the patio...daydreaming...isn't you. I don't even see any books out!" He pointedly says, "In fact, I don't see your book bag either. You aren't even at the library, and I know your class ended at-" He checks his stupid X men watch, "Wolverine here says it's 3:56. Your last class ended at three!" He pauses, and softly asks, "Myka, what's going on?"
I stand and hiss, "I know what time it is." I hold out my wristwatch for him to see, and tap at the watch face.
"Myka, your watch doesn't even work, remember?" Pete rolls his eyes. " I don't even know why you continue to wear that thing. It was time to get a new battery three years ago."
I ignore his criticism, not wanting to delve once again into my fixation about wearing a watch that doesn't work. "There is nothing wrong with me, Pete." I grab my drink, shaking the ice cubes around. "I was just trying to finish my Coke, alright?"
"Okay, if I didn't think there was something wrong, I do now," he says. "You are having sugar, Myka. SUGAR! You only have anything with sugar if you're upset about something. I am vibing like crazy here." Pete grasps my shoulders, it's rather brave I absently acknowledge since I could hurt him twenty different ways for this.
I roll my eyes. "I don't care what your stupid 'vibes' tell you, I am FINE."
I suck in a breath, hoping to get myself under control. I am actually close to a breakdown.
"Look, I got a lot on my mind. College is much more rigorous than high school, you know," I try to deflect. "Besides, Sam is kinda bugging me right now, okay?"
There. That answer sounds better. Maybe he'll leave me alone now.
Pete knows my relationship with Sam isn't exactly made in heaven, and in some ways more of a distraction than anything else. Or maybe substitute is a better word? For someone who isn't there, someone who didn't have the nerve to say goodbye.
Pete's face softens, and he says, "Myka..." Pete takes a deep breath, removes his hands from my shoulders and steps back. I can tell he's going to tell me something I really don't want to hear.
"I know you miss her, but using Sam to avoid thinking about Helena is not the right way to deal with this."
Oh, man, now he has pissed me off.
I don't need to be reminded, and I don't need or want his advice. I hate it even more because deep down, I know he's right and I don't want to admit it.
"You know what, Pete, you can just fuck off. I can't believe a guy who is dating a ditzy 1000 year old vengeance demon who is so obsessed with money and capitalism, she has to count the till at the Magic Box six times when she closes, and tries to charge people for just looking in the store, has the gall to give me relationship advice!"
I shove past him, knowing I didn't curb my Slayer strength, so he will most likely have a good bruise. There is a part of me disgusted with my behavior, but there is another part grateful because Pete brought out anger targeting Sam, which is much better than dealing with my sorrow and pain.
"That's a ditzy 1000 year old EX demon, Myka! Get it right! And for your information, she only counts the till four times!" he shouts at me as I walk away.
I mutter "Whatever", and jam my fists into my jacket pocket.
Note: first story in my Slayerverse. Bering and Wells in the Buffyverse. I wrote it in reaction to the season that shall not be named. I love both shows. It was easy to create Slayer!Myka and Vampire!Helena. They fit so naturally. This is very AU of the BtVS episode ‘The Harsh Light of Day’.
The choices one makes in life always have consequences. If you are the Slayer and a Vampire with a Soul, these choices are a matter of life, death, and never ending guilt. But sometimes you find someone who understands this better than anyone else, and knows you better than you know yourself. And that makes all the difference.
“I DON'T CARE!" Harry yelled at them, snatching up a lunascope and throwing it into the fireplace. "I'VE HAD ENOUGH, I'VE SEEN ENOUGH, I WANT OUT, I WANT IT TO END, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!"-JK Rowling 'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix'
Prologue 1899
"HG! Helena! Wake up!"
I feel something being removed from my head, and open my eyes to see my best friend, with the bright light from the gas lamps surrounding his body, giving the appearance of a halo.
My eyes squint at the bright light. "Woolly, stop it." I bat his hands away in aggravation. "I do not want your help, nor need it."
I fall out of the long chair and collapse onto the floor, desolate.
It was getting harder and harder to witness my daughter's death each time. I built my time machine only with one thought in mind: going back in time to rescue my daughter, to prevent her murder.
I also bore the weight of another death. I had to make a choice; try to rescue my daughter or help the young maid Mary, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been out shopping and ran right into the thieves upon her return to the house.
I witnessed one of the men grab her and seen her struggle, but I knew time was running out to save my daughter.
So every time I went back, I make the choice to rescue my daughter.
And the terrible part is, I would make the same choice over and over again.
Because I am selfish.
Each time I went back in time, I never even tried to save her instead of my daughter.
Mary was a sweet innocent girl who never really stood a chance.
---------
I am a genius, you see.
Some may say this is nothing more than my ego talking.
I admit to being egotistical at times, but I categorically assert my advanced intellect for good reason.
Who created a time machine, a rocket to fly to the moon, a powerful vest to go faster than the human eye, and a gun not used for violence but for the ability to transport one into the sky?
Certainly not my brother Charles, whom the world assumed was the real HG Wells. All Charles contributed was the mustache.
These were all of my achievements, and the world will never know.
How I labored through many nights and hours, obsessively going over formula after formula. Finding the right parts, building my time machine so there would be no error. Surely there was a way to go beyond 22 hours and 19 minutes.
In the process, I alienated Charles, and my friends. William Wolcott, dear Woolly, was the only one to stick by me. I often wondered why he did; I treated him so badly.
There was a part of me who felt shame, remorse for doing so, but there was a larger part that just didn't care.
--------
"Helena" Woolly spoke in a soft soothing tone, and I allow him to pull me into his warm comforting body.
It was the first time since Christina's death I felt actual physical comfort from someone. I refused any semblance of physical comfort from Charles.
I knew if I allowed myself to be comforted, the tears, the sorrow would become overwhelming. I needed the anger. It provided focus. I could channel all of my energy into bringing Christina back.
Pressed against him felt good, safe. It was Woolly, after all. The man who was my dearest friend and brother, just not in blood. Woolly knew more about me than Charles. We shared secrets as children, knew each other's temperament. Sometimes, I wished I felt more for him. I'd known for a long time he had feelings for me. He would make a good husband, I know; just not for me.
My hands grip Woolly and his hold became stronger. I shake, and the tears turn into sobs.
I have no idea how long this unpardonable loss of control lasts. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. I begin to feel fatigued, resenting my body's betrayal.
Woolly's voice brought me aware again. "There, there, Helena. I'm here. Just let it all out."
I vigorously shake my head, mumbling, "No, no, no, no..." I shove him away, and angrily wipe at my tears
"Helena..." Woolly tries. He sounds tired.
"No, Woolly. I can fix it, I know it. The formula must have been off. Something must have been off..."
I stand and stare at my machine. It is magnificent. This is the fourth generation. With each successive trip, significant modifications have been made. This one had been used twice with only minor tweaks. Truth be told, no matter how many calculations I tried, this model was the best I could do.
I stumble to my workbench, and study my schematics and most recent calculations.
"Helena!" Woolly cries. "You are exhausted! You need to rest."
"If I adjust this variable here, this could be what I need," I mumble, scribbling my new calculations on the edge of my blueprints.
Woolly grabs my arm, but I roughly shake him off. "Helena! Are you listening to yourself? You say this same thing after every trip!"
I continue to ignore him, murmuring, "More time. I just need more time. If I could reach a full 23 hours, maybe then..."
"It's time to let her go, Helena...to let them both go."
I round on him, furious. "As long as there remains a chance, any chance at all, I will try. And I will find a way, you can be sure of that!" I snarl, then turn around to face my blueprints once more. "If you can't accept that, Woolly, you know where the door is," I add, coldly.
"You cannot continue to bear the weight of responsibility for each death. Some things happen, Helena, that we cannot change." He pauses, and then his voice becomes tender, "I don't want to leave you, Helena." Woolly sighs, and continues, "I just...can't you at least take a rest? You have been at this nonstop, hardly sleeping. I cannot even get you to sleep."
I rub my bloodshot eyes. "No matter. I am perfectly fine."
"No, you are not!" he shouts. "Fine. You want to continue, fine, but not before you take a rest. And I am not taking 'I am a Wells, and do not require eating or sleeping.' for an excuse!"
At any other time I would have laughed at his ridiculous impersonation of me.
"We both know you cannot go on this way. You know yourself that your mind will work better upon receiving the proper care it and your body needs," he pleads.
I grip the edge of my work table and grit my teeth. I hate to acknowledge his wisdom in the matter. I straighten and turn around. "Alright. I will eat something."
His face grows animated. "We can go upstairs and have Cook make you something-"
"No," I cut him off. "I will go out." I brush past him. "The fresh air will be invigorating. My head will clear, and I will be able to resume."
I climb the stairs of my workroom to the foyer, retrieve my favorite black waistcoat, and walk out into a classic London fog obscuring the late afternoon sun.
--------
My boots click against the cobblestone sidewalks, and I am vaguely aware of the hansom cabs and the clip clop of the horses.
My mind is on my calculations and my schematics to the exclusion of all else, which is why I feel a jolt of surprise upon stumbling into a woman. Her package tumbles and the contents spill about the sidewalk.
"Oh, I do apologize. My mind is on other matters." I scoop up contents that indicate gifts for a child: a teddy bear, a doll, and a...book.
"Who is this for?" I ask softly, tracing the title.
"Well...my daughter actually." She sounds slightly defensive, causing my head to shoot up. "She has become quite enamored with H.G. Wells since reading 'The Time Machine', and begged me for 'War of the Worlds'."
I knew 'The Time Machine' was popular, but besides adults, it was more common to hear boys enjoying it as well. The fact a young girl asked for it, and the mother encouraged it, overwhelmed me with so many emotions: sadness, jealousy, anger, and joy.
I have practiced over the years in masking certain aspects of my life. There were a select few besides Woolly who know I am the one behind Charles's books. Every time I hear praise, it produces a wide variety of emotions. Initially it cuts me, following with pride at my accomplishments, and ending in bitter disappointment. As a woman I can never reveal who I really am to the world, as it would never be accepted.
And I think of my little Christina. How much I would have encouraged her to read all matters of books, explore the world, play games, build a treehouse, inventing and building with me, eventually going to university, and pursuing a career despite the world we live in; a world in which only boys had the right to these things.
And now that will never be.
"It's a wonderful gift. I...knew another young girl who loved books as well, and she was the most wonderful child..." I clear my throat, hoping she hasn't heard the emotion spilling into the words.
I hand the book back to the woman, who is looking at me strangely. After a moment, her face clears in understanding.
"My daughter is a gift everyday," She pauses, and then looks at me with sympathy in her eyes. "I am sure the young girl you speak of knew how much you loved her." She took my hand, squeezed it, and smiled softly.
My emotions threatened to spill over again; this is another mother, of course she would know.
I nod my head stiffly. "Thank you. I hope your daughter enjoys the book."
I hurriedly walk away without preamble, but stop walking after a block or two. I breathe deeply and briefly shut my eyes, seeking some sort of equilibrium after this unwanted encounter.
Consciously bringing my calculations for the time machine to the forefront of my mind, I block my emotions, but in this process I only become unconscious instead.
--------
"Bloody hell! You look like shite, Johnny!"
"Aw, shut your trap, Danny. Ready to go or not?"
"Keep your knickers on! I'm comin'!"
The loud, male voices, one obviously slurry from the effects of alcohol, startle me.
I stop and shake my head to clear it. The men are now disappearing in the distance. To the right a few doors down is a pub, which they obviously just vacated.
I have no idea where I am or even what time it is. Evening has already turned into night.
I check my pocket watch, a gift from Woolly who declared that if I was going to dress in men's clothes I needed a proper watch. It's 5:30 p.m.
The inscription inside the cover catches my eye: "To thine own self be true".
Woolly gave me the pocketwatch on my first birthday after Christina's birth. The quote is a popular one of Shakespeare's, which I always thought was a bit trite.
I asked him the meaning behind the sentiment. He only grinned and told me to figure out the meaning on my own. And then he grew serious, saying no matter the circumstance, that for him, his truth lies always with me.
As I closed the clasp, my arm is shoved hard enough to jerk the watch from my grasp. I look down to see it lying broken at my feet.
"Oi! I'm terribly sorry, Miss!" I look up to see a newsboy, his arms full of papers. He squats, his papers now snug in his left arm, and retrieves the broken pocket watch.
The newsboy stands, placing the broken watch gently into my hands, his face full of contrition. "I really am sorry, Miss,” he says distraught. "I...I don't have the money to fix it, but I'm a good worker. I can work to pay it off...." His free hand nervously picks at his clothes.
The lad is no more than nine or ten, his youthful face at once so earnest and so frightened. Christina was only five when she died, but I can remember seeing the same expression on her face once when she broke a lamp.
That alone pains me and I halt his protests. "It's alright. Go on now." I give him a small smile.
His face clears, and I know he is relieved. The newsboy turns, and begins to run. Only after a few steps, he suddenly stops and turns around. The lad tips his hat, and shyly says, "Night, Miss,” before taking off once more.
I examine the watch, which is most likely reparable. It’s now permanently stuck at 5:30 until it is fixed, and I decide to head into the pub.
--------
The pub is called 'Nevermore'.
I step inside and close the door behind me. The light is dim, but the bar is lit well enough. There are a decent amount of patrons at the bar stools, but the tables are all empty.
I take a seat in a booth in the back and suddenly my fatigue and hunger are catching up to me. Fortunately, the bar maid is swiftly here so I order a pint and fish and chips.
While I await my order, I have the urge to stick my hand in the candle flame just to see how badly it will burn.
The shadows from the candles remind of some sort of Danse Macabre. They all seem to turn into hideous death masks and dancing skeletons, mocking me for my attempts at trying to foil death's plans.
'Oh, for heaven's sakes, Helena,’ I internally berate myself at my ridiculous morbid interpretation of nothing more than flickering candlelight.
"Here you are, luv." The barmaid hands me my pint of ale and my fish and chips.
"Thanks you," I murmur. She looks at me strangely, and seems about to comment when I hear the bartender call out, yelling to return to the bar.
"If you need anything else, let me know," she says.
"I'm sure I shall be fine."
The bar maid hesitates, then gives me a small smile. "Whatever is troubling you, time has no meaning here."
I nod, and am thankful when she leaves.
The meal is delicious, which I don't know whether to attribute to my hunger or the cook. I eat faster than what would be appropriate for a lady, but I could care less.
My plate clean, I push it aside and lay back against the back of the booth, feeling somewhat more human. I leisurely drink my pint, and my eyes droop. Woolly was right; I'm exhausted, and I am starting to feel it. I try to think about how I went wrong in my calculations for the time machine, but with each sip, I become more and more sluggish.
My eyes open when I feel someone slide next to me. It's a beautiful blonde, her perfume rather strong.
She says nothing but her eyes trail with hunger over my body. I know it's supposed to be seductive, but I can't help feeling like a meal she is waiting to devour.
I have employed a more subdued version of similar flirtations with men (and women) myself. However, as a member of society, my methods held more finesse and subtlety.
Quirking an eyebrow, I give her an amused smile. "Is there something I can help you with?" I know she is a prostitute and wonder if a good shag will help me or not.
Instead of answering, she says, "The bar maid was right you know, time really has no meaning here. This is a good place to escape your troubles."
"And how do you know what troubles I have? How do you know I have troubles at all?" I query.
"Everything about you says so. The cut of your clothes." She fingers my coat and my scarf and then caresses my trousers, stopping just shy of my crotch. "They are tailored, and made of expensive fabric." She threads her hand through my hair. "Your hair is clean, and soft to the touch. The way you carry yourself. You carry yourself as someone who has been raised in society." She takes my hands. Hers feel quite cool, and I absently wonder how chilly the weather has become. "Your hands have the manicure of a lady.
“However, it is interesting, how your hands speak of things more than perhaps of reading an occasional book, delicately playing the piano, waiting for a servant to see to her every need, and demurely waits for the right man to come along, kiss her hands, and marry her. Your hands show a certain roughness one would attribute to some sort of physical labor.
“It is also unusual for a woman to dress as you are, and to come into this pub. Nevertheless, you are a lady of society. You are not a whore. You are only here to escape something that is troubling you, a place in which time has no meaning."
She stops, and looks at me expectantly. This woman is quite perceptive, her accent too cultured for this area of London, and I'm quite sure she is used to servicing the upper class.
It is unusual for her to be in this pub as well. However, I have a suspicion she followed me, knowing because of my stature she could demand a higher price and I would pay it.
For a moment I toy with my pint glass and watch the ale swirl around inside.
"Scholars of science, mathematics, religion, and philosophy have long studied the meaning of time, its very existence. Each discipline has deciphered its meaning according to their expertise.
“The metaphysics never interested me. I am only concerned with mastering time mathematically and scientifically for my own ends."
Now I shift my body to face her, and state, "You see, I am not interested in sharing my findings with humanity. Humanity is unworthy, and will only use my findings for cruelty. This world is barbaric enough, especially for children.
I am not noble, you see. I would do anything to save the one I love, and yet here I am, wanting to forget time even exists."
I turn back around down the remains of my ale, and return the pint glass onto the tabletop.
She rises, and offers her hand. "Come with me, and fall into the abyss where time has no meaning or existence."
And I do.
--------
The bar maid was right.
Time has no meaning here.
There is no past and no future.
There is only now.
My world has shrunk down to this room and this bed, and I have truly fallen into the abyss this woman described.
She is kind and caring, and the sexual release she provides is incredible.
Even though she is a prostitute, I am fleetingly sad this is nothing more than a job to her. I wonder if she is simply an actress performing a play, or if she really cares about my well-being at all.
Her name is Darla. We never discussed payment. She simply took me to a room upstairs and undressed me.
I wanted to forget. At least for a little while, Darla made it very easy.
As I neared my second orgasm, I am dimly aware of pain, which pushes me over the edge and prolongs the intense pleasure. It is too much, but the bite continues.
"Stop!" I cry. I try to shove her away but I feel weak. With the exhaustion of trying to stop Christina's murder, the ale, food, and sex, I've become as weak as a kitten.
Darla finally rolls away and I'm not amused, no matter what kind of rush the bite provided. I rise from the bed, feeling a little woozy when I stand, and begin to gather my clothes. I feel the urgency of time returning. I should be at home, working on new calculations for the time machine.
It is past time to leave my escape from reality.
Darla tries to cajole me back to bed. "Oh, come on, Helena. Didn't it feel good? I could tell how hard you came when I bit you. Tell me you didn't like that?"
I finish buttoning my shirt and my trousers. Raising my hand to my neck, I can tell by the feel of it that the bite was sharp, sliced, and not the clumsy biting of human teeth.
Darla rises in the nude and walks over to stand in front of me, just short of invading my personal space. Her cool hand caresses my face, and I'm reminded of the coldness of her first touch.
"What would you say if I told you I can take your pain away...permantly."
I say nothing, but the vanity mirror confirms my suspicions. I can only see myself; exhausted in mind, body, and spirit. I wonder what it would feel like to no longer see myself at all.
"You are a vampire, are you not?" I say, stating more than questioning.
There had always been rumors here and there. The gothic novels of the time period, seances, and a general fascination with spirits and the afterlife, I had always seen as poppycock as there was no scientific basis. Rather, I saw books like Dracula as an allegory. An allegory for sexuality. The seances I viewed as chicanery.
"And what if I was? Would you have slept with me if I told you?" Darla smiles coyly, and continues, "We are both deceivers, Helena. Do what we must do in order to survive in this world, a civilization made by and only for men. We wear masks to hide our true identity. Our true face is something we can never show whether we wish to or not."
I frown. "What does that mean?"
Darla removes her hand from my face and instead of answering the question says, "I know who you really are."
Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I say, "What are you talking about?"
"I know you are the real H.G. Wells."
"You are wrong," I say coldly. "My brother Charles is H.G. Wells. I am merely his sister."
"Oh yes, I know. You are the sister who as any woman, is treated as a second class citizen or in my case, the filth on the street. You are not merely his sister. I know how smart you are, and about things you have created."
I roughly grab her. "How do you know this? No one knows this."
Darla laughs and says, "I have my sources."
I shake her. "Tell me!"
"Your friend William is quite talkative when shall we say...properly motivated," she says coyly.
I push her away, angry at her and angry at Woolly. I begin to curse him for his loose tongue.
"He let a few things slip...well, more than a few. Enough for me to know who you were at any rate."
Mimicking Woolly's voice, Darla says, "I know a woman, who is brilliant and beautiful. Definitely more brilliant than me...H.G...I mean uh Helena!..she is more brilliant than any man. She has invented so many wonderful things and doesn't get the credit she deserves. It makes me so angry!"
I have to admit, she does a good impersonation of him.
Darla smiles. “I would say he has quite the little crush on you."
"I am aware of his feelings," I say stiffly. Closing my eyes in shame, I mumble, "God knows he can do better than me."
I open my eyes and ask, "Why me? There are plenty of humans you can prey upon."
"Oh, I know. And I have done so many times, but I'm not looking for a meal. I am looking for someone worthy of being my companion."
"And what makes you think I would consider you as worthy of my eternal companionship?"
Instead of a direct response, Darla says, "How much would you give to take away the pain? Hunt down the men who murdered your daughter, and make them suffer for it? To give into your desires to torture and kill these men?
"I am the only who can give you what you need and desire." Darla offers her hand. "Come, my love. After your revenge, we can travel the world together, and we can celebrate your brilliance. There will no longer be pain or doubt or guilt or failure."
I am so tired. So very, very tired. I have tried so many different times, so many different ways to bring Christina back. My resolve to try to do so again is dwindling.
My hand subconsciously seeks out my necklace, and I fiddle with the locket. While I don't want to give up, Darla presents a tempting offer. Perhaps making these men suffer and die for murdering my baby girl, will bring at least a small amount of satisfaction.
I make my decision and glance in the mirror, knowing this is the last time I will be able to do so.
My hand reaches out to hers in silent acceptance, and Darla smiles as she walks me over to the bed.
We lie down and she caresses my face. Darla's face morphs into the guise of a demon. I feel as though this should scare me, perhaps to the point of refuting my earlier acceptance, but all I feel is calm and at peace.
"Now just relax, and let Darla make it all better."
I close my eyes, grimacing when her teeth sink into my neck. But the deeper she goes, the pain changes into a sense of euphoria and arousal.
I'm fading fast, dying in the hope of becoming alive again. The last thing I'm aware of before I fall into oblivion is Darla stroking my face, bringing her slit wrist to my mouth to suck her blood.
