AN: My first Warehouse 13 fanfic. I hope you enjoy.
a black crow sitting across from me; his wiry legs are crossed
And he's dangling my keys he even fakes a toss
Whatever could it be
That has brought me to this loss?
is not the sound of a new man or crispy realization
It's the sound of the unlocking and the lift away
Your love will be
Safe with me
Re: Stacks by Bon Iver
It's cold in the Warehouse tonight, possibly because Artie doesn't pay the heating bill often. So it's flannel undergarments and fleece blankets for Claudia and me. Right now, though, it's toasty.
I travel slowly through the Warehouse aisles, glancing at artifacts I find interesting. In my mind, I can hear Myka's voice, You'll get hurt playing with that. The need to turn on my heel and send her a grin passes over me, but I push it to the side. There's nothing to smile about.
Her constant by-the-book persona clashes with my juvenile one and the result isn't very pretty. Usually, it involves baking a lot of chocolate-chip cinnamon cookies- her favorite- to apologize and bringing her out of her emotionally scarred shell to talk. She thinks I don't see through her façade, but I really do. I come downstairs for breakfast and I find her already up and dressed, her nose dug far into a book. When's the last time she actually went out and had fun?
The idea of Myka partying causes me to burst out laughing and now she's narrowing her eyes at me. Whoops. I quickly rattle off some excuse- a joke I saw on The Office last night- but she's still got her brows furrowed and I can feel her eyes on me as I cross the kitchen. The same thought occurs to me when I see her eyes: did I hear her crying last night? Every time I do, I want to sneak into her room and comfort her, but I know it would drive her insane to know I hear her. So I plug my iPod in, settle for some alternative rock, and listen to my subconscious chew me out for not coming to her rescue. Myka doesn't need a knight in shining armor, though. She's not a damsel in distress. I've seen her handle herself in hundreds of situations. After all, we've been partners for over a year.
My hand turns the dial beside the door, watching the numbers rotate like a slot machine. The mechanics behind the iron door whir and clang. Finally, the machinery stops and the door cracks open slightly. Normally, this part of the Warehouse is freezing cold, enough to make you consider growing six inches of fur. Right now, though, it's toasty.
But maybe that's because no one has been in here for four months. Whenever a Warehouse agent disappears or dies mysteriously, living quarters, personal objects… they're collected and preserved.
Myka hasn't been here, with me, for four months. The bed is still tucked in neatly, pillows fluffed and her clothes still inhabit the drawers. Knowing Artie will have my ass later and not caring whatsoever about it, I crawl on top of the bed and press my face into the pillow. Myka is never a flashy person. She rarely wears jewelry and if she does, it is discreet. And she needs needed perfume. Her own aroma consists of a fresh, clean smell and a light, wispy tone of cinnamon spice.
I consider turning over and telling this aloud to the room, but it wouldn't make any difference. I've sat by myself in Leena's kitchen and told her this several times. I want you to know that you can… tell me things. Now, I receive no furrowed brow or quizzical glance. I receive nothing in return for my proclamation and I chuckle lightly. She never listens to me. I wonder what would have happened if she had.
"Routine mission," Artie tells us through the Farnsworth and Myka rolls her eyes.
"It's never just 'routine', Artie. There's always something out of the ordinary."
"And you find this surprising? Check back with me when you find the object." As usual, Artie's face disappears from the screen without as much as a simple goodbye. I look over at Myka, who's busy switching lanes and eyeing a convertible ahead of us.
"I almost bought that, instead of my Ford," I admit, nibbling on the inside of my cheek in regret.
"It's a good thing you didn't," She announces and I'm surprised, "Convertibles are useless in roll-over crashes. You'd be dead within a split second."
"You're reassuring. Do you also go around telling small children that Santa Claus doesn't exist?"
"Only if necessary," She grins and I smile back. I love seeing her smile. We arrive at the facility- Waverly Hills Sanitarium- and I whistle appreciatively. "It's just an old building. What are you whistling at? Is there a hot nurse somewhere?" Myka's attempts at humor come forth more often, now. We split up inside, her to the east wing and me to the south. Halfway through checking out creepy hospital rooms and beds with restraints, I forget what I'm supposed to be looking for. "Medicine bag, Pete," Myka's voice scares the shit out of me and I jump, knocking into the wall.
"Jesus! Where did you come from?" She doesn't reply, as usual, and eyes the room warily.
"Can we just grab the bag and get out of here? I don't like this place."
"Pete, we don't have time for this-" A crash outside sends us both into the hallway, facing a cloaked figure with a Tesla.
"MacPherson?" The man- or evil cloaked thing- drew closer, finger on the trigger and artifact in hand.
"I don't think so," Myka mutters and pulls out her own Tesla.
"A whole lotta good that's going to do you, miss," The figure grins and I was unnerved to see a luminescent- almost blinding- smile appear from inside the darkness of the hood.
"Maybe we shouldn't play Russian Roulette with him, Myka."
"I'm not here to play any game with him. We're here for the bag and that's it."
"I'm afraid that's not up to you. My master wants the bag and he's going to get it," The smile appeared again like the Cheshire Cat's from Alice in Wonderland, "And if I have to tear off the pretty little head of yours, I will." The Tesla flies out of her hands, crashing into the wall and skidding along the concrete floor. I clench my teeth and whip out my gun, firing two bullets into both of his legs. He collapses, growling and cursing me with every name in the book.
"You didn't have to shoot him," Myka announces, giving me a strange but thankful glance.
"Yeah. I know." I stuff my gun back into the holster and reach down to grab the artifact. A fist slams into my abdomen, hard, and I wish I had taken that body-building class at the Y so it wouldn't hurt so much. Rolling onto the ground and sucking oxygen back into my lungs, my hand reaches out for Myka's Tesla a couple inches away from me.
"Pete, look out!" My partner shouts from above before the man sends her crashing into me with his telekinetic power. We slide along the concrete, her arms latched around my back and my hands holding onto her, so she won't fall off the edge of the catwalk. Or that's the reason I tell myself, at least. In the back of my mind, one tiny thought shouts how I just want to touch her and be close to her. Pushing back the thought, I turn to see what we're going to crash into. There, at the end of the hallway, swirling and crackling, is a supermassive black hole- and not the lyrical type.
"Myka, hold on," I tell her as the cloaked man pushes us closer and closer to the vortex. I will not lose a partner. I will not lose Myka. Reaching out, I grasp for anything that could help stop us from meeting the depths of the universe. Finally, my fingers catch onto a doorway that luckily isn't rotted enough to crack underneath our pressure and weight. The man increases his power and I feel as if my spine is going to snap underneath the wave of telekinetic energy. Myka's arms wrapped around me, I search for my gun and bring it up- this time I aimed for his shoulder, sure it would give us time to- the doorway I'm holding onto to for dear life gives way, finally. Shifting quickly, I wrap the bend of my elbow around the healthy part of the entrance. My movement is so sudden; I don't have time to remind Myka to grip tighter. Her arms rip away from my sides, her cry piercing my inner conscious.
"PETE!" My hand tightens around her wrist- the only part of her I managed to catch- and I'm pulling her closer and closer so she can be safe. Her eyes catch mine, squinting against the waves of power rushing through and around us. "Let me go." She's trying to be harsh, to be her normal commanding self but is failing miserably. I wonder if the look on my face is causing her hardass persona to falter. Still, she twists her hand in mine and I can hear myself shouting at her, but I don't know what I'm saying. The laughter from the man mixes with my attempts of saving her life. "I won't lose another partner, Pete." Her hand is torn from mine and I desperately reach out, hoping this final grasp will bring her back to me. It doesn't. I watch my partner, the woman I've eyed from up close and afar, fall away into the black hole. On instinct, I release my grip and head after Myka. By the time I reach the vortex, it evaporates and I smash head-first into the wall behind it. The cloaked man disappears- bag in hand- from sight as my vision grows blurry.
Body meets cement. Anger meets regret. I meet guilt. I can't get her scream out of my head. I collapse into a heap upon the floor.
I've never lost a partner. Sure, some of them have died, but even that gives me some sort of closure. They died for their country, their family, their pet cat. This… this was the never-knowing. Never knowing if she would come back, if she was alive wherever the hell that creep had taken her. Never knowing if she needed my help. If she was calling out my name every few minutes and after a while, her voice remained silent, because she knew I could never save her. Even though she is the one who sacrificed herself for me, I remind myself every time I peek into this room that it's my fault.
The cruelest prison is the one we build for ourselves out of fear and regret. I've considered switching jobs, but I can't imagine not working here, at the warehouse. If Myka ever does resurface and I happen to cross her mind one day, I want her to know that I will be here. That I'm not easy to lose track of. I want her to know that she can come home. The room grows cold and I know it's time. Picking myself up off her bed, I stumble back out into the warehouse. The iron door slams shut behind me and I press my ear to it, listening to the whir of the machine as it tucks Myka's possessions away for safe keeping until she returns. Shrugging on my jacket, I head down the long corridor and feel as if I'm fading from sight underneath the harsh fluorescent lighting. I once thought love was supposed to be nothing but bliss. I now know it is also worry and grief, hope and trust. It is also loss and gain, leaving and returning. Normally, these thoughts cause shivers and my body freezes. Right now, though, it's toasty.
AN: Well. It's not exactly the way I wanted it to be, because I saw it a bit different, but this is how it came out. Trust me, this won't be my last Warehouse 13 fanfic! The next one might be a bit… cheerier, though.