Disclaimer: I own nothing. Warehouse 13 and its characters belong to SyFy, NBCUniversal, etc.
Author's Note: This is it! Thank you all so much for reading.
It happens all at once – a tingling sensation quickly becoming a shot of pain (glorious, beautiful pain).
Pete's hand is on her calf, guiding her legs gently under the blankets for the night, and Myka relishes the sensation of his callused fingers, his careful grip, all because she can. And before she can say anything, or do anything to stop it, there are tears in her eyes.
"You all right?" Pete asks, full of concern, and rubs his thumb over her skin.
"Your hand," she replies, and wipes at her eyes, "I can feel it."
A multitude of expressions flicker over Pete's face, before he settles on a smile, and soon they're both laughing because there are no words suitable for a moment such as this. She isn't sure how it happens, but suddenly her fingers are tangled up in his hair and he's kissing her. She tastes the mirth and pure joy on his tongue and smiles against his mouth.
There's a silent question in his eyes, when he pulls away to look at her, and she nods, because there are still no words for the happiness bubbling over between them.
And maybe she needs this – some inseverable connection to another person (to him, because it's Pete, and maybe, by some twist of fate, it was always meant to be Pete). Her heart melts at how gentle he is, how carefully he works her shirt past her freshly changed dressings and over her head. This is not nearly as weird as she'd feared it would be, no bumbling or awkward laughter, just her body yielding to his as if this were the thousandth time.
She revels in every touch, every sensation, and smiles into his skin as she feels her toes curl into the bedsheets.
"Wow," says Pete, trailing his fingertips over Myka's arm.
She feels there should be some more eloquent way to express that sentiment, but comes up with little better, and hums a little, "Mhm," instead.
Her legs ache, nerves finally waking, one by one, but she manages to stroke her foot along Pete's calf, and the freedom in this action is almost overwhelming. She nestles her head further into the crook of his neck and sighs. She's thought about these moments (plural, because she hadn't thought both life altering events would happen at once), for nearly a week now, and she's just now realizing that she hadn't thought any farther than this.
"We should probably call Dr. Vanessa," Pete says finally, but shows no sign of moving. "Or get you checked out at the hospital."
Myka sighs in annoyance. "Do you really have to do that?"
"What?" But he knows what – she knows him better than that.
"Kill the mood like that," she says, and curls a little closer, because suddenly the tables are turned and she's not sure how to be the emotional one, or how to deal with a pragmatic Pete.
"Myks," he says, his voice taking on a softer yet more serious tone. "That … what just happened … we should ..." He sighs. "I don't know what to say."
"Why do we have to say anything?" she counters, and props herself up on an elbow to look at him. "I mean, what is there to say?" She's almost laughing again, endorphins still coursing through her veins, filling her to the brim with energy, but she knows her evasion is deeper than that. There's a dull sort of terror that fills her, sobriety hitting her with the weight of what has just transpired between them, and she'd much rather stay sated and content in this moment.
And perhaps he realizes that, because his response is to pull her back into his arms, and brush a chaste kiss against her forehead. "Thank you," he whispers, and she's sure now that he needed this too. Their bond will always be unique, a friendship running deeper than most marriages, and perhaps this is a logical progression for them. Or perhaps not. All she's really certain of is that, in this moment, she's right where she's meant to be.
Vanessa wakes in a strange room with perhaps the worst hangover she's ever had. It appears to be a sparse hotel room. The beds are perfectly made and she's lying in an unforgiving heap on the floor. She pinches the bridge of her nose in an attempt to gain some semblance of focus, but her senses are on overdrive. She checks her phone, looking for a clue as to what's going on, and squints against its offending light.
Fifteen missed calls.
But more disturbing is the date. She's never been one to forget the day, much less the day of the week, and if she's right, she's lost an entire day. It takes every ounce of effort to drag herself to her feet and dial Artie's number. An automated voice answers her, "We are unable to reach the number you have dialed at this time. Please call-"
She smells the lingering scent of fudge, and knows that whatever has happened cannot be good.
Claudia Donovan is the hacker of all hackers, and she knows it. Her digital blockades are unsurpassed, making her laptop more secure than Fort Knox. That's why when a cackling skull-and-crossbones pops up on her screen, it takes her almost a full moment to realize she's been hacked.
And hacked good.
Her fingers race through cyberspace, confident that this infarction can be remedied.
"My cell phone's been disconnected!" Artie grouses from across the room.
She thinks she has it. Just a few more redirects …
Artie's voice takes on a grave tone, low and serious. "The Farnsworth's frequency has been blocked."
Claudia's screen turns to black.
"They're coming for Pete and Myka," Artie says, but Claudia already knows, "and they have no idea."
They talk through the night – about their families, their losses, life – and yet neither dares to speak of what's passed between them. It isn't awkward; after all, this is not the first time they've been naked in bed together, and the closeness of the narrow mattress offers them a sort of emotional intimacy.
"I'm sorry I left," Myka says finally. Though she's told him a thousand times before, it's never seemed sufficient, not accurately portraying the deep regret she still harbors.
"I know," Pete replies. "But I forgave you. You know that, right?"
"Maybe," she says, "I just need to forgive myself."
And maybe, she thinks, this has been the tension lingering between them for so long. They've addressed it time and time again, apologized and forgiven, and yet it's never been enough. Maybe they needed this – the destruction, the loss – to rebuild the fragile tendrils of their friendship, to forge it anew through fire and brimstone, because she feels the guilt wash away when Pete smiles at her.
But then his smile fades.
"You okay?" she asks.
"I have a really bad feeling," he says, and rushes out of bed. He tugs on his pants and boxers, and doesn't even bother to crack a joke when he tosses her his shirt and her underwear.
"What's wrong?" she tries again, and struggles to pull on her clothes beneath the covers. Pete scoops her up in his arms with no warning and gently deposits her on the floor. She opens her mouth to protest, but realizes that she's mostly useless in a fight at the moment, her untested legs still stiff and likely unable to bear any weight. Her stomach churns in frustration, because she knows to try to fight may very well spell death for her partner.
"Stay hidden," he instructs, motioning for her to slide under the bed. He hands her a fully loaded pistol before disappearing through the bedroom door to investigate.
The light is dim as Pete steps carefully out the front door of the cabin, probably as dark as it will get tonight. Their accommodations have offered them an unparalleled view, secluded in the Alaskan wilderness. There aren't many opportunities for stealth – an unwanted vehicle would not only stick out visually, but would likely be heard over the sounds of the forest. The nearest cabin is nearly a mile away, and he still only finds their rental situated on the narrow gravel road. But he doesn't expect their enemies to be so careless as to bring a vehicle this close.
He hears only silence, the characteristic soundtrack of the forest muted. Never a good sign. He keeps his Tesla at the ready, fully intent on being able to smack these bastards once all is over and done with. He's edging along the corner of the cabin, searching the perimeter when he suddenly has difficulty moving his feet. He looks down to find a bear trap, of all things, stuck on his shoes, and an old brass key at his toe. It's an artifact, he's sure, because instead of slicing through his flesh, the metal has molded around him, leaving him completely unharmed.
"Roosevelt's bear trap."
Pete looks up to find the owner of the voice, and instantly trains his Tesla on the man. "Hold it right there, psycho," he says. "Just because I'm stuck doesn't mean I can't use this."
"Oh, I'm afraid you're mistaken," warns the stranger. "You see that key there? That belonged to Benjamin Franklin. It has the unique ability to drain electric charge. Gave Edison quite the run around, actually."
"Who the hell are you?" Pete counters. He's well dressed, and knowledgeable of artifacts, most likely the rogue Regent they've been looking for - Westcott. What Pete can't understand is why a Regent would turn on the Warehouse like this, condemning them all. He must be trying to rebuild his own collection of artifacts, but to what end? He's like a comic book super villain, Pete thinks, minus the funny costume.
"That doesn't really matter now, does it?" Westcott pulls a gun from his belt and trains it on Pete. "This is what's going to happen: you are going to give me the records you took from the archives, and then you're going to die. Is that clear?"
Pete scoffs, hoping if he plays it cool, Myka may go undetected and make it out of this alive. "If you're just going to kill me anyways, why would I tell you?" That's when he notices the difference in this encounter, and the sickening feeling in his stomach deepens. "Where's your backup anyway?"
"Keeping tabs on my contingency plan," Westcott explains, and holds up a cell phone. Pete squints until he recognizes the faces on the screen – his mother and sister. "That photo was taken from the scope of one of my riflemen approximately two minutes ago. Impressive, no?"
"You bastard," Pete seethes, but knows he must continue to cooperate. For his family's sake.
"So, if I relieve you of that little trap, would you be so kind as to give me those documents?" Westcott smiles, and Pete feels his blood run cold. This plot has been carefully crafted, and any wrong move will cost him dearly. He knows he can't refuse.
Myka hears the muffled voices coming from the front room, hears the fear in Pete's voice, and all she can think is how this can't happen again. She thinks of Sam, of how she couldn't save him, only seconds behind. She thinks of Helena, dying so that she might live, smiling in those last moments. Too many lives have been lost in this fight – basic statistics tell her that she shouldn't be alive right now, and it's almost always because someone else has taken her place.
She remembers Steve, and how he risked everything to keep them all safe; how he paid with his life.
Determination wells within her – she will not let Pete meet the same fate.
"Why are you doing this?" Pete asks, hands clasped firmly behind his head.
"The Warehouse has been in ruins for a lot longer than you might think," Westcott replies, and enters the combination on the safe. "Artifacts wasting away in crates, on shelves, when they could be put to good use. Haven't you seen it? Society is crumbling: hunger, disease, not even to mention the energy crisis. Don't you think we could use these artifacts to help mankind?"
"Dude," Pete balks. "You're a Regent. You should know that artifacts always have side effects. You're off your rocker, man."
The safe clicks open. "I had a feeling we might not see eye to eye." Westcott begins to pack away the contents of the safe. "That's fine, though. Makes tying up loose ends much easier."
"Okay," Pete says, swallowing the sickening feeling that creeps up his throat. "You've got what you want. Call your sniper off." He's doing what he can to stand as a physical barrier between the man and the bedroom, as if this one last line of defense could spare Myka the fate he's already accepted. He only hopes this doesn't look as conspicuous as he feels.
"Not so fast," replies Westcott. "There's one thing missing here."
Pete frowns, because as far as he's aware, the safe contained every record they were responsible for. "No, that's everything." But he does not dare to invite the man to search the cabin, because he knows Myka has had little time to escape.
"What about your partner?" Westcott asks with a grin, raising his gun once more. "My intel says that she should be here with you. Frankly, I'm a little surprised she survived."
A gunshot, and Westcott drops his weapon, clutching his injured shoulder. Pete doesn't hesitate, years of military and secret service training springing him into action instantly, and retrieves the fallen gun, using it to clock the other man in the head. Westcott falls to the ground, out cold. And when Pete's finished checking the man's pulse, he looks up to find the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
Myka is in the bathroom doorway, wearing no more than her underwear and a too-big T-shirt, pistol in hand, smiling. And though her legs are trembling, and she looks as if she may collapse at any moment, she's standing, bracing her weight against the doorjamb.
All Pete can do is smile back, because it's over.
Finally, everything's going to be all right.
Weeks pass like days, and soon summer has shifted into autumn, a crisp chill enveloping the world. Healing has begun in the Warehouse, as they rebuild more than walls and stone; everyday there are more smiles, more laughter echoing through the halls of the newly constructed bed-and-breakfast. Their family, once devastated by tragedy and loss, is learning to love again, to trust again. Though the scars will never truly heal, they bear them proudly, a reminder of the cost of their dreams.
Besides, Myka thinks, these are things she would rather never forget.
Some things never change, though, and Pete meets her in front of the hotel with a handful of cookies. "So what's the plan?" he asks before taking a bite.
"The violin went missing right after a charity benefit," she replies. "So I say we start by working our way through the guest list."
"Sounds good," he says, and stuffs the remaining cookies in his jacket pocket for later. "Shall we?"
Things are returning to normal, she thinks, slowly but surely. And there is nothing more normal than chasing artifacts with her best friend at her side.
She smiles at the gentle pressure of his hand at the small of her back as they walk down the streets of Vienna, side by side.