There I was, innocently minding my own business in a country full of polar bears and moose hide bikinis, when a wormhole appeared and sucked me into tumblr. Now I've fallen into Bering and Wells and I can't get up.
Warehouse 13, Lost Girl, Defiance, Castle, Star Trek, et al.This blog also features random bursts of tv-shows, movies, books, quotes, and photography that I like.
[Disclaimer: I blame this entire blog on Jaime Murray and Joanne Kelly.]
"I just— I have a, uh…I have a thing to do.”
Myka hoped, all while she bit back weeks of pent-up tears and drove away from her partner, from the warehouse, from her family, she really hoped that just this once the cosmos, determined though it had been to make every success in her life the result of only the most concerted effort and resolve, would play nice.
And if this really was the end for her, or something like it, she was going to do it her way. The other shoe could drop only after she’d finished this thing. Her thing. The thing she had to do.
She had the plane ticket. The ring. The intentions. The last little spark of courage that sapped what little energy she had left in her these days. She was exhausted and in increasingly-excruciating pain and had already sworn up and down to Pete that she would, in fact, go through with the surgery, but she was finally ready.
And she would be damned if the cosmos had other plans.
The merger had been tricky, and potentially costly, and there had been so many pitfalls to consider. Like a chess game, the pieces moved across the board in turns and patterns, each manipulated according to a strategy by an opponent that Helena knew she could beat.
This was what she lived for. She lived for the thrill of the victory now, and the reputation that followed her was something she was perfectly fine with. Cunning. Ruthless. Exacting.
ALL OUR OWN ⇀ part five
James is devising a plan against Sykes for the three of them. Helena has told him many times that they should start to make their way back to the Cornucopia, where Sykes and his allies are, but her counterpart refuses, saying that everything will fall into place with this plan.
Problem is, she wants to know what it is.
a bering and wells au set in the hunger games
trigger warnings: strong descriptions of violence
I just read this fic and…found it highly disturbing but well written. It’s set after Myka’s funeral, HG comes back and Claudia unleashes her anger. Completely heartbreaking. If you want a punch in the gut, go read. Warning for explicit language and a sex scene that has very little to do with sex and a lot to do with pain.
Porn ahoy (Although its Pirates so they’ve gotten into a bit of a scrape…literally)
Snow white against cream, deepest black and blood red; Helena is a masterwork in vivid shades, a vision that Renaissance painters would have sold their soul (and some did) to capture.
It takes almost five minutes for HG to stop ranting in British and then another five for their daughter to look up from her seat in what Myka has internally dubbed “the naughty corner”. When she does, she looks at both her mothers in turn, eyes swimming with aggrieved tears.
"You said you’d take me - you both promised - and then you forgot and I just wanted - "
"It’s hard to imagine what you could have wanted so much that made you go all the way across town on your own to the library - you’re seven years old!” HG spits, planting her hands onto her hips.
"It was because of you,” their daughter asserts, lip trembling, “because I found out who you were, mom, so I went to the library to look for you.”
Myka should have known better. No Defense Against the Dark Arts professor ever lasted more than a year.
She knew H.G. Wells’ story before she ever met the woman - the writer whose only daughter was killed by Death Eaters because Wells had the audacity to denounce Voldemort by name. She had turned to to the Order after her daughter’s death, fighting with a ferocity that had more than matched her enemies’, then disappeared into the Muggle world after Voldemort’s downfall. Myka should have known that when H.G. Wells returned to Hogwarts it was not to rejoin the Wizarding world, that the pain ran too deep for that.
She should have known, but she didn’t.. When Helena (Prof. Wells then, not Helena, not yet) had ordered her class’ texts from Bering & Sons, Myka had sent her a note of thanks. A professional courtesy. It was hard to compete with Flourish & Blotts, and even if texts weren’t her main business, Muggle novels and rare editions of Hogwarts: A History didn’t exactly rake in the galleons.
And then the author herself had come to visit.. And what started as a professional courtesy turned into tea and debates of magic versus science and laughter over Jules’ Verne thwarted attempts to join the staff at Hogwarts. The conversation had faded into comfortable quiet as the sky outside darkened and Myka became transfixed by how the store’s candlelight flickered on Helena’s creamy skin.
(“What are you looking at?” Professor Wells’ voice was quiet, but Myka still jumped a bit as the silence was interrupted. And then hoped the darkness would cover the flush she could feel spreading over her face.
“I’m realizing you look pretty spry for a centenarian. How do you do it?” Myka nearly sighed with relief when her words were light as she intended and didn’t betray her embarrassment.
Wells laughed, a hand pushing back dark hair that immediately fell back into place. “It’s magic, darling.”)
Adjusting to death takes time. Rationally, Helena had known it would. Myka had not lied to her nor misled her and though she was the youngest fledge, she was not alone as she entered her knew…life. But time moves differently when you no longer see the sun, when your cells no longer age and an ancient magic carried in your blood ties you to a lineage thousands of years old, stretching back into the darkness of the world, written in claret and the ebony of eternal night.
Myka turns around in front of the mirror, fingers clutching at her skin in an effort to see the indentations and reddened patches that are just beneath her ribcage.
"Helena, seriously," she groans, catching sight of the marks in the mirror, “look at it!"
"Oh, I am, darling,” Helena drawls as…
She drove. And drove. Ignoring road signs and the incessant beeping of her phone as Nate sent one text after another. She drove past towns and dairy farms, campground entrances and little-known and even less-visited historic sites. She drove as heedless of direction or destination as she once was fixated on an all-consuming goal at Yellowstone.
The sun drifted down toward the horizon, and Helena’s instinct to find imagery and metaphor could only lead to thoughts of Myka. The phone call from Pete had been short, though he was no longer terse out of distrust or dislike. His voice broke as he said the word, and the last false layer hiding Helena George Wells from the world cracked.
You might notice some bruising, the doctor had said, from across his oak desk the afternoon immediately following The Phone Call, while her gaze had flitted from the oncologist’s hallowed wall of achievements to a dove that was perched on the sill in the window behind the white coat. Or was it a pigeon? She couldn’t remember. Weren’t they the same genus? Did it matter? Did any of it?
…bruising which will be due to the chemo. Your capillaries will leak more easily, so don’t be startled if you start seeing some discoloration not long after the infusions. In areas where your skin is thinner, around your eyes, for example, the bruising may be much more noticeable.
“Tea bags?” Myka asked quietly, indicating the box Helena had clasped in her lap.
From her place in the chair beside Myka’s hospital bed, Helena nodded. “Chamomile. For under your eyes. Its anti-inflammatory properties should reduce—”
Myka looked away, towards the window, and Helena quieted.
She contented herself with watching the unsteady rising and falling of Myka’s chest and counted them in her head against the ticking from the clock on the wall. Myka’s breathing was harder these days, as if her lungs weren’t as deep as they used to be. Helena had read every piece of medical literature she could get her hands on, made it her duty to know everything she could, and judging by breaths per minute, she was willing to estimate that Myka’s anemia had slipped into the moderate category by now. Getting enough oxygen—such an astonishingly simple task—was a challenge, an obstacle for a woman who, not even a few weeks ago, was chasing down the mysteries of endless wonder and putting her life on the line all in the name of saving the world.
Add that to the crumbling self-esteem that Helena was witnessing in Myka since the bruises had begun appearing, and Helena found herself wishing more and more that she had her own laboratory again. She hated this, this feeling of utter…uselessness. When the world got too quiet, she could still hear Myka’s distant screams from the shower, one afternoon last week at the bed and breakfast, after she’d discovered inexplicably massive bruises on her legs. It was one sound she wished, above all things, to forget. Helena longed take it—the pain, the anger, the horror, the grief—away.
“It’s not nice to stare,” Myka murmured, sadness evident in her voice. “If Pete could see me now—”
“—he would likely suggest you resemble a panda, and would’ve brought you bamboo from the gift shop downstairs,” Helena finished, quirking a tiny smile. “Forgive me, but these tea bags might serve a more…pragmatic purpose.”
“You are, and will always be, beautiful to me, Myka,” Helena said, placing the box of chamomile in her seat and moving to a spot on the bed. The afternoon sunlight, warm and radiant, glinted off of Myka’s loose curls.
Myka licked her lips, which were chapped from perpetual dehydration, and finally looked back at Helena. “You mean it?”
“Of course, darling. Beauty,” she said, as Myka finally offered a small smile, “is in the heart of the beholder.”
A gift for Race. Because.
Over many years living many lives, Helena Wells had learned to embrace the quiet solitude of night.
In the harsh sunshine of the Manhattan summer, new to the city and filled with the joy and terror of finally being free to do as she wished, she found that people stared at her. Perhaps it was her beauty – regal and dignified yet entirely unique, a series of qualities that were useful as an actress. Perhaps it was her indomitable personality, as if wit and intelligence could sparkle in the sunlight like diamonds. Whatever it was that drew the people of New York City to her, she had learned long before her arrival to keep her true self hidden from everyone, and to wear a series of masks in public for her own protection. She named that persona “Emily Lake.”
At night, however, the people drew into themselves, or their friends, or their lovers. The sun was set, and nothing in the city shimmered the way it could during the day. The night was when pretense could be dropped and artificial things were revealed with bright colors and sharp contrast. Nighttime in the city was when truths were revealed.
In the time after Christina’s death, before Helena Wells met Myka Bering, night was the only time that Helena could feel anything real. She hid her grief during the day, for no one knew Emily Lake ever had a child. Left alone in her solemn penthouse, tucked away with the memories and regrets, the pain had washed over her, receded, and then crashed into her anew like a churning tide.
At night, she could allow herself to be angry, and guilty, and so very, very lonely. She could feel all those things deeply, and they all made her feel alive.
Myka had changed the nature of her nights without effort, and slipped into her life as if she was meant to be there all along. Now, with the benefit of time and experience, Helena believed there was a very simple explanation for that.
Nothing in Helena’s life had ever been as simple as the love she shared with Myka Bering. Their love was her truth.
When the night ceased to be her refuge, it was the only thing she had left to cling to.
a prompt finally fulfilled. thank you mood rings.
Myka POV; drabble; somewhere in a better S4; sappy-ish stuff…
She asked you to be brave – all golden-green day in her holographic eyes – and so you swore that you’d live up to that request if she could do the same.
And so you did; you let her go, a coin upon stone, and you walked away.
And so she did; head tilted up to the sky, a mirage of the woman you fell in love with – ‘in love with’, god those words hurt and haunt you still – and she disappeared.
Title: Against All Odds
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Pairing: Bering and Wells
Word Count: 14,899
Disclaimer: Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what…
You want to know what I think, Miss Redlance? I think that you’re a fucking amazing writer and that everyone should read this fic at once. Your words made me cry, really cry, for different reasons in various places, and you’ve captured the wonder of being close to someone you love for the first time PERFECTLY.