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apparitionism · 4 months ago

Text

Real

Can’t believe tomorrow is a particular Wednesday already; this season has rushed in like the most foolish of fools, and as a result I’m rushing to push out this new holiday story... because I too am a fool. This is set post-series (including the nonexistent season), though not by much, as the first little bit will make clear. It’s kind of all about fallout. And who wants what, and why, and whether they’re willing to work, wait, and do other things that probably start with “w” to get it. Anyway, season’s greetings to all—and to all (including, eventually, Myka and Helena, I promise) a good night.

Real

“She’s back,” Artie announces one autumn night, and before anyone (Myka) can fully register what that might mean...

...she is.

Is, is, is... a distillation of so much of what Myka instantaneously knows again as possibility, as hopes and wishes jolting back to life, as again (still) the only presence that instantly makes Myka aware of herself as a body, one that responds with barely controllable fervor to that presence—that other body.

Artie goes on saying words, “reinstated” and “agent” among them, but the roaring of Myka’s blood drowns them out.

She fears she will spontaneously combust. She would rather spontaneously combust. That would be better than having to consciously keep from spontaneously combusting, in response to Helena existing, to her moving and speaking, in a proximity that Myka should prize but that her body, fervently responding, informs her is completely insufficient.

Myka escapes as soon as she can, to sit in the dark of her room, to sit and process, but her usual, reliable processing processes fail her.

They always have, where Helena is concerned.

All she does is sit, empty but for the replaying of Helena’s entry into the dining room, her stride so sure, her aspect so unlike the dismissive, shrinking shrugs of Boone... that had sent Myka’s soul soaring.

Helena had greeted them all with good humor, her manner and words to everyone so convivial. So convivial, but also: to everyone, and that is what finds clawed purchase in Myka’s heart, here in the dark.

Here in the dark, Myka viciously tells herself that she deserves no special acknowledgment. Why would you?

She also tells herself, This will get easier.

****

In some ways it does. For example, Myka’s shock at, and subsequent need to recover from, each new sight of Helena lessens somewhat. Or maybe it’s that her body becomes accustomed to absorbing the impact.

In others, it profoundly doesn’t.

Case in painful point: one evening when they’re all cleaning up after dinner, Claudia says to Helena, “So can I ask you something?”

“Clearly you can. You just did,” Helena bats back, in play, and envy stabs Myka.

“You’re as bad as Artie,” Claudia groans. “But here goes: are you still seeing that lady?”

Terror appropriates envy’s knife, gashing anew. Myka has not let herself begin to imagine how to get such a question answered, and here Claudia just says it while lowering a stack of dirty plates into the sink.

Helena’s airy reply: “Still the case. Obviously we’re long-distance at the moment.”

Something previously un-knifed in Myka collapses at that “obviously.” Obviously. Obviously. Obviously, the Warehouse return had not entailed a renouncing of Helena’s non-Warehouse connections. As Myka had obviously, she now sees, believed—hoped!—it would.

The depth and breadth of her error sends her to her room again, lightless, wounded, empty, waiting for time to pass until she once again has something to do.

Such as a retrieval with Pete.

The next one of which proceeds well—it’s not a big, dangerous deal, but rather a matter of a sad, not villainous, loner seeking connection via an artifact-compromised comic-book message board. Pete’s his enthusiastic self about the comics of it all, and Myka lets it lull her into a near-trance of this is how it used to be, before everything.

Until they’re on the plane home, when Pete says, “So H.G.’s back.”

“Thanks for the update,” she says, bracing herself, because of course that won’t be all, because that would be too easy.

“And what about that girlfriend?”

“What about her?” Well, that was stupid: asking some reflex question she doesn’t want answered. She braces herself again.

“You think she’s her one?”

That’s worse than she’d imagined. Myka doesn’t want to go anywhere near that Schrödinger-box, for fear that peeking inside would reveal a very dead cat. Would in fact be the deciding factor in that cat’s demise.

After a stretch of silence, Pete says, “Bet she’s not. So what are you gonna do about it?”

What does he mean? Do about the girlfriend not being, or being, Helena’s one? Do about Helena being back in the first place? She would rather avoid nailing that down—another let’s-not-look Schrödinger box.

“I’m going to ignore it,” she says.

“That’s not healthy. I mean, I get it, but it’s not healthy.”

He coughs ostentatiously. Meaningfully? Myka doesn’t know. Can’t tell. Won’t ask. She hates how she feels compelled to leave this cat in limbo too, just so she can shift away from any potential situational consequences.

If only she had resisted the pressure to shift her definition of love.

She tries for resistance now, even though it’s too late: “I’m not going to try to keep her from doing what she wants to do.”

He cocks his head in that exaggerated what-are-you-saying way. “I thought you might though. Try.”

Myka is tempted to demand, “Why would you think that,” but she knows why he would think it, and revisiting that fight is an impossibility. Especially now.

“But you’re not trying,” he says. His tone, though, ratchets down the danger. It’s a relief. “So why not?”

Now Myka’s tempted to give some indignant “I don’t have to justify my behavior to you” answer... and yet. She does owe him more than that. Especially now, having misled him so severely before, she owes him some decent measure of honesty. So she says it as plain as she can: “Because people should do what they want to do.”

“Huh.” He puts on his “thinking” face—the real one, not the cartoon. “But you’re not doing what you want to do.”

“What?” Myka says, playing dismissively dumb. Hoping he’ll give some dumb response.

“You want to stop her doing what she’s doing.” Myka shakes her head at that, trying to pretend it’s dumb, but Pete rolls his eyes. He sees the weakness. How can he be getting her so right in this when he got her so so so wrong before? But then again she’d got herself wrong... “So why wouldn’t you do what you want to do?” he finishes.

Want, want, want. Myka wishes he would quit using the word.

Yes it’s her fault for using it first. Yes she should have shut him down forcefully to begin with. Yes that applies to situations preceding this one.

In any case, wanting is pointless. It literally does not matter: its only product is empty space, a horrific gaping sink, a vacuum as vast as space itself.

So she says, as pedantically as she can, “Because if one person’s wants affect another person’s wants, that’s a different category of... you know what? Never mind.”

“You only ever say ‘never mind’ when you know I’m right.”

“What? I say ‘never mind’ a lot.”

“Which means...” He taps his temple.

“No. No it does not.” But she does smile.

Pete bobs his head as if she’s actually agreed with him, and so they end on a familiar, jokey note. It’s far better than they could have managed some months ago, in the immediate aftermath of their... mistake? Misunderstanding? Mismanagement? Misadventure? Misapprehension?

Stop dictionarying, she tells herself. Despite its being one of her default ways of trying to process confusion, it rarely delivers the clarity she seeks. At any rate, their short-lived whatever-it-was was a mis-everything.

She takes out the book she’s brought with her, H Is for Hawk, so as to fill her head with Heather MacDonald’s solitude rather than her own. She has lately found that overlaying her own thoughts with someone else’s ruminations is quieting, so she’s reading even more than usual... it beats sitting in darkness, waiting. Which she supposes means she should thank Helena (thank her) for her extensive new knowledge: of, here, grief and falconry, but also, the Wright brothers, Joan of Arc, India’s partition, séances in the 1920s, Salem’s witch hunts, various aspects of the Supreme Court...

Erudition must surely outweigh emotionalism Extremity. Enthrallment? Embitterment.

Stop dictionarying.

****

Relentlessly, the holidays approach. Myka tries to ignore them too, particularly their invitation to soften. Unhealthy, Pete’s accusation echoes.

But in speaking to Pete, Myka had lied: she isn’t really ignoring anything Helena-related. In a folder of significant size in her mind, she stores a cascade of spreadsheets in which she tallies and tracks as many of Helena’s movements, statements, interactions as she can, in as much detail as possible: e.g., it wasn’t enough for Myka to get Steve to tell her about his retrievals with Helena—those accounts, while captivating, were incomplete, secondhand—so she has made perverse use of her hard-earned Warehouse database access to read Helena’s actual mission reports, like some pathetic online stalker. They’re literarily significant, she tries to use as additional justification, ignoring the fact that no one other than Warehousers will ever know how or why.

It’s not that she’s hoping to gain insight from any of this; the activity is simply itself. A flat gather of data. For those spreadsheets.

Which she uses, of course, to torture herself, not least for her damning inability to gain insight. Thus proving Pete wrong: it isn’t ignoring things that’s unhealthy. No, it’s paying them attention—stupid, pointless attention—that causes disease.

That’s true, but Myka genuinely does not know how much longer she can suffer making herself sick.

Lovesick, she sometimes thinks... but that makes “love” too prominent in the mix. No, the “sick” is what matters, and it is chronic, not acute. Which means it must be managed rather than cured, and she will manage it, because she has to: because she is an agent and Helena is an agent and they live in the same house and say the same mutually polite “good morning” to each other each day.

Sometimes Myka wisps a wish, in the wake of one of those morningtides whose undertow she cannot reveal, that she could begin to shift her thinking, to try floating above rather than falling under, the better to work her way to commencing the actual ignoring.

But then Helena will talk to Steve about the particulars of his Buddhist practice, or to Claudia about a joint invention project’s feasibility, or to Artie about a disputed wrinkle of history, or even to Pete about, bizarrely yet bizarrely frequently, which menu items should be avoided at fast-food chains... and Myka enters each new datum into the spreadsheets out of avid habit, all while ferally wishing everything different—even, some days, heretically, Helena gone. And while castigating herself for having wished, before, so stupidly inchoately, pleading with the universe to let Helena come back. More: to send Helena back.

How very monkey’s-paw of you, she jeers, to leave out specifics. In particular, to leave out “to me.” Send Helena back to me.

Before Helena came back, Myka was lost; now she’s still lost, but differently. And if there is one thing Myka has never liked—in fact, has always feared—it’s change.

So in truth she can probably suffer making herself sick for quite some time. As long as nothing about the making—or the sickness—changes.

****

The days leading up to Christmas itself are blessedly busy. On the 22nd, Myka and Steve head to West Virginia to bag a problematic coal-miner’s lamp; the work keeps them away until Christmas Eve, and if Myka happens to linger a bit longer at the Warehouse after Steve goes back to the B&B once they’ve deposited the artifact... well, that’s because she’s very conscientious about filing reports in a timely fashion.

In fact, she lingers a lot longer, and she’s happy to arrive home to a mostly silent B&B... however, she is instantly deposited into precisely the sort of situation she’d hoped to avoid: she must walk past Helena, who is in the living room, alone, with the television on. Impossible to slink past undetected, and thus rude to try—particularly once Helena says, “Welcome home.”

How disorienting, for Helena to be here and to say that. Worse, the articulation seems to ring of... before. When Myka was special.

But she is imagining that. She must be.

“What are you watching?” she asks, though she doesn’t need to. Helena is watching the Yule Log.

“A strangely mesmerizing facsimile of a fire,” Helena says, without looking up. “Do I strike you as hypnotized?”

You strike me. Myka’s thought stops there, true as can be. Aloud, she says, “You know what it is, right?”

Now Helena looks up. She blinks at Myka and nods, oddly soft, childlike. “I consulted Google.”

Helena is absurdly fond of Google. Myka struggles to keep from finding this absurdly charming. She struggles similarly with the way in which Helena articulates the word itself—every witnessed occurrence of which is represented in the spreadsheets. so Myka is painfully aware of the way Helena puts a slight formal emphasis on both syllables, such that it sounds, in a capping absurdity, as if she’s saying she consulted Gogol.

Not that acquiring input from a dead Russian writer would necessarily be all that different, absurdity-wise, from having instant access to a towering percentage of the world’s collective knowledge. And Helena probably understands that congruence, if that’s what it is, better than Myka ever could.

Myka knows she’s thinking herself down treacherous paths; she should say goodnight and walk away. But it’s Christmas Eve, and she gives herself a present she shouldn’t want but feels she has earned, earned by ignoring—or, to the contrary, recording—so strenuously. She has done such hard work. So she lets herself ask, “Why are you so focused?”

“Pete gave me a choice: watch the Yule Log or talk to Myka. I believe he thought I would reject the former as unworthy of my attention. Yet here I watch, mesmerized.”

“Since when do you do what Pete tells you?” But thanks, I guess, for letting me know where I stand. She can’t then hold back a jab: “Anyway, shouldn’t you be spending the holiday with the famous Giselle?”

Helena blinks again. This time it’s not at all childlike. “That’s why he wanted me to talk to you. But to answer your previous question: since he told me he’s in love with you.”

He... what? “What?”

“You asked me since when do I do what Pete tells me. I’m answering.”

Keep up, Myka; keep up. “When did he tell you that?”

“This evening. As part of what I fear—or hope?—was intended as a Christmas gift.”

“For you?” That’s not keeping up.

“No.”

“Then for who?” That’s not either.

“Whom.”

“Well, excuse my grammar, but I’m a little weirded out.” This is the most extended conversation she and Helena have had since... before. That’s destabilizing enough to her ability to concentrate on words. but what, exactly, is she supposed to do with these words?

“Weirded out,” Helena says, an unexpected affirmation. “As was I. I wasn’t aware.” She makes a small “huh” noise, as if she has to bridge her way to what’s next. “That the two of you had been involved.”

Oh. Hence the bridge—but this is a shifting surprise. “I thought someone—Claudia—would have told you. Must have told you.” Must have, and that in turn must have contributed, Myka had been sure, to Helena’s lack of engagement. She’s always known your judgment was abysmal, she’d lashed herself, based on those must haves, and this is certainly fuel for that fire.

“Our discussions have been more focused on her future. And my past. And technology, of course.”

“Of course,” Myka says. And then, quick, before she loses her nerve: “It didn’t take.”

“Technology?”

“The involvement.”

“I gathered that from its current status.”

“Right.” The conversation, such as it is, should probably end here... but something is off. “Wait. You said he said he is in love with me.”

“Yes.”

Myka had believed it was over. All over. The idea of having to deal with it, with any aspect of it, in perpetuity, or at least with no clear sundown, preemptively exhausts her. And it rekindles her anger at the entire situation, at its utter pointlessness. “I don’t know what to do with that,” she says. She immediately regrets the admission.

“He said he’ll get over it.”

“Well, that’s something. I guess.” It comes out grudging, and that’s another admission Helena shouldn’t be privy to.

“He said you won’t.”

“What? Get over it? No, the problem was that I wasn’t ever in love. With him.” She’s saying far too much. She supposes it’s fortunate that she’s looking at this repetitively flickery video loop, rather than into Helena’s eyes. She supposes also that said loop is a reasonable metaphor for how her life has been proceeding. Lately. Before, and lately.

“He said that too.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re losing me.”

“Interestingly, he said a version of that as well.”

“That you were losing him?” Not hard to believe; sometimes Pete can barely follow a laser pointer.

Helena focuses her gaze on Myka again, adamantine. “That I was losing you.”

And just like that, Myka is through the looking glass. Trapped like Alice, trying to get out. “Why would you care?” she chokes.

Helena lowers her brow, a stern schoolmarm confronting an intransigent pupil. “Because as I mentioned, he said—and seemed quite certain—that you won’t get over being in love.”

Myka knows now what’s next. Helena is about to say, “With me.” Because once again: that fight.

Oh yes I will. That’s what the ignoring is for. When I work my way around to it, that’s what it’s for.

“I didn’t know,” is what Helena actually says, clearly taking Myka’s silence as affirmation of those unuttered words.

“Oh please. Like I could have been any more obvious.” Obviously. She says it with contempt at herself, past and present: what a pathetic moonstruck puppy.

“At which point?” Helena asks.

That’s a surprisingly troubling question. Timelines. Decisions. What did you know and when did you know it? What did you show and when did you show it?

“All I knew was how you responded. Not how you felt.”

Of course the former was all Myka herself had known, certainly at first, and their consonance surprises her. If only she could share that consonance, and her surprise in it, with Helena... but that seems too much like a reward, one that neither she nor Helena deserves. Again exhaustion: at their lack of merit. “I don’t want to play these games,” she says.

“Then don’t.” Was that a shrug? Did Helena really shrug?

“Fine. I won’t.” It’s childish, yet it feels like the best end she can manage tonight. You didn’t seek this out, she assures herself as she takes a first step away.

Before she can seal the escape with her second step, Helena says, “You might at least release me from this view.”

“You talked to me,” Myka says, doing her best to make it all go away. “You’re free.”

Helena turns from the flames too quickly for Myka to dodge being caught by the look. “I am in no way free.”

That is not my problem, Myka would like to maintain, but Helena’s gaze and tone are implicating, which is entirely unfair but still needs to be dealt with. She sits down next to Helena on the sofa. At a judicious distance.

Now they are both watching the Yule Log, which, indifferent to them both, continues its facsimile flicker. “I guess it is kind of mesmerizing,” Myka says after some time.

“We haven’t spoken much,” Helena rejoins.

“There hasn’t been much to speak about.” Without peril, Myka adds, internally, and by that she means, peril to me.

“On the contrary. But I’ve tried to ignore it.”

“So have I. I hear it’s unhealthy.”

“Perhaps. It’s Pete’s strategy as well, according to him,” Helena says. Then, following a throat-clear, “With regard to his feelings for you.”

Myka doesn’t need to clear her throat. “He’s the one who told me it was unhealthy.” Which puts her in mind of his ostentatious cough: it’s meaningful now. Ridiculous, but meaningful.

“Then I suppose we’re ailing, all of us.”

“I suppose we are. An epidemic of ignorance.”

Helena smiles a little at that. Myka can’t help but smile back, and she maintains it as Helena asks, light, “What is the prognosis?”

“Depends on the ignoring’s end result,” Myka temporizes.

“Pete maintains that ignoring something long enough makes it go away.”

Or it kills you, Myka might say, like cancer. But instead she stays light. As light as she can. “Maybe he’s right. No, probably he’s right.” She owes him that.

Now a pause. A wait. What’s next? “So is that where we leave it?” Helena asks.

Maybe it goes away. Maybe that’s what’s next.

Myka can see it, now: see the spreadsheets dissolving into unnecessarity, see herself not responding physically to Helena, see Helena becoming, in essence, like Pete: someone with a past version of whom a past version of herself made a mistake.

She hadn’t imagined, not before this minute, that it was possible. But now a road leads there.

Can she take that road? She looks again into the fire. The not-fire. It mocks her: Everything you really want turns out to be unreal. On the other side of some facsimilating screen. A mirage. She turns away from it, ashamed. She looks at Helena... for the moment, Helena is still real. Still able to render Myka’s resistance from her body, here in this moment by sitting quietly and watching fake flames, in the next by doing nothing more than breathing out, breathing in.

Myka has not yet taken that awful road. Not yet. One more try, she tells herself. But no, that’s not right. She’s never really tried. Never really. She’s waited—longer than she thought she should—and she’s hoped—harder than she thought she could—but that wasn’t trying.

So: one try.

It can’t be the try she might have made in the past, a desperate just-please-touch-me push. Under the circumstances, that’s impossible. So, what?

An olive branch? No, peace isn’t the right aim, even now.

Better, perhaps: something she wouldn’t have said before tonight’s... encounter. Something related to tonight’s encounter, something more real than she’s offered so far: “We fought. Pete and I.”

TBC

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #Real #holiday (but not Gift Exchange)#sometimes I ideate Myka as just so very tired #of all the things but especially Helena-pressure #and how much more difficult she makes everything #particularly when there seems to be no compensation for withstanding that pressure #but hey Myka #it’s Christmas #so maybe some consolation will be coming your way #if you can wend through the conversational thicket

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