huge thank you to Kristen and Spockette for the beta help!

Left Alive

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches

On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
The Beatles – Two of Us

They had said to pack light. That what she needed would be shipped to her and the rest of Emily Lake's things would be placed in a secure storage facility until such a time as she desired them again. Helena Wells did not trust the Regents, however, and was packing and shipping her library on her own. Book after precious book that had been rescued from the ruined archives of Warehouse 12 and brought across the Atlantic to her temporary home went into the boxes at her feet. They were all addressed to the same destination: K39zzz, North American Grid. Stokes County, South Dakota.

Univille. The Warehouse. Home.

In her life, she had called many places home, with some residences being far more fleeting than others. This place, with its wide open second floor, peeling paint and faded wallpaper, would always hold happy memories for Helena, but she did not think that it would ever be home. Home required something that she could not give this place; a sense of belonging that she did not bother to nurture. If she'd nurtured it, it would mean that she was resigned to live in America, in Wyoming, for the rest of her (already entirely too unnatural) life.

She refused to give up that easily, and she was pretty sure that the Regents had never actually intended to leave her here for all that long. There had been other things for them to deal with when she'd lost control at Warehouse 2. Benedict Valda had to be replaced, and soon another Regent mysteriously vanished. Myka had filled her in on the details that she, herself, had just barely been able to parse together from the two brief encounters she had had with Adwin Kosan since returning to this place.

He'd pulled them apart ruthlessly, cruelly, because that was his job. It was his decision to make, and he had ruled in favor of removing her from the situation. As much as Helena hated his decision, she respected him for it. It couldn't have been easy.

She had no idea how long she had been gone. Pete, when he'd spoken of that time, had implied that it had been days, when Myka had mentioned only minutes. Time was a fickle enough thing without an artifact mucking it up, Helena knew that. The way that time had passed for each of them had not been linear. Helena wished she could remember what it was like to be dead, but the memories would not come. Her mind, it seemed, did not want her to recall such an event.

Book after book went into the box and Helena sighed, thinking of the life that she'd had here. It had been good, for the most part. A stopping point and a chance to breathe, calm down, and finally see the world for what it truly was - something she had sorely needed.

She rather liked teaching. Youth of this futuristic time were, despite what she had hoped, not at all as intelligent and engaged as Claudia Donovan. Most were sucked into the television or their mobile telephones and social networking, completely distracted from the outside world. They did not read, they barely were articulate, and they could certainly not write at all. Their usage and diction was so abysmal that Helena had spent the first three weeks after she'd miraculously come back to life and had been returned to Emily Lake's ghastly apartment teaching basic grammar and punctuation.

They'd lied for her, then, explained her disappearance as memories from before her accident suddenly returning. She knew that Myka and Pete had used their credentials as American Secret Service agents to explain her sudden accent and penchant for British spellings. The latter, it turned out, had been unnecessary, as her students pointed out to her that she'd always spelled certain words in certain ways that were not at all American.

The story had come easily after that. She was Emily Lake, born in London, educated in England, college in the US. She participated in Teach For America for a few years before she finally settled in a town some hours north of where she now lived. There had been a car accident, and her memories had been compromised. Somehow, and Helena didn't pretend to know how, the US Secret Service had gotten involved in her case and had decided that rather that send her back to Emily's hometown, they would set her up in Cheyenne so they could better keep an eye on her.

Her students never failed to inject her life with wonder. They realized how limited her pop culture exposure was and had decided to educate her. Claudia had done this, as well, face etched with mock horror as she handed over a well-thumbed copy of Dune that first night at Leena's home. It had been followed by George Orwell, Arthur C. Clarke, Ray Bradbury, anything Claudia felt that Helena should read was left in innocuous little piles outside her bedroom door until it had all gone so very wrong.

Now her students loaned her movies, television shows that made her laugh and some that made her cry. She had one hundred years of music to catch up on, and an entire century of strife. When she'd expressed interest in 'classic' film, her students had brought in copies of Citizen Kane and The Sheik, and she'd taken them and put on a brave face when she'd had to hotwire her television to play them. Apparently, not everything was digitally on disk, despite what Claudia had led her to believe.

So much of her interaction with her students seemed disingenuous, each lie more elaborate than the next one. Charles had always told her she was a better actress than most. She was personable, he had said, and possessed an unrivaled and biting wit. She'd hated him for so many reasons, but he'd always supported her want to be something more than she was. Before she'd gone into the bronzer, she had written down every idea she'd ever had for a story, left her notes where he'd find them. It was the least she could do.

He'd kept writing, using her name, adding to her glory. They were a family of wordsmiths, that much was obvious from the start. It was strange to pick up a book bearing her name and read it, not knowing its contents backwards and forwards. Helena had read Charles' adaptation of her vision of utopia time and time again, trying to see her own ideas intermixed with the sorrow that was so clearly written on the page.

The book was dedicated to her.

With a final and decisive thump, the final book fit into the intricate puzzle of packing that she had created in this last box. Helena stepped off the kitchen chair that she had been using as a stepping stool and picked up the roll of packing tape that Dickens had been playing with while she filled the final box.

That had been another thing she had not expected. When Pete had told her that her body was living in Wyoming with a cat, her expression had been appalled. She hated cats. But Dickens, despite everything, had grown on her considerably. He was currently lounging on her pillow next to the half-full suitcase that Helena had yet to finish packing.

She was set to leave tonight, arriving at the Warehouse in the morning after meeting with the Regents and Mrs. Frederic. They had already given her permission to stop by the bed and breakfast to deposit poor Dickens before the meetings. He hated his cat carrier on a good day, and forcing him into it for more than the five hours it took to get back to Univille was cruel and unusual.

Even if he was a cat, and Helena hated cats.

Dickens looked up at her sleepily as she lifted the box and headed for the stairs. "I'm taking these to the post office," she announced, because cats are ridiculous and it's better to tell them where you're going or they'll muck up the place in celebration, thinking you're gone for good.

Truth be told, Helena really did like Dickens. The affection had grown over their months together. He was a good companion, and interacting with a creature that only just barely tolerated her existence was good practice for returning to the Warehouse. She had no doubt that Arthur would still find her lacking and Pete was still struggling with all the horrible things she had done to him. She didn't deserve the forgiveness that he had offered, but she had offered her apologies all the same.

Emily's beat up old Subaru – Helena refused to think of the car as hers - was loaded up with the final box. She had to put it in the passenger's seat, as the back seat and trunk were full. Ten boxes in total. She was grateful that she had been allowed to call Leena ahead of time and make sure that the innkeeper was both alright with Dickens coming along, and willing to accommodate her rather large library. The answer had been yes on both counts, but Leena did not clean litter boxes, except if agents were in the field. Helena had promised her in the most sincere tone she could manage that that would not be an issue.

She still hadn't forgiven Leena, and Helena resolved to try and do that as she started the car and began the drive into town and the UPS store. (Myka had suggested shipping via a non-postal service carrier after an incident at the Univille post office. Helena was a little hazy on the details, but it apparently involved killer robots and a projector. Something right out of her imagination, that much was for certain.) Leena had been the first person she'd seen when she'd come out of the bronze, all kind eyes and a concerned look on her face. Helena would have been alright, had she stayed with Leena, but she was passed off to James MacPherson and his paranoid (and depressingly true) ramblings about a threat to the Warehouse and how she was going to help him make a better world.

Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel as she drove, thinking of how MacPherson had been so afraid that his money pot – the Warehouse - would be destroyed by some faceless villain who wanted revenge for a wrong he perceived the Warehouse had perpetrated upon him. Why he told Helena any of this, she did not know, but he had been right, in the end. And there hadn't been another way.

She'd do it again in a heartbeat. She had to. A world without the one person who could talk her down from her grief was not a world worth living in.

Eleven-thirty on a Friday was not necessarily the best time to be driving across town with a car full of books, but Helena made short work of the trip, staring out into space and sleepily moving through her life just as she always did when she found herself faced an impossible situation.

The books were sent with only a slightly raised eyebrow from the tattooed and pierced counter attendant. Their destination was within driving distance, after all; it seemed that the address itself would have be delivered by a secondary rural supplier, as the main service didn't go that far into the middle of nowhere.

"You alright with that, ma'am?" he asked, leaning forward on the counter as Helena wrote out a check. "I can't guarantee when they'll arrive. Local delivery men aren't exactly a sure thing."

She handed him her driver's license and carefully tore the check from her checkbook, marking in the register how much she was spending to send them. "You'll find that very few things in life are a sure thing," she said with a small smile as he took her money and began to key in her transaction.

The bell on the door behind them jingled and Helena almost heard the delighted intake of breath before the newcomer spoke. She had turned to glance over her shoulder when she saw the shop attendant's eyes narrowing in frustration. "Wish she'd go away," he muttered, punching numbers in faster and slapping the shipping labels onto her boxes at about twice the speed he was going before.

A hand fell onto her shoulder and Helena's hand clenched into a fist as she spun, dropping lower to the ground than she already was and spreading her feet to widen her center of gravity. Almost as quickly as she had gone into an attack, she found her hand relaxing and shoulders stiffening in annoyance. Her eye twitched.

"I thought I told you to stop following me around," she commented as Erica Lancaster grinned at her, her arms full of manila envelopes bearing addresses in several states, from what Helena could see.

The problem, Helena had long-since decided, was that she was required, as Erica's teacher, to be nice to her. When she would have usually long-ago given her the cold shoulder and the best Victorian brush-off she could manage, she actually had to maintain a decent relationship with this girl because it would not do to antagonize a student, or that particular student's father: the school superintendent.

Erica looked slightly crestfallen and Helena wanted to roll her eyes. She didn't understand how the girl could not comprehend that there was nothing between them, and there never would be. She'd spelled it out in clear terms; the girl had even met Myka. There was nothing else that she could do other than to avoid Erica Lancaster at all costs and so far, her track record was abysmal at doing so. "I'm mailing some things for my mom," she said, her tone earnest. "Not stalking you, I promise, Ms. Lake."

"Good, because stalking is a crime," Helena said, accepting her receipt from the counter attendant and tucking it into her wallet. She shoved it back into her pants pocket and fully turned to face Erica. "I told you to forget about me, Erica."

She pursed her lips, suddenly looking all of her eighteen years. Helena remembered being that age, remembered how easily she had fallen in and out of love before Charles finally put a stop to that with the advent of Christina into their lives. Christina had changed them both for the better in so many ways. Helena knew she had been impossibly young, impossibly naive to think that she could handle the heartbreak of a pregnancy before she was twenty. Charles had been there, Charles had seen what had to be done, and had invented a story to keep her away from polite society for the time when she was indisposed. He'd taken responsibility for Christina's presence in her life. A dalliance with a maid, he'd said, and she'd loved him for that. Everyone after that had said that they were both very honorable, looking after an orphan like that.

"I can't do that," Erica hissed, shoving her packages onto the counter and scowling as the attendant began to sort through them. He was moving slowly again, like he was getting a free show and Helena just barely kept the urge to turn and walk out of the door and away from Erica in check.

She didn't know why she stayed, why she kept on with this girl that, as both Pete and Myka had put it, 'couldn't take a hint.' It was a strange relationship that Helena couldn't quite parse out. She wanted to make sure that this girl, this stupid and naïve girl, would be alright in the long run. Helena didn't want to break her heart; she'd done far too much of that recently and she was trying to improve her track record.

"There are things in this world that you could not possibly hope to understand." Helena shook her head and tried to relax, but her shoulders were stock-still and her hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. She still wasn't cured, no, not in the long run. The homicidal impulses that had so plagued her first months in this century might have been somewhat quelled, but when faced with a situation where she could not quite decide if she wanted to act like a madman or like a saint, Helena oftentimes found herself teetering at the precipice. Helena's gaze hardened as she plunged her hands into her pants pockets, trying to look far more nonchalant than her mood and tone would imply. "I do not expect your respect and admiration for me to wane if I tell you that there will be consequences if you meddle in my affairs anymore."

Erica's face fell, eyes blinking away frustration and annoyance before her mouth began to move again. This was where the problem in communication lay. Helena had no idea what more she could say to this girl to make her understand. "Are you threatening me, Ms. Lake?" Her voice shook and Helena fought the urge to throw up her hands and storm off, because that was the last thing she was trying to do. "Do you know who my father is?"

Ah, yes, Emily's employer, the superintendent of schools. That was a good bit of why this situation was so desperate and awful to begin with. Helena did not care for the man, but she was able to hold a civil tongue around him because he was an elected official and could have her job if he wanted to. She hadn't voted for him, though – didn't like his politics.

Still, Mr. Lancaster was just as much a thorn in her side as his daughter was, albeit his presence was far more acutely felt. As Erica's instructor in her favorite subject, she had had some dealings with both Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster, the latter of whom expressed some concern over her daughter's attachment to Emily Lake. Helena did not blame her in the slightest, and had resolved to distance herself as best she could from a student that she had to see three times a week.

"Identity is such a fleeting thing in this day and age." It seemed a decent response, without going too much into how Erica's presence in her life - and the fact that Helena could not just tell her to 'get lost,' as the kids these days were saying - was frustrating. Pete had found the whole situation hilarious, but he had been a little concerned, too, because Erica kept popping up in strange places as if she was following Helena around. Most of the time, it was just happy coincidence, Helena was sure of that, but there were times (at the co-op, at the gas station, here) that it seemed far more planned than anything else. Pete had told her that stalking was indeed a crime and she could report it, and he was absolutely positive that Myka would abuse her authority as a Secret Service agent to make Erica Lancaster's life hell.

(Helena really liked Pete at times, which was disturbing, as she had never intended to like any of them. That had worked out very well for her. Yes.)

She met Erica's eyes steadily, afraid to look away and show weakness. "But yes, I know."

"Then you know you'll ruin yourself from ever getting a job here again if you ignore me and treat me like a problem." There was something incredibly flippant about the way that Erica delivered her threat, like she did not believe that Helena had the audacity to doubt her. Helena hated women like that. They'd been a problem back when she was younger and still learning the ins and outs of a society far more complicated than the American Midwest, but now Erica was just an annoyance that was making Helena long for an upbringing less focused on manners.

Still, her temper was rising and she did not want to make a scene in front of the poor counter clerk who had done a lovely job with her boxes. Helena lowered her head and all but growled, eyes flashing dangerously, "Outside. Now."

There was an alleyway that cut to the parking lot in the back of the building just off to the side. Helena resisted the urge to haul Erica off and down into the alleyway, instead choosing to lean against the sun-warmed brick of the building and fold her arms across her chest. "Little girl…" She honestly did not know where to begin. She was due to leave this place tonight; she supposed that whatever she wanted to say could go. The girl had managed to inject herself into aspects of Helena's private life that she had desperately wanted to keep just that: private.

Myka had come again in May, stopping by for a few days while on her way down to Colorado to see her mother for Mother's Day. They'd been out, getting coffee from a shop that Helena had discovered quite by accident, when Erica had turned up. Helena had missed much of the conversation that Erica had had with Claudia, but she had caught the end, and had introduced Myka as a friend. She had not wanted to hurt the girl's feelings, after all. Erica had reacted in a way that Helena still could not quite understand to this day, taking one look at Myka before storming off in the angry dramatic huff of a teenager not getting her way.

Helena wondered if Christina would have been like that, dramatic and full of wasted potential because she fell in love with the wrong person. She hoped not, but there honestly was no way of knowing. Christina was dead and no amount of vengeance or sadness was going to bring her back. She was finally starting to accept it, to move on.

Erica opened her mouth to speak but Helena cut her off. She would have this last word this time; it was decided and final. "I will burn the bridges that I choose to. You have no bearing on my personal life."

"But…" Erica began.

Helena shook her head sadly. She wanted to be cruel, but the words would not come. All she could be was harsh and hope beyond hope that maybe Erica's young mind would realize that wasting her life away on a person who would never love her in return was a fool's venture. Helena had been there; she understood how it could feel like your heart was breaking every day without an end in sight.

She stepped forward, her hands resting uneasily on Erica's shoulders now. This was the closest that they'd ever been, a gamble on Helena's part. She did not want to aggravate the situation, but it seemed the best way to steer her in the right direction.

(Honestly, she was completely flummoxed by modern teenagers. She certainly had not had that much angst at sixteen.)

"No buts, Erica. You have your whole life to make mistakes. Don't let me be the first of them."

Erica looked up at her with big green eyes so alike and yet vastly different from Myka's eyes. It was jarring, to be so close to someone and not see those eyes, and Helena took as step back. She hated how similar their eyes were. Always had. Erica's question came then, as Helena retreated into the careful shell of aloofness that she'd been brought up to exude so well. "You really love her, don't you?"

Had Helena been American and not English, she probably would have spluttered something much akin to the way that some of her students (Erica included) did when put on the spot. She took a deep and calming breath before replying, wishing that Myka was here to make this situation slightly less mentally trying. "That is absolutely none of your business," she began, eyes flashing dangerously. Erica took a step backwards as she continued, "nor does it have any bearing on this conversation."

"But I-" Erica began, her hands twisting up bits of the t-shirt she wore. "Ms. Lake – Emily…"

Helena stepped forward, her hand coming again to rest on Erica's shoulder. She gave it a reassuring squeeze before stating in the most earnest tone she could manage, "I am going to walk away now, Erica. You will never see me again. Do not let this parting be soured by expectations that I can never satisfy." She stepped back and raised a hand before turning and heading away, her goodbye on her lips before she ever had the chance to regret her actions.

The streets of Cheyenne were largely deserted at this hour as Helena made her way down the street to where she had parked her car (the counter clerk had been nice enough to lend her a hand cart for the boxes). Helena's pace felt sluggish in the heat and she paused, staring up at the sun for a long moment before she finally allowed herself to breathe.

Erica was not following her. She was free.

"You handled that situation remarkably well," the dry (if not slightly amused) voice of Mrs. Frederic intoned from somewhere off to Helena's right. She flinched, shoulders tightening into an uncomfortable knot of muscle before settling her gaze to rest on the Warehouse's caretaker.

"You should not sneak up on people," Helena commented as Mrs. Frederic stepped out into the sunlight and graced her with a rare smile.

She watched as Mrs. Frederic considered this for a long moment before she said, fingers bridged neatly in front of her, "She was a necessary evil of this town, Helena."

Helena shrugged; she wasn't going to go into it. Not with Mrs. Frederic. The whole exercise seemed rather pointless, as Mrs. Frederic had probably witnessed the entire exchange. She stared down the road for a moment, watching the lunchtime traffic. "I suppose you're here to see me off?"

Mrs. Frederic inclined her head and gestured towards Helena's car. "It seemed prudent to offer a hand with the cat. I know how they can be."

Not believing that statement for a second, Helena pulled her keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. She climbed in and leaned across to the passenger's side to unlock it and watched as Mrs. Frederic settled herself into the seat opposite her own. "Also, I needed to speak to you about something else."

"I had assumed," Helena said, starting the car and checking her mirrors. Driving was not entirely a new concept for her, but the cars that she had driven were hardly the modern internal combustion engines and gasoline-powered devices she now was given the opportunity to drive. She'd picked it up quickly; Mr. Kosan had taken her out on some back roads during his first house call (where he'd shown up unannounced and nearly scared Helena half to death, thinking he'd decided to shove her back on the Janus Coin.). He had been a polite and patient teacher, and Helena had been grateful that someone had thought of the fact that it was going to start snowing soon, seeing that she had no idea how to drive in the snow and she certainly could not ride Emily's battered old bicycle to work every day during the winter.

Mrs. Frederick inclined her head. "I will still help you with the cat."

"Thank you," Helena replied. "What brings you to Wyoming, then?"

"Arthur received a rather troubling bit of mail about a month ago." Mrs. Frederic was obviously choosing her words carefully and Helena tried to not appear too annoyed that she was driving and therefore unable to give her full attention to Mrs. Frederic's cryptic and round-about way of speaking. "From James MacPherson."

"He's dead," Helena muttered. It was her fault, after all.

There had been no alternative. She had seen through his plan for what it was; the pieces had fallen into place quite quickly. She'd been disgusted by him, repulsed by what he wanted, how he'd wanted to use her. He'd sent her into the Escher Vault looking for an artifact he could not even name; something to protect him from the poison in his own veins. The stones were not enough, apparently.

He had been a fool to trust her.

"He apparently foresaw his own demise and thought it wise to apprise Arthur of the situation surrounding your reemergence into this world." Mrs. Frederic turned and raised an eyebrow at Helena as she paused at a red light. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"He wanted me to show him how to find Warehouse 2 and use my Imperceptor Vest to retrieve an artifact from the Escher Vault," Helena said quietly. She shifted the car into second and then third, heading out of town and up into the hills towards her home. "He didn't say much else. Just that he was worried about other enemies the Warehouse might have."

"He never mentioned why he wanted you in particular?" Mrs. Frederic sounded a little bit disbelieving, but Helena knew that when she had asked to be bronzed, the records of her tenure at the Warehouse had been mostly destroyed or given over to the Regents for archival purposes, as they were not to be stored at the Warehouse. How James MacPherson had even discovered her identity had always been something of a mystery to Helena. Adwin Kosan and the Regents had had no answers for her and Helena had always been bothered by that fact. How could he have possibly known? He could not have known the plight she had planned to unleash upon the earth, should she ever be presented the chance.

"If you're referring to Sykes, I don't believe that MacPherson knew about him." Helena shrugged. "He never mentioned anyone by name, in any case."

Mrs. Frederic sighed and pulled at the base of her pale green sport coat. It was far too warm to be wearing such stifling clothing, but the woman looked as unflappable as ever. "He did know; that was what he wrote Arthur about. He seemed to think that should you not destroy the world, you would be the solution to saving the Warehouse."

"I am happy he thought so well of me," Helena muttered, turning down her driveway. She tapped her fingers nervously on the steering wheel, fragments of a conversation she'd had one night in a hotel room with MacPherson coming back to her from the haze of her madness. He had told her he thought that some great evil awaited the Warehouse; she'd promised him she'd die before she saw the Warehouse gone.

It was the only home she had now. Woolly was dead, Christina was dead, and Charles was gone, as well. Everyone she'd ever loved was gone from this world, save the one who'd somehow managed to pull her back from that precipice of madness.

"It is one of the great mysteries of this matter, how James MacPherson discovered your identity within the bronze sector," Mrs. Frederic continued, waiting as Helena parked the car. She made no move to get out of the car and Helena sighed. It was going to be one of those sorts of conversations.

She nodded her head, agreeing. She had to. She had no idea how MacPherson had found her records; they were supposed to be sealed and in the Regent's care. "I am inclined to agree with you." Helena bit her lip, brushing her bangs from her eyes before adding, "He did mention he worried that the Warehouse would one day fall. I promised him I'd never let it happen."

"He said as much in his letter." Mrs. Frederic gave Helena searching look. "But no more."

There wasn't anything else to say, really. Helena pursed her lips and sank back into the car's uncomfortable seat. "You think I'm lying to you."

"Your track record would speak to it, yes," Mrs. Frederic commented airily. "But there are ways to ensure that you are telling the truth back at the Warehouse."

"Goody," Helena muttered darkly, taking her keys and getting out of the car. She jammed them into her pocket and did not wait for Mrs. Frederic to join her before trotting up the steps and onto the house's porch. Everything was packed up now; the plants that she and Myka had gotten on her second visit, lovingly tended until they bloomed again and again, had been given away to Helena's landlady. All that remained was the peeling paint and the weathered-looking rocking chairs. They were a stark reminder of what Helena was leaving, what she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to see go.

"Ms. Wells, you are to be reinstated. It works a lot better if everyone knows that they can trust you."

Helena turned then, her hand resting on the door handle, and peered over her shoulder at Mrs. Frederic. "Sometimes I wonder if we're not all pawns in some bigger game," she said, a sigh drawing its way from her lips effortlessly. "I never wanted to wake up, and yet here I am."

"You've redeemed yourself well." Mrs. Frederic raised an eyebrow and Helena opened the door. They both stepped inside and Mrs. Frederic clapped her hands together. "Now, come, let us wrangle your cat."

The process was grueling, but soon Dickens was yowling unhappily in his cat carrier and Helena was checking over her study one last time. Mrs. Frederic had vanished without a word as soon as Dickens was situated, making Helena bristle in annoyance.

Warehouse guardians, she knew, had been doing that particular brand of annoyance for centuries, but it never failed to set Helena on edge. Warehouse 12's guardian had been a particularly nasty old man who liked to appear quite by chance whenever Helena was trying to research how to better improve the weapons that she'd taken off Nikola Tesla at the Chicago World's Fair. Electricity was so new then, and it had been infinitely fun to mess around with, if a bit hair-raising, as poor Woolly had discovered.

Of everyone from her past that she missed - lovers, friends - the ache in her heart when she thought of Woolly was the worst. Christina was a different sort of pain, the kind that Helena had learned to embrace while encased in bronze. She had never had the time to process Woolly's death before she was bronzed, to let her anger at herself over his death consume her as well. She couldn't, it had been too much, and Helena had feared that she'd go mad and get shipped off to some loony farm before she'd had a chance to fix things.

Charles, while she loved him, wouldn't have thought twice about something like that. Social standing was everything to him, and a mad younger sister who had always been a bit, well, odd, simply would not have factored into his plans.

Helena hadn't said goodbye to anyone other than Caturanga, only because he'd been the one to do it. It had been for the best.

Her study was empty, packed neatly into boxes that she was assured (by Mrs. Frederic and others) would be taken care of. Helena moved from room to room of the house, checking under furniture and in cabinets, making sure everything she cared about had been stripped and packed neatly away into the three suitcases now waiting (with a yowling Dickens) by the door.

Goodbyes had never been her strong suit. The words would get caught in her throat and refuse to move from there, trapping Helena with nothing but disappointment. She shifted uncomfortably in the middle of her silent bedroom and sighed. There was nothing for her here anymore.

Mrs. Frederic had left papers on the table – a new license and a US passport – and a badge that was official (unlike the one that she'd taken from Mr. Kosan). Helena set her house keys down on the table and picked up the papers. The passport had a few stamps in it already. It was the one she had used before, from the identity that MacPherson had created for her. Egypt, Russia, France, the UK. All the stamps were there, along with re-entry into the US.

Wells, Helena G., the passport read, and Helena smiled. Identity was a fleeting thing in this day and age, but there was something to be said for a name.

x

The drive was long, and by the time Helena drove past the sign proclaiming that she was now entering what was locally referred to as 'Univille,' she was exhausted. It was nearing midnight.

Helena had never really had much occasion to drive, so the length of the trip took far more out of her than she'd expected. Driving was something that she had once left to Charles, or left to his valet. Or Woolly, but she usually had to take the reins from him because he was slow and methodical in how he directed horses, much like he was in everything else in life, and they had places to be.

She supposed that she was a bit like Myka in that regard.

In the dark, she could not see the turn-off for the Warehouse as she drove by it, but the feeling of contentment that settled over Helena's soul affirmed its presence once again in her mind. So long as the Warehouse stood, they would be invincible.

She would do it again, and again and again, reliving the same day over and over until she got it right. Her students had told her of a film with that same plot, and she'd borrowed it from the library. Groundhog Day, it was called. She'd lived and died so many times that day; Myka never said how many tries it had taken to get it right and Helena hadn't dared ask. She didn't want to know how deep the scars on Myka's soul were; she could see the light reflected there, and it was enough.

Dickens yowled from the passenger seat where she'd strapped his carrier into place. "Shut it," she muttered, signaling on an abandoned road and turning into Leena's driveway.

A feeling of finality settled over Helena then, and she sat in the car for a long moment, staring up at the old house. She hadn't been here since before everything had gone so wrong, and her hands shook just a little bit as she collected her overnight bag (she did not want to appear as though she was ready to settle before she'd officially been extended an invitation to endless wonder) and Dickens.

Myka was waiting at the door for her, leaning against it in the hot summer night, arms wrapped around herself and a smile playing across her face.

She was beautiful in the moonlight.

"Hello, Myka." She felt stupid with a duffle bag slung over her shoulder and a cat carrier clutched in one hand, its precious cargo still voicing his displeasure at the car trip. Helena shifted, pushed the car door closed with her foot, and headed across the gravel driveway.

"Hey," Myka said, stepping forward and taking Dickens from Helena.

The conversation came so easily then. Myka stepped away from the door and Helena stepped inside. Dickens was released from his carrier and he scampered off to explore and Helena just smiled. "Never driven that long before," she commented as she picked up the portable litter box that she'd found at a gas station somewhere along the way. "I had to stop."

Myka inclined her head. "I don't doubt it." She reached out, touching Helena's shoulder. "Did you bring more than that?" she asked, gesturing to Helena's overnight bag.

She flushed, looking down at her shoes and then back up to Myka. Her voice sounded meek when she finally spoke, out of character and disconcerting. "I didn't want to assume."

"I thought…" Myka began, but Helena just looked at her then and Myka closed her mouth and nodded. She understood how tenuous Helena's position at the Warehouse was, even today. They had spoken about how hard it was going to be for her to come back, knowing what had transpired before. She had died to save the Warehouse, but she'd tried to kill them all before that. Myka didn't know if Artie or Pete would ever really forgive Helena for doing that.

In her deepest and most private thoughts, Helena still felt like she deserved to be trapped in 'weird limbo prison,' as Pete had put it once. Life on the Janus Coin had been quite simple, and she was sure that Emily Lake's life had been perfect for her.

But it wasn't with the people she loved, and now she was facing that reality again, and it terrified Helena.

They climbed the stairs of the silent B&B, pausing at the alcove at their apex to set up the portable litter box for Dickens. He would find it; he was a smart cat.

Myka's hand was warm against the Helena's forearm, drawing her out of the darkness of the hallway and into her dimly lit bedroom. Helena had spent hours in this room, curled up in the comfortable armchair while Myka sat on the bed, just talking. Telling stories and filling Myka's mind with half-truths and lies about what her dreams for the future might hold. It was in this room, not in Yellowstone, that Helena had hurt Myka the worst.

All those lies, all that deceit. Helena let her duffle bag fall to the floor and clenched her fist, trying to keep it from shaking. She hadn't been back here since then. They hadn't allowed her a chance at goodbye.

"Are you okay?" Myka asked, her eyes betraying the fact that she knew as well as Helena that no, it was not okay. She stepped forward, reaching around Helena, drawing her in closer, pushing the door shut behind them both.

Helena shook her head, resting her forehead on Myka's shoulder. "Just tired," she said with a sigh.

She glanced up to see the line of Myka's mouth draw thin and felt Myka's fingers tangle in her hair. She didn't say anything when Myka kissed her and pulled her back towards the bed that Helena had never had the courage to sit upon.

They hadn't seen each other in over two months, and as Myka kissed Helena, pushing her into the softness of her bedspread, Helena was glad of that separation. The emotions were too much, even now, and she could feel the tears begin before she had a chance to steel herself against them.

She was a coward, even now. She didn't want to be in the one place she belonged. She was too afraid of what the future might bring, what evils might await them both.

A dry, wrenching sob escaped her lips as Myka pulled away, hair frizzing in the lamplight as she sat back on her heels. Warm fingers trailed down Helena's cheeks, lingering where the tears were falling, brushing them away, smoothing them into nothingness. That was what Myka did to Helena, made her feel so safe and so content that she felt she could finally heal again.

"Don't-" Myka began, but then changed tactics. She shifted, tugging at Helena's t-shirt and pushing at her jeans. "It's too hot to sleep in those," she muttered as Helena opened her mouth to protest and say that she really didn't want to have sex right now.

Given how good Myka was at getting Helena out of her clothes, it surprised Helena to no end that it had taken them so long to say anything to each other about whatever it was that was going on between them. They sat on the bed, facing each other; legs tangled together as Myka reached out, once again, and touched Helena's cheek. "This can't be easy for you."

Helena shook her head, "I… I want it to be, but now they're worried that I somehow knew things that I couldn't possibly have known." She ran a hand through her hair, pulling at it, trying to get it out of her eyes. "I have a meeting at seven tomorrow morning with the Regents. I suspect I'll be given George Washington's hatchet or some other truth-saying artifact."

"Did you know?" Myka's brow was furrowed, but her eyes were bright and trusting. This was just a conversation; Myka would not judge her for what she said. "I mean, about Sykes?"

"All MacPherson said to me was that he worried that he was not the greatest threat to the Warehouse. When I told him of my plans – and I did leave out some detail, mind you – he told me that he didn't think that I was the greatest threat to the Warehouse." Helena frowned. "To be totally honest with you, I did not think much of it at the time." Myka nodded and Helena reached out, touching her face as Myka had, a smile finally playing across her lips. "I missed you, Myka."

"You too, Helena," Myka grinned. "Seven o'clock, you said?" She pulled away and leaned back, hand grabbing the alarm clock on the bedside table. "I usually get up around five, five-thirty, is that enough time for you to get ready and over to wherever you need to be?"

Helena thought about it a moment, but then nodded. The Regents had just told her to go to the Warehouse, and Mrs. Frederic hadn't been more specific than that. She supposed that she could just catch a ride with Myka when she went into work, but again, she did not want to catch herself assuming anything that might not possibly be considered alright yet.

It was nice, settling down into an unfamiliar bed and having it feel far more like home than the bed she had left behind in Wyoming. Myka curled around her, arm flung haphazardly across Helena's stomach, holding Helena as close as could be arranged. It was hot, uncomfortable, and Helena had not been as content in years.

"I love you," Myka murmured, half into the pillow, half into Helena's hair. "'m glad you're back."

Helena started; love had never really been a part of it before. It had always been there, just below the surface. Always known, never said. To say it now, she exhaled. She had had a great many dalliances in her life, but rarely love. Love was hard for Helena; it was all-consuming and distracting. It knew her weaknesses and exploited them. It made her act damn noble and like a foolish girl.

And she was completely and utterly in love with Myka Bering.

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look down at Myka as she nodded. "It's good to be back," she whispered, dipping her head and pressing a kiss to the top of Myka's head. "I love you, too."

As she drifted off to sleep, Helena wondered if maybe this was her destiny after all. She could have grown old, watching Christina blossom into a young woman at the eve of the worst decade imaginable for the world. War had come then, Christina would have loved a soldier; he probably would have died. It was how the game worked; Helena knew it well enough with Christina's father. But here, here in the future, with life so different and yet utterly the same, Helena felt far more content than she had ever felt before.

Christina would have loved Myka. She had known that from the start. It was something, it seemed, that Wells women had in common.

x

The shrill beeping of Myka's alarm cut through the haze of her dream like a knife as Myka made a grumbling noise and shifted to swat it. Helena tried to shove her head further under the pillow she'd been using to muffle the alarm's cries.

"Alarm clocks are probably the worst inventions ever," Helena muttered. "Ghastly things."

"At least you're awake, right?" Myka grinned sleepily at Helena.

"I'd rather the maid do it," Helena commented airily. "They, at least, are usually nice in the morning."

It was strange to wake up next to Myka. They'd only done it on a handful of mornings before this one and it was still unique and new despite that. Myka had explained that relationships such as theirs, surrounded by distance and quiet longing, were growing more and more common place with the advent of the Internet (Helena had witnessed this first hand with Claudia). It still felt strange, however. Like she was somehow out of place for loving someone so desperately that she barely got to see.

All of that was changing now, anyway.

Their morning was unhurried, languid kisses as Myka pulled Helena into the shower after her. A coy grin dancing across Myka's lips that did positively sinful things to Helena's libido as Myka watched her make them tea.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. What had been said was said and nothing would change how Helena felt about Myka. It was strange, how at peace she was with the morning. Pete came downstairs at six-thirty and mumbled a good morning as he filled the coffee pot and hunted through the cupboards, looking for cereal. When he couldn't find any, he took his coffee, grunted sleepily at them both, and wandered into the other room.

"He watches cartoons in the morning," Myka stage-whispered as Helena raised her eyebrow at Pete's retreating back. "And is not a morning person."

Helena had been around long enough to gather that last time, but she nodded her agreement that it was strange for a man of thirty-some-odd years to watch children's television. But she would not judge him too harshly, as she'd found the stuff rather addicting when she'd found herself facing sleepless nights that bled into dawns filled with a quiet about her house that Helena simply could not stand. The happy music and simple dialogue had helped, had reminded Helena of a time when things were easier.

"Pete's gunna bring Claudia in a bit." Myka had collected her keys and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder. "Come on," she said as she drained the rest of her tea, "I'll drive you over there so you don't have to brave Artie alone."

Best be off, then. Helena grimaced and crossed the kitchen to set down her mug in the sink. She followed Myka wordlessly, dread settling into the pit of her stomach. Of all the people connected with the Warehouse who had forgiven her for what she had done, she was about to see the one man who had never relented in his distrust for her. She knew that she deserved it, that she'd killed someone close to him - someone that he'd known for much of his adult life - without so much as a minute of hesitation before she'd let her pen knife cut away those crystals.

She didn't care; she still didn't. If there was one person in this world that she was still angry with, it was James MacPherson. He'd brought her out of the bronze, taught her nothing, and thrown her to the dogs. She had every right to hate him.

Myka drove them to the Warehouse silently, listening to the news on the radio and tapping her fingers in time with the Morning Edition theme. Helena watched her with interest, wondering what she was thinking. This was a momentous occasion for them both because there had never been enough time before. It had never been enough, their flirtation stolen moments and hasty retreats when Helena got cold feet or Myka ran out of words to say.

Now forever stretched before them, unburdened by the ghosts of the past.

"I…" She didn't know what to say. There were so many different ways to say what was on her mind.

Myka turned then, smiling as she pulled up in front of the Warehouse. It loomed heavily in front of them, dominating the brilliant summer sky and casting a wide shadow across the dusty land before them. "Tell me when they're done with you, okay?" She was grinning at Helena, a bright smile that pulled Helena's thoughts from the future and its uncertainty to the present.

"I don't feel particularly ready for this," Helena muttered, getting out of the car, waiting as Myka opened the door with the automatic button that she usually left in the car. The umbilicus was cool and dark, and Helena could not help but remember the last time she'd seen this place. Mr. Kosan had been there, pulling her away from Myka, their ears filled with Claudia's screams. She had had to go, he'd explained, she couldn't linger. Too much was still uncertain.

She hated him for it still.

Myka paused, hand hovering over the key pad that activated the retinal scanner that served as a secondary lock. Helena supposed she was going to have to get her eyeball scanned at some point. Artie had never trusted her enough before to create a unique profile for her. She couldn't say that she particularly blamed him. "Does it feel good to be back?" she asked, leaning forward and letting the scanner read her eye.

The building was warm, despite the coolness of the umbilicus. She exhaled, looking around as the door to Artie's office swung open and the smell of apples hit her full force. It was welcoming, an old friend that she'd quite forgotten about. She could see Caturanga moving about the office, Woolly contemplating some dry novel, McShane storming in and demanding that they all actually do work instead of watching Helena test out some new invention. It was all so very real, then the image faded and Helena found herself looking at Jane Lattimer and Adwin Kosan standing near Artie's messy desk.

Helena's mouth opened and her response came quietly. She did not want them to hear. "Yes," she breathed, "it's brilliant."

Myka slipped past Helena with a reassuring squeeze on her shoulder and slipped down to the Warehouse floor, leaving them alone in the room.

"Ah," came Mr. Kosan's accented voice. Helena had heard his voice take on many timbres over their acquaintance. Pete and Claudia had taught her how to drive, but Mr. Kosan had had to be the one to test her skills. She'd heard him sound terrified as she veered too close to a curve or nearly swerved into an oncoming car. But she'd passed whatever test it was that he'd had for her with flying colors, apparently. "Miss Wells, come in."

He turned then, and led her towards the small conference room that Myka had mentioned that the Regents were meeting in these days. It was the safest place they could think of after Sykes had gotten to their security network and figured out their codes. They were still circling the wagons, trying to figure out how to rebuild, vetting new Regents.

Helena recalled that the process was long and arduous. She did not envy Mr. Kosan's position at all as she stepped into the room and allowed Jane Lattimer to close the door behind them.

She folded her hands in front of her, as her mother had taught her and her governess had instructed: polite, but disinterested. It was so easy to smile and be disingenuous, but Helena actually wanted them to know that her reaction was genuine. "Mr. Kosan, Mrs. Lattimer," she said happily. "It is wonderful to see you all again."

Mr. Kosan sat down at the head of the room's lone table and flipped open a file folder. He passed one to Mrs. Lattimer, who sat down as well, and held the other one out to Helena. "Likewise," he said, his lips and eyes never betraying his true feelings. "We like our agents to be at the Warehouse, where they belong."

Helena sat and opened the folder in front of her. It was her detailed case record from both Warehouse 12 and Warehouse 13, along with evaluations and notes from the psychologist they had made her see while she was still in Cheyenne. "Do you trust that I belong, then?" she asked, paging through the documents, not really paying attention to the fact that she was being watched.

Teaching had shown her that. She performed well under pressure, under expectations. She looked up, a smile still playing about her lips.

"You have betrayed that trust before, Miss Wells," Mr. Kosan said, his tone cautious.

She had no response to that. There were no more excuses to give. He'd taken everything from her once, twice; she would not let him do it again. Helena exhaled. "I was mad," she said with a sigh that felt as heavy on her chest as it sounded upon expulsion from her body. "And confused."

Mr. Kosan nodded. His eyes were as understanding as they had been when she'd lashed out at him after the Warehouse had come back. He had told her that it was for the best that she stay away until things could get better. She had still tried to destroy the world with an artifact - dying to save the Warehouse was not a sure-fire way to win back the trust of all the people she'd betrayed, he'd said. She hadn't disagreed.

He had promised her that he would not take her memory again. It had been cruel enough the first time, he had explained, and apparently, Artie had had some choice words about it after the fact.

"I do not doubt it." Mr. Kosan glanced over at Pete's mother, who gave a small nod in agreement. Helena could see that blasted shackle still strapped to her wrist and hated her just a little bit in that moment. This all could have been avoided, had that damn thing not existed.

Mr. Kosan continued, eyebrow rising up his bald head. "What is to say that this won't happen again?"

"My word." Helena smiled, just a hint of apples in the air. The Warehouse's tacit approval of her presence there. "Apples, too."

"Ah, yes." Jane Lattimer nodded her agreement. "The Warehouse that thought to bring you back likes you now. I forgot about that part."

Helena wanted to roll her eyes. There was no way that she could have forgotten such an important detail. That she had died and it had not been the watch that brought her back. She resisted the urge to point this fact out to the pair of them because it wasn't necessary. They knew. They had to know. It hadn't been easy on anyone, even if Mrs. Lattimer had been in Hong Kong and Mr. Kosan had somehow missed the whole ordeal. (Myka had mentioned something about Regent Security not being able to find their nose or their ass, or some odd American idiom that she didn't recognize, but the point did hit home.)

She bit her tongue and contemplated her response. She supposed that honesty would be best, despite her reluctance to share such details of herself with the likes of Pete Lattimer's mother (wasn't that convenient?). She did not know this woman, but Mr. Kosan nodded expectantly at her and she found the words tumbling, unbidden, out of her mouth. "I didn't - not before." She glanced towards the door, wondering if it was too late to run. She didn't know why she feared admitting her own guilt as much as she did. "I know what I did was awful, wrong, and completely misguided and I beg pardon for my actions." Helena wrapped her arms around herself and sighed quietly. "There really was no excuse other than the fact that I never wanted to be let out and, well, here I am."

Mr. Kosan seemed to contemplate the validity of her words before turning a page in his file and passing it over to Helena. There, in her own handwriting, were the instructions that she had written Caturanga, the promise that he'd made to her. She had never wanted to wake up again, and there it was, clear as day. "True," he said, his lips drawing into a thin line as he took the paper back from Helena's nervous fingers. He set it inside his folder and then closed it with a decisive gesture.

"Now," he said, turning to glance at Mrs. Lattimer before his attention once again turned to Helena, "your relationship with Agent Bering."

"Is my business, not yours." Helena could feel her voice taking on a defensive tone, and she felt herself shutting down. This was not a conversation that she wanted to have. "It is not forbidden."

Mrs. Lattimer leaned across the table and placed a reassuring hand on Helena's arm. "If it compromises you emotionally, it will become a problem."

"I can distance myself from such situations. I would rather not be put into a position where I have to."

She honestly didn't know what else she could tell them. She was grateful that they were not making her relationship with Myka into an ordeal, like they did with some agents. She remembered Woolly's first lover fondly. That had been hilarious under any circumstances, made even better by his utter terror that she, of all people, would be bothered by his preferences. She wasn't exactly as straight-laced as he thought she was.

Pete had used the phrase 'brain-breaking' once in conjunction to Erica Lancaster, and Helena thought the turn of phrase was apt when describing what she had done to poor Woolly. Granted, he forgave her after, but it had been quite humorous at the time. And Ms. Bedingfield had certainly not minded an audience. Helena only wished that she'd recalled that the next time McShane nearly walked in on them.

Mr. Kosan nodded his head, accepting her word that she could be an adult about her relationship. She was grateful because she knew that she couldn't expect the same from Artie, when he finally turned up. "Understandable." Mr. Kosan turned to Mrs. Lattimer, only continuing when she gave him a slight nod. "And this business with MacPherson's letter?"

"I know nothing more than you." Helena shrugged. "He was never particularly frank with me about why I was let out of the bronze."

Mrs. Lattimer raised an eyebrow at the pair of them, leaning forward and whispering conspiratorially, "A madman?"

Helena had assumed that that was a given. "Perhaps," she said judiciously. "Ms. Donovan mentioned something to me, however, something that I found intriguing. Why is it that there is no record of my being a resident of the bronze sector at the Warehouse proper? All that is in the Regent archive." She gestured to the document that Mr. Kosan had shown her earlier. "You may want to look into your archivist and figure out why he or she was passing information to a known enemy."

"That matter is closed." Mr. Kosan's eyes had turned harsh and Helena knew by his tone that the person involved was probably dead.

Good, the wicked part of her brain thought vindictively as Helena swallowed the impulse to ask how they'd killed their archivist. "Of course it is," she said, eyes narrowing. She kept going, watching their reactions closely. "I knew nothing of Sykes' plan other than that MacPherson feared it might come to fruition for purely selfish reasons."

"Ah." The realization that dawned on Mr. Kosan's face was genuine and she found herself sharing a rare smile with the man. He stood, and held out his hand to Helena, who took it, eyes just a little wide. "Then we have nothing more to discuss."

"Just like that?" she asked, a little wary of the abrupt way the conversation had ended.

Mr. Kosan nodded and left the room, leaving Helena sitting across from Mrs. Lattimer. The woman seemed to be wrestling with the fact that she wanted to say something and the knowledge that Mr. Kosan probably expected her to follow him.

Helena stood, tucking her folder under her arm and lingering just as much as could be considered proper without appearing expectant. It was an art that she'd mastered as a child who wanted more attention than her father was willing to give her.

"Thank you," Jane Lattimer breathed and Helena blinked.

"Beg pardon," she asked.

"Thank you, for Pete, for this – for all of this," she whispered, reaching forward and pulling Helena into a tight hug (not unlike her son's).

Helena patted Pete's mother awkwardly on the back, not sure how to handle such violent and exuberant displays of physical affection, and waited until she'd had her fill of the hug before stepping back.

"Helena, I mean it," she whispered, before turning and opening the door. "Artie!" she called and Helena winced. She did not want to go from one tense conversation to another, but it appeared that she had no choice.

Arthur Nielsen was sitting behind his desk, curly hair just barely showing over the computer monitor. Helena could feel his eyes on her, even though she could not see them, as she stepped out of the conference room and waved goodbye to Pete's mother. The door to the umbilicus slammed shut and the room was plunged into relative silence.

Helena could see Claudia's messenger bag and Pete's briefcase tossed haphazardly beside Myka's on the desk next to Artie and she chewed her lip. She wanted to go down onto the floor, to see them. To finally say hello to Claudia (who slept far later than any of the others dared allow themselves), and to get back to work.

"So," Artie said, and Helena winced. "They let you come back."

"Yes…" Helena breathed, watching as Artie stood and opened his desk drawer. He rummaged around for a minute before finding what he was looking for.

"Catch," he said, tossing it over to her.

The yellowed silver of the pocket watch rested in her hands, warming to her touch almost instantly. She recognized it. "Where did you find this?" she demanded, turning it over and over in her hands. "This was supposed to be among my personal effects." The engraving bore her name and a date: her first anniversary at the Warehouse. She'd start to build her time machine not soon after that date.

"That is the watch that brought you back, H.G.," Artie said as he came to stand next to her, pressing a half-folded piece of paper covered in spindly handwriting not at all dissimilar to her own into Helena's hand. "We were taught," Artie began, shifting from foot to foot, "when we came to the Warehouse, that time travel was impossible."

Helena nodded. "I imagine that your mentor mentioned something about the time-space continuum and universe-ending paradoxes should such an event ever take place?" Caturanga had told her the same thing, after all, when she'd started work on her time machine.

Artie laughed, as if recalling a fond memory, before inclining his head. "James MacPherson found that watch in London – a solo retrieval. He never mentioned where he'd found it, only that it had saved his life by turning back time just long enough for him to do what he needed to do to make things right." Artie shook his head sadly. "We argued about it after that. I thought we should destroy it; he thought that it was a wise think to keep around, you know, just in case."

"I… I made an artifact?" Helena did not know how to process this, staring at the watch in her hands.

There was a long pause, before Artie's hand came to rest on her shoulder, "Artificers do that, H.G.," he said quietly, before looking away. She could see the emotions that were clouding his face, the worry and the fear that he wasn't doing the right thing yet again. Helena had betrayed his trust, too, after all. "We had to try a few times, to get it right."

She nodded, "Pete mentioned something about that."

"Six times," Artie whispered. "Myka doesn't remember them all – Pete does. I do."

Horror filled Helena. She had never thought that it had been more than once or twice. Myka was strong, but she could not stomach the idea of watching someone she loved die five times. It wasn't fair, for so many reasons. She was secretly grateful that Myka did not remember them all, but it did explain the odd look in Pete's eyes every time his gaze rested upon her. They'd done it so often and yet Claudia's friend, Steven, was still not among them.

The universe was full of awful things.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, fingers closing around her pocket watch. "I'm sorry that something I created caused you all such pain."

Artie shook his head, holding out his hand expectantly. Helena crossed to where he stood and placed the watch back into his hand. "Thank you for giving us a chance to make it right in the first place." He looked away, shoving the watch back into his desk drawer and closing his eyes. "I am still not sure that I trust you, but the Warehouse and the Regents want you back. So, you're back. Don't mess it up again."

Helena gave a mock salute, but her expression was perfectly serious. "I have no intention of doing such a thing."

"Good."

The door to the Warehouse floor banged open and Claudia bounded in, an arm full of wire and a bright expression on her face. "H.G.!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Just the person I need." She maneuvered herself, wire and all, over to the work bench that was littered with tools and bits of metal not unlike the bench that Helena had spent several days cleaning up in her study over the past week. "How's your soldering?"

"Claudia?" Myka's voice came through the open door to the Warehouse floor and they all turned to look towards it. "Look, I know that you want her help, but she does have a rather epic list of inventory she's got to do today."

Claudia's face fell and Helena grinned at her, accepting the clipboard that Artie held up and hurrying towards the door. "Later," she promised and Claudia nodded her agreement distractedly as she parsed out wire and where it went.

The last time she had been here, really, had been over a year ago. Now Helena Wells stepped onto the floor of Warehouse 13 with a sense of belonging and purpose she'd never had before. She was here for a reason; her duty was to see her life through to the best of her ability.

Myka and Pete were waiting for her at the base of the steps, smiles on their faces.

Helena smiled. She'd finally come home.

x

That evening, alone in an inn full of people, Helena spelled out her promises to Myka with lips and tongue and the harsh catch of breath. She worshiped at the altar of Myka's love for her, eyes closed, mouth open – desperate to say everything that she could not express in words. They moved together in a timeless dance that Helena never could quite find the words to describe later – languid, none of the usual desperation that punctuated their lovemaking.

Afterwards, they lay together. Myka's arm was flung carelessly across Helena's stomach, her lips pressed thoughtfully on Helena's shoulder.

"Everything's going to change now, isn't it?"

The question came unbidden, as did Myka's stated smile. It was a lover's grin, tired and content. "For the better, I think."

FIN