The day of her last dose of chemotherapy, Myka walks into the treatment room with another of Helena's stories tucked into her purse and a tin full of cookies. In sixteen weeks of treatment, she's interacted only cordially with the other patients in the room—David, 56, leukemia; Judy, 61, colon cancer; Jeremy, 73, lung cancer; Andrew, a sprightly 40, testicular cancer; all of them quiet and reserved in the face of their treatments—but she had cajoled Steve into making a batch of cookies to share with them and the nurses. If all goes well, she'll never see them again.

The cookies go over well, and Myka settles into her chair, IV plugged into the port in her chest, and reads through Helena's story as the medicine feeds into her. As she's finishing the final page, there's five minutes left before she can leave, and Helena appears on the other side of the glass wall, waving coyly and settling into the waiting area seat. Myka blushes when Helena winks, bold and brazen as ever; next to Myka, Jeremy, chortles and nudges Myka in the arm, offering a wink of his own.

Myka leaves with the best wishes of the other patients and a surprise hug from Judy. In the waiting room, Helena offers her hand silently, and Myka takes it, leaving for hopefully the last time. She refuses to look back, even when a distinctly Jeremy wolf-whistle floats out of the room and Helena laughs, clear and melodic.

"So," Helena says as they make their way to the car. "Last one, yeah?"

"That's the idea," Myka says. Her fingers twitch on top of her knee, her other leg bouncing nervously.

"Seems like something to celebrate, doesn't it?"

"That seems like a good way to jinx it," Myka says, elbowing her in the ribs. Helena flinches away—she's ticklish, of all things, as Myka has learned—and shakes her head.

"Have some optimism, darling," she says. "Hasn't Pete imparted any of that on you after all these years?"

"Not exactly," Myka drawls.

"Well," Helena says brightly. "Don't tell him that." They reach the car, and Helena opens the door for Myka, bowing.

"I just don't want to get my hopes up before we know, is all." She rolls her eyes at Helena's antics, climbing into the proffered seat anyways. "The doctor said—"

"I'm well aware what the doctor said," Helena says. "But since you're choosing to be stubbornly pragmatic, I'm choosing to balance out your stubbornness with my own and will be even more optimistic. The power of positive thinking and whatnot."

"Right," Myka says, smiling anyways. She picks at the edge of her cast, and Helena reaches over and captures her fingers.

"Stop that," she chastises. "You'll be out of that hideous thing in a few weeks, just leave it be."

"Like you were any better when you broke your collarbone showing off for the dashing horseman," Myka says with a smirk. Her fingers twist around Helena's anyways, smirk fading into a soft smile at the sight of their hands. It's been nearly six weeks and Helena has all but officially moved into Myka's bed, and the moment of quiet ease between them still surprise her.

"As if I'm the best standard to hold oneself to," Helena says. "I don't think I lasted a week in that bloody thing before I found a way out of it."

"Of course you did."

"No lasting damage," Helena says with a shrug and a wink. "I made do with a sling. It led to me building a grappling gun, so I have few regrets about it."

"You invented a grappling gun because you broke your collarbone?"

"Hardly," Helena snorts. "I invented a grappling gun because I wanted one. I got around to building it because I was bored out of my mind. And otherwise incapacitated by opiates."

Myka laughs, shaking her head. "Of course you would yank me into the sky with a grappling gun you built while you were high."

"Excuse me," Helena says indignantly. "I knew exactly what I was doing."

"When you were drugged?"

"Hardly. But I knew perfectly well that it could hold us both when I saved your life."

They pull to a stop in front of the bed and breakfast, Myka laughing still at Helena's indignation. Pete is sitting on the front porch, and he bounces down the steps and yanks Myka's door open.

"You finished!"

"Oh my God, calm down," Myka mutters. "I'm not finished yet."

"Yeah, but you finished your treatments! Come on, be happy, Mykes!"

"Good luck with that," Helena says. "She's determined to be pessimistic."

"What? No. Myka, no," he says sternly. "Come on, we're going to go shoot things with Teslas until you crash and then we're going to watch one of those ridiculous movies you like—"

"Just because they don't have sex or explosions doesn't mean they're ridiculous," Myka says as he drags her towards the bed and breakfast. She glances back over her shoulder at Helena, catching a smile and a wave from her before they disappear inside.

A week later, Myka has an appointment to see her oncologist. She lays awake the whole night, in spite of a familiar exhaustion weighting her body after days and days of throwing up. Helena curls around her, sleeping peacefully, and Myka wonders if she'll still get a story for every treatment if she hasn't beaten the cancer yet.

At the breakfast table, Pete and Abigail bicker over something about coffee and Myka picks at the apple she'd sliced for herself. Helena sits at her side, a hand on her knee, and is quiet as the others talk. The conversation breaks when Pete's Farnsworth buzzes.

"Pete, we got a ping," Artie's voice sounds from the speaker. Myka's gaze snaps up from her apple to where Pete is looking her way, and her fingers clench into a fist. Helena's hand tightens on her knee, eyes slipping back and forth between the two of them.

"Artie, not—"

"I know, but this is important, there's a kid in a coma," Artie says. "We have to go, Myka will call us—"

"I'll go," Helena says.

"What?" Pete and Myka say at the same time.

Helena offers her a small smile. "I'll go. Too many people in the office will make the doctor nervous, right?" She turns to Pete. "If you would tell Artie, please."

"Yeah, Artie, HG is gonna go," Pete says, not looking away from Helena.

"Thank you," Myka mumbles weakly into Helena's shoulder.

"Of course," she says, kissing her temple. She squeezes Myka's knee once more and then slides to her feet. "I'll be at the warehouse shortly, Artie," she says over Pete's shoulder.

"Thanks," Pete says quietly as he closes the Farnsworth.

"Of course," she says again. She disappears up the stairs, and Pete turns back to Myka.

"Mykes, you sure you don't—"

"I'm sure," Myka says. "I—Pete, I need—you have to be there, okay?"

"And I want to be there, but HG is—she's your…what are you guys these days? And I'm just—"

"Pete, you aren't just anything, okay, don't be an idiot." Myka rolls her eyes. "You're my best friend, I need you to be there. Helena gets that."

"Okay," he says. He squints at her, head tilting. "Seriously, though, what are you guys? Girlfriends? Don't say partners, that's weird because you're my partner and we are definitely not like that."

Myka laughs and throws a slice of apple at him. "We're—we just are, I guess," she says after a moment.

"Oh," Pete says. He smiles widely. "Sure took you long enough. I was going to lock you two in a closet if you didn't get your butts into gear."

"Oh, my God," Myka says. She abandons her apple and stands from the table. "I'm going to go—see her off."

"You guys are cute and it's gross," he calls after her. On the stairs, Helena pauses halfway down and smiles at his words. Myka rolls her eyes from the base of the stairs, hand pressing habitually to the beanie covering her head.

"Ignore him," Myka says.

"I almost always do," Helena says. She stops on the last step, the rise giving her a few inches of height over Myka.

"You really do have a height thing, don't you?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," Helena says. She settles her hands on Myka's shoulders, warm against the bony protrusions of her collarbones. "Please do let me know immediately, though."

"Of course," Myka says quietly. "Thank you for doing this."

"I understand why you want him to be there," Helena says. "I've also been trying this thing where I try to ignore my ego."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, it's quite the challenge." Her jacket pocket buzzes, and Helena rolls her eyes as she extracts the Farnsworth. "Yes?"

"What's taking so long?" Artie says, cranky as ever.

"I'm on my way," Helena says tartly. "Calm down, getting excited is as bad for your blood pressure as sweets."

Myka laughs quietly as Helena pockets the Farnsworth. "Be safe, yeah? And don't let Artie drive you too crazy."

"I shall make every effort," Helena says solemnly. She tilts Myka's chin up and kisses her, lingering for a long moment, before she pulls back. "Call me immediately, please?"

"I'll make every effort," Myka echoes.

"Righty ho, then," Helena says cheerfully. She picks up her bag and kisses Myka once more, brief and heated, before heading towards the door.

Myka watches her go, not moving until Pete appears at her side.

The waiting room outside the doctor's office smells different than the one outside the treatment rooms. There's a lingering scent of hand sanitizer instead of the industrial antiseptic, and over top of it floats the tang of orange air freshener. Myka stares blankly at the magazine article in her hands, turning pages without reading them; next to her, Pete plays a game on his phone, muttering curses periodically.

"Myka Bering?"

A nurse ushers them back into a room, motioning for Myka to take a seat on the exam table. Her movements are brisk as she takes Myka's temperature and blood pressure, and she leaves after a few minutes of work with a cordial "The doctor will be in momentarily."

"So," Pete says, rocking back on his heels. His jacket is slung over the spare chair in the room, but he stands tensely, arms over his chest.

"So," Myka repeats. Her fingers wrap around the edge of the table.

"I hate waiting," Pete says darkly. "It's so stupid."

"Yeah," Myka says. "It really is." Her words fall flat in the air between them, her hands gripping tighter to the table, and her breath catches in her chest. Pete's eyes widen minutely, and he steps over to her side, hopping up on the table next to her.

"It's gonna be okay," he says quietly. "You're Myka Bering, you can beat anything. Even cancer."

"Right," she barks out. "Even cancer."

There's a short knock on the door, and her oncologist steps in to the room, a file and a set of MRI images in his hands.

"Myka, good to see you," he says. He shakes her hand, and then Pete's. "And Mr.—"

"Pete, just Pete."

"Nice to meet you," he says. He slides the MRI films free and shoves them up into the clips in front of the lightboxes.

"So," he says. "Either of you know what we're looking at?"

"Not a clue," Pete says.

"MRIs," Myka says quietly. "Of my—"

"Oh," Pete says. His nose wrinkles. "Ew."

The doctor laughs and Myka elbows him in the side. "Anyways," the doctor says. "I could point at a lot of really specific things right now and draw this out, or I could just be nice and tell you that, as far as we can tell right now, your treatment was successful and you're moving into remission."

"Yes!" Pete jumps up off the table, arms over his head like he's just scored a touchdown. "I told you!" He points at Myka wildly and jumps up and down.

"Remission?" she says quietly.

"Effectively, yes," the doctor says. "Of course, as I'm sure you know, that isn't to say that you're cured, but it means that, between the surgery and the chemo, we've stopped the cancer for now. You'll need to be checked regularly, and there is a possibility of recurrence."

"How much of a possibility?"

"At the risk of sounding overly optimistic…maybe fifteen percent?" He smiles when Pete jumps up and down again. "If you remember from when we talked after your surgery, you were lucky, because when we found the cancer it had only spread to one ovary. Ninety percent of patients in your shoes make it past the five year mark, at which point they're considered cured."

"Ninety percent?" she repeats, finally daring to smile.

"Ninety," he confirms.

"Oh," she says faintly. "So I'm going to be okay?"

"Nothing is certain," he says. "But things are looking good today."

Pete finally gives up and yanks Myka into a hug. Her cast collides with his back, but she grips at his shirt anyways. "You're such a badass," he murmurs, and she clings tighter.

The doctor clears his throat after a few seconds, and Pete jumps back, blushing. "Sorry, doc."

"It's okay," he says. "I understand completely. I just want to go over a few things, and then you'll need to set up your next appointment, but after that you're free to celebrate."

"Awesome," Pete says, bouncing on the balls of his feet and gripping Myka's hand tightly.

"Pete," she says quietly. "Can you—can you call Helena while we do that?"

"You sure? Don't you want to be the one to tell her?"

"I think she'd rather know sooner than have it be from me," Myka says.

"Sure, okay." He kisses her cheek and shakes the doctor's hand, disappearing into the hallway.

"Good to go?" the doctor says.

"Definitely," Myka says, smiling a little wider. He offers a smile of his own and hands her a folder, tugging a stool over to sit on.

Fifteen minutes later, Myka slips out of the office to find Pete in a nook by the elevator, talking on the Farnsworth.

"Hey hey hey, here she is," he says. He shoves the Farnsworth into her hands with a grin. "It took me a bit to get ahold of them, they were in the middle of something that involved running."

"Running?" Myka's forehead furrows, and she looks down to the screen to see Helena smiling up at her, hair mussed and face smeared with what looks like soot. "What are you—"

"Doesn't matter," Helena says briskly. "Pete says you're in remission?"

"Yeah," Myka says with a quiet smile. "I am."

"I knew you were stronger than this," Helena says, soft and proud.

"You guys are so gross," Pete says over Myka's shoulder. She elbows him in the stomach, and the air whooshes out of his lung and by her ear. Helena laughs, tinny through the Farnsworth, but a crash behind her catches her attention.

"Oh, bother," she says crossly. "I think Artie just fell into a pool, I should go deal with that. Take care, love, we should be back late tonight." The screen goes dark on her winking at them, and Pete rolls his eyes audibly.

"So. Grossly. Cute." He says.

"I'll hit you again," Myka says. "Don't think that I won't."

"Hey, violence is not the answer," he says sternly. "Now come on, let's go, Claud and Steve are on their way back from Cheyenne, they should be here in time to have a lunch party."

He drags her out of the office and lets her control the radio the whole way home.

Late that night, after Claudia and Steve and Abigail and Pete have formulated an afternoon-long celebration and Myka's succumbed to her exhaustion, she collapses into bed. Artie and Helena are still on their way back, and she curls into the center of the bed, light on and book in her hands, determined to wait until they get home.

She falls asleep after three pages, and doesn't wake until the book is being tugged out of her hands gently.

"Sorry," Helena says quietly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's okay," Myka says, bleary and tired. She smiles sleepily up at Helena, who's shrugging out of her jacket and unbuttoning her vest.

"Sorry it took so long to get home," Helena adds. "Artie was determined to fly first class and we missed our connecting flight because he was trying to upgrade the seats."

"It's okay," Myka says again. "Because I'm in remission."

"That you are." Helena kicks her boots off and slides under the covers. "I always knew you were stronger than cancer."

"There's still a chance of recurrence—"

"Be quiet," Helena orders. "That is an issue for another day. For today, you have beaten this, and we are happy."

"We are," Myka mumbles. She curls into Helena's side. Within a minute, she's back asleep, peaceful even with the quiet ever-present edge of chemotherapy nausea edging into her stomach.

Housekeeping Commentary #1: recurrence percentages were taken from some quick and dirty googling- I ballparked an average of the handful of sources that I came up with regarding five-year survival rate, all taken on the underlying assumption that Myka's cancer was caught early enough to be dealt with before having spread past one of the ovaries. Said assumption is 100% just me playing god, because, hey, my story, and thus far there's been no canon establishment of the precise nature or extent of her cancer.

Housekeeping Commentary #2: once again, the vast majority of this is based on my own experiences, personal or peripheral, with cancer. Ovarian cancer has not, thus far, been one of those experiences (please excuse me while I go knock on every piece of wood in a mile radius and sacrifice a goat to the universe for safety purposes), so I'm flying 50% blind in that regard. The nuances of ovarian cancer treatments are very obviously not something I would ever pretend to have any knowledge of, and my research has been admittedly superficial, because I'm an asshole and also because I'm stupid-busy day to day. I apologize for the fact that my own arrogance and ambitions in starting this story have so far outstripped the time or emotional energy I've had to dedicate to it.