#kla1991

She has arrived at this pretty pass due to a series of events that had seemed, in their unfolding, to be at the very least manageable...

... starting with Helena’s return to the Warehouse.

That return had at first struck Myka as a beautiful dream—and, equally, a reward for awakening from a nightmare.

The particular nightmare from which Myka had awakened was the fugue in which she’d imagined she might have romantic feelings for Pete. How perfect it had seemed, then, for Helena to present herself to resume agent duties at the Warehouse, so soon after that enormous error had been rectified. “A reboot, I believe it’s called,” Helena had said of her change of heart, and Claudia had laughed uproariously at that, shouted “Turn it off and turn it on again!”, and hugged the obviously befuddled, but just as obviously pleased, rebooted agent.

Myka had not hugged Helena, not then. She’d thought to save such an action, such an aggressively bodily action, for an even more meaningful time, progress toward which would, at long last, begin.

But progress had not begun. In the reboot, Helena was a collegial colleague to Myka.... and that was all.

Helena did not, as she had in old times (old shows?), make comments that even usually-oblivious Myka could read as flirtatious. She did not step close, too close, as she had in old times, waking Myka’s body to possibility and want. She did not, in fact, mention old times at all. No words about “Wells and Bering”—as Myka had hoped to one day again correct, however incorrect Helena found the correction, to “Bering and Wells”—having ever done anything together.

And Myka of course could not assault such a collegial colleague with an anguished Why? She could do nothing but wish for a reboot of her own, or at least a do-over, one in which the minute Helena stepped from Claudia’s embrace, Myka herself initiated one that made her hopes clear.

But no such reboot was forthcoming.

That disappointment was, Myka found, manageable. Crushing, but manageable. It was made more so by the fact that Artie sent Helena on retrievals with Steve, sometimes with Claudia as adjunct; thus her collegial interactions with Myka did not have particularly meaningful stakes. At least, none that were Warehouse-specific, and that was what counted. That had to be what counted.

Until one morning at breakfast, when Artie tossed a folder at Myka and said, “Tomorrow you’re going to San Antonio to bag a camera.”

Then he pointed at Helena. “And you’re going with her.”

“Am I?” Helena asked, even as Myka voiced, “She is?

“She’s the one who stole it from Warehouse 12,” Artie told Myka. To Helena, he said, “So I assume you’ll know it when you see it.”

Well, that tone in Artie’s voice was like old times—old shows. But Helena did not respond with her back-then defiant chirp. She said a simple “oh,” a chastened wince that seemed pulled from a different show entirely.

Artie should not be inflicting this on her, Myka thought. After a moment, she revised that to, Artie should not be inflicting this on her or on me. Her first counter: “Maybe Helena could just tell me what it looks like.”

“If that would be easier,” Helena said, with a quickness suggesting she agreed that something was indeed being inflicted on somebody, “I certainly—”

“Did I stutter?” Artie demanded.

He didn’t. But after a bit of time, Myka thought she could, just maybe, manage the situation, both because of Helena’s apparent trepidations and as a way of sidestepping her own feelings. “I’m not sure this mission with Helena is a good idea,” she tried saying to Pete later that morning.

“How many times do I have to tell you the vibes aren’t bad anymore?” he asked, annoyed, as if she’d been making a habit of hitting him with this concern whenever he was trying to get comfortable with a comic book.

In fact, he’d told her that once since Helena came back. Once. It had happened when Myka had said, in a moment of exhaustion that had allowed her management to slip, “I miss how Helena used to be,” and he’d rolled his eyes and told her, “That’s dumb. The vibes aren’t bad anymore.”

Now Myka said—because why fight about it?—“Obviously more than once. But I just don’t think it’s a good idea. For her, I mean. Artie said that thing about the stealing and she... I don’t know. Wilted.”

“Okay, so tell that to Artie.”

Was that vaguely reasonable advice? “I guess I could give that a—”

“Like that’d work! Ha!”

“You’re very unhelpful,” Myka informed him.

“Keeping it on brand.” He flexed his biceps. “Just like these big boys.”

To which Myka could say only, “I am so devoutly grateful we aren’t together.”

“Me too. Different reasons though.”

“I’m devoutly grateful for that too,” she said.

She was grateful also, when it came down to it, for his total lack of interest in parsing the differences between their reasons.

Pete’s unhelpfulness aside, she still had the greater part of a day before her scheduled departure on this Helena-accompanied retrieval, and she hoped it might still be possible to extricate herself, Helena, or both of them from it.

Who would be more helpful in such an endeavor: Claudia or Steve? Claudia, who might be more sympathetic to the overall difficulty... or Steve, who would probably be more persuasive in helping to take a plan to Artie...  

She went with Steve.

She opened with, “I need to talk to you. No, wait, before you wince: I need to talk to someone, and I think you’re my best bet.”

“I’m not overly flattered, but my prefrontal cortex appreciates the revision. Also my sinuses.”

“I have a problem.”

“My prefrontal appreciates that too: direct, no nuance. And I know we haven’t talked about this out loud, but if your problem’s with me? Totally justified. I got the you-and-Pete thing wrong.”

“No, my problem’s with Helena.” That was probably too revealing. “But the other thing, he and I got it wrong. You were just a witness. Regrettably.”

“But I... pushed?”

“Probably it was a thing he and I had to test to know for sure. And we did, so now we do. I like to think I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

That got her a twist of a smile. “You like to think, but this H.G. thing. I know you two have history, so is this that?”

Myka would have preferred to say “no,” but she figured she should continue giving his sinuses a break. So instead she said, “See, you’re discerning. This is why you’re my best bet.”

“What’s the problem then? You both seemed less than thrilled at breakfast, but—”

Now Myka could tell a truth. “Exactly. She clearly doesn’t feel okay about this artifact, and she shouldn’t have to deal with anything that would make her regret having come back. Right?” Before he could agree or disagree, she presented her plan: “You should do the retrieval with me instead. And I’ll need help selling this to Artie, so if you could gently ask her about the camera and then tell him you’re just as likely to recognize it when you—”

“Wanting to spare her discomfort is admirable. Really. But that wasn’t your issue, not at first. The very instant Artie said H.G. was going too, you tensed up.”

He is your best bet, Myka reminded herself. She sighed and said, “Fine. I’m not sure I can go on a mission with her.”

He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Okay, yes,” she acknowledged. “I’m sure I can. I’m just not sure I want to.”

He didn’t release the pinch. “Unfortunately for both of us, that’s also a lie.”

That one, she resented. “Maybe you’re too discerning.”

“And yet I’ve heard I’m your best bet.”

“Right. Maybe I do want to. But the problem is, everything’s different now.”

“Also, I’m sorry, a lie. That last part. Everything isn’t different. What’s the same?”

Far, far too discerning. “I don’t want to say.”

He smiled. “Aaaaah. Very truthful.”

“Here’s something I do want to say: would you take my place instead?”

“Either way,” he said, his smile morphing into an apologetic grimace, “I don’t think that’s how this works.”

“We just have to make a case to Artie, which I know is a heavy lift, but something like how much easier it would be for Helena to go with you since you’re her wrangler now, so—”

“No, I mean logistically. I’m not her wrangler at all, by the way, but also the plane tickets are already in your names, right?”

Well, that was annoyingly true. “Fine. I hate it, but fine. And even if I could find an artifact that would change names on plane reservations, I couldn’t use it because that would really be personal gain.”

“Would it though?” Steve asked, lightly, but with an undercurrent.

Myka did not want to answer that question.

So she and Helena went.

On the plane, Helena said to Myka, “I’m sure you’re wondering about Artie’s statement.”

Accurate, but: “Not if you don’t want to talk about it,” Myka said. “In that case, any and all wondering canceled. Canceled like... an underappreciated cult TV show.” That was something a colleague would say, wasn’t it? A particularly collegial one, such as, for example, Claudia, from whom Myka had copied and pasted the words about television.

This wasn’t the first time she’d plucked words like this; articulations of her own, she feared—even more so now than in the past—were likely to reveal too much.

Helena raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Claudia.”

Mission accomplished, if a bit too well, so Myka shrugged and said, “I’ve heard characterization can get weird in a reboot.” That was also from Claudia, who had asked Myka, not long ago, “Do you think H.G.’s okay? I know characterization can get weird in a reboot, but she seems a little off,” and Myka had pleaded ignorance as to the entire concept, despite her wish to opine at length on how Helena seemed definitely, from Myka’s perspective, not okay. Definitely off. More than a little.

“I did use that word,” Helena said.

“You did.”

“I did also steal the artifact in question.”

“Napoleon Sarony’s camera.”

“Yes. I gave it to Oscar Wilde.”

“You did?” Oscar Wilde. Okay.

“I told him to have someone use it to take his photograph.”

Obviously this has something to do with its effect, but Myka has no idea what. Helena clearly wants to be drawn out on the point, so Myka probes, using what she knows, “Because it was what Sarony used to take those photos of Wilde when he was on his big star-making tour in the U.S.? Or because of the Supreme Court copyright case about that one Wilde photo he took? Oh, that case, I bet it’s why the camera’s an artifact, but—”

“You’re correct on the why of the artifact. But do you know its effect?”

“I didn’t have time to look it up before we left. And it’s not in the file.”

“Artie left it out, I suspect.”

“Because it’s exculpatory?”

“Because it’s explanatory. As far as anything could be, given that time. Obviously nothing is exculpatory.”

Isn’t it? “Do you want to explain?”

“Want,” Helena said, and oh god if Myka could have given herself leave to understand that word said differently. But this was not that reboot. After a throat-clear, Helena went on, “It was... post.”

Myka didn’t need to ask post-what.

“So many artifacts there were,” Helena continued, “so many unhelpful to me in my extremity. Nevertheless I thought to help. To make some difference. Where I could, as opposed to where I could not.”

In old times, Helena had not said this much about her mental state... post. Fleshy, this admission was, and Myka did not know what to make of it. Was it a step closer, akin to the old sort of physical proximity? Or was it just... explanatory? “The effect?” she prompted, gently, hoping for clarification.

“Artistic enhancement of the subject photographed. Oscar too was... post. Imprisonment had diminished him so terribly. I thought an artifactual photograph might help restore his writerly prowess.”

“Did it work?” Myka asked.

“I can’t prove causation,” Helena said. “Nevertheless, post-photo, he did write ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol.’”

That was one of those utterances Myka would be processing for quite some time. Separate and apart from her outsize feelings for Helena as Helena—as a physical body to which Myka’s own body has for years now compulsively responded—there was the ongoing absurdity, the near high comedy, of Helena speaking factually about events of such cultural-historical import. “I can’t think that was a bad outcome,” Myka eventually managed to say.

“I can’t either.”

They had not had so genuine, so genuinely substantive, a conversation since Helena’s return.

However, their renewed familiarity, if that’s what it was, did not outlast the plane.

They found the camera, and they neutralized it with minimal difficulty—if a bit more consternation on the part of the gentleman who believed he had the right to possess the piece.

That was all very... collegial.

And—but—they then tried to check in at their hotel. Or rather, Myka did. Helena was occupying herself with the snacks on offer in the lobby. “Steve usually checks in,” she’d said. “Do you mind?”

How could Myka have been less accommodating than Steve? Also she was—she had to concede—more than a little charmed by Helena’s seeming admission of... well, not incompetence. Just a slight slink away from responsibility.

Please, a more cynical part of her said with a snort of derision, you’re charmed by the way she does everything. Walking, talking, existing. Inspecting potato-chip bags across the lobby in a hotel’s snack pantry.

“Bering and Wells,” the desk clerk said in confirmation of the reservation, and Myka wanted to thank him for that ordering of names. He followed up with, “One king.”

She didn’t want to thank him for that. “No,” she told him, and it was good that Helena was out of earshot. “Two. Kings, queens, doubles, twins, I don’t care. But two.”

“Sorry,” said the clerk. “Full up.”

So one king it had been.

And now, in that one king, Myka’s arm is asleep.

“Are you asleep?” she wants to ask of Helena, aloud, to ascertain the true contours of the situation, but the very asking might—would?—change the contours, and Myka isn’t sure she’s in any kind of state to handle any certainty or any change. So she thinks the question at Helena instead, thinks it over her shoulder at that warm body over and over, Are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, until she’s estranged from the question as anything but words, until “asleep” in particular begins to strike her as bizarrely archaic, its construction completely uncontemporary, and she interrupts her telepathy to think, It is archaic; we don’t ask “Are you abed” or anything like that anymore—

—but she interrupts herself again, for that doesn’t ring quite right. So she calls up the dictionary, the A’s, riffling her way through, and the exercise offers her all sorts of examples that show how very unarchaic indeed it is to say “asleep”: ablaze, abuzz, aground, ajar, alight, aloud, amid...

The list goes on. It’s far longer than she expected, but she continues, doggedly, to the end of the A’s, through “astray,” “aswoon” (she doesn’t linger on that one), on to “atingle” (that one either), on and on, ending with “awhirl.” She’d been by then vaguely looking forward to something like “azoom,” but alas.

Such a lengthy jaunt through the initial chapter of the dictionary surely must have eaten up significant time, perhaps even more than she imagined; perhaps morning is at last approaching, and the alarm will ring, and all this physical consternation can be resolved by sudden wakefulness on everybody’s part.

The clock on the nightstand tells her the journey took three minutes.

Spectacular.

Well, fine. If the A’s were three minutes, the rest of the dictionary should offer her at least an hour of distraction—both from her arm’s discomfort and from the physical, emotional, and existential discomfort created by the presence at her neck, back, and hip.

She starts in on the B’s. First comes “b,” defined, in entry 1a, as “the 2d letter of the English alphabet.” No doubt it’s important to periodically refresh one’s memory of such things.

The B’s proceed, slow and thorough; after “b” comes “baa,” and on and on... “bedlam” catches her attention, in a Warehouse-y way; “bed of roses” does too, as it’s “a place or situation of agreeable ease,” which this certainly is not—

—in sudden, striking emphasis, Helena’s hand on Myka’s hip moves, a minimal slide-glide toward thigh, and oversensitized Myka can’t control a too-violent twitch in response, one that jolts her toward the bed’s edge, which was nearer than she realized, for now its surface is an abrupt absence, and a crash to the floor is imminent, and instinct, instinct: her brain shouts for an arm to break her fall, but the volunteering limb is the stupid somnolent one, and OH GOD she has never known pain to manifest like this—she’s taken a bullet but this is more, for “seeing stars” is no mere metaphor, as she’d always imagined; her vision is literally stellating, even as she hears herself yelp in prelinguistic anguish.

The horrific fullness of the situation settles on her as she additionally hears, directed at her from some angel perspective, the voice of her dreams but now this nightmare saying “Myka? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Myka moans at the unforgivingly injurious floor, and then the stars win.

She’d know this road any day and twice around Christmas, because it was the road that takes her to her augmented Warehouse family, and the lodge in which they spend the few days between Christmas and New Year’s, just the core of them, the Warehouse's Gang of Eight, the longest serving members of the Warehouse to date (if only one dared to call Mrs. Frederic “a serving member” without being killed by the caretaker’s icy daggers’ worth of a stare).

Myka clenches her teeth with a small wince and a barely audible grunt, as she realises just how uncomfortably her body had wedged itself between the armrest and the door while collapsed in a sleepy state.

Helena glances from the driver’s seat. “Good afternoon, my darling,” she whispers sweetly without taking her eyes off the road. “Are you feeling rested?”

‘Rested’ hints at having had a peaceful sleep, which would not best describe Myka’s frame of mind, conscious, semi or otherwise. She recalls her dream, the submarine, the giant squid-like creature. The flailing. So much flailing. “I think so,” she mumbles while promising to herself, this is the last time I believe Pete when he talks about the merits of graphic novels.

“No flailing-limbed hellscape adventures?” Helena persists, but gently, smile still sweet and caring.

Myka tries to think what makes Helena ask that very question, but she’s too tired to get into any of that, and would really rather not bring back images she’s still trying really hard to remove from her consciousness, so she deflects. “Afternoon?” She straightens in her seat, as much as her seatbelt allows. “How long have I been asleep for?”

“Enough for the time to tick past midday,” Helena enunciates through a bright smile.

Myka hears the arrogance in Helena’s answer, and even though she thinks she’s choosing not to engage, her ego gets the better of her. “I was wide awake when we drove through Boulder,” she retorts.

Helena bites her lips shut to strangle a chuckle, and looks in the rear-view mirror, at Leena, who is smiling sweetly in the back seat, knowing full well where Helena is going with all this.

Helena raises her eyebrows with a question, and Leena shakes her head lightly with an aloof smile of her own.

“Wide enough awake to greet the surprise passenger we collected?” Helena is all but mocking.

Myka squints and pouts, sourly pushing breaths through her nose, knowing Helena could feel her piercing, probing gaze.

“You can look in the back, if you like,” Helena looks at Myka briefly, still not taking her eyes off the road for more than a second. She knows better than that.

Myka’s eyes still fixed on Helena, she breathes evenly, weighing her options. Does she play the game? What are the odds she’s made a fool of - again? What will be the implications if she was?

But again, her ego gets the better of her and she fixes her stare at Helena’s profile as she recalls driving into Boulder. She recalls driving through the centre of town. She recalls pulling into the Target parking lot, for them to get the last of the supplies required for the next few days of festivities. She remembers staying in the car while Helena went in. She recalls the number of doors she heard and felt shut. She does not recall any voices whatsoever. She remembers checking with Helena that the online order was fulfilled, and that Helena confirmed, and she remembers clocking the “Thank you for visiting! Come back soon!” sign on the 119 West as they left town.

So while she has absolutely no recollection of anyone else joining them in Boulder, Helena’s tone certainly insinuates that they have. Unless, of course, the whole of it is just one more of Helena’s games, the kind that Myka never seems to win, no matter how hard she tries. The kind which sole purpose is to poke fun at her, and then become the running joke for their stay, until New Year’s Eve. It’s become a tradition now.

“Remind me again…” Myka asks, her voice steeped in sarcasm, “Where’s the fun in going through these complicated, ridiculous mind games?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Helena gasps, mock offended.

“It feels like a lot of trouble for you to go through just to tease me,” Myka gripes, ill-humoured, “and there is absolutely no fun in that.”

Helena’s cheeks flare in an instant at the thought of teasing Myka. Granted, perhaps not the sort she’s presently engaged in – the taunting, mocking, jape-hooting sort of tease currently underway, but rather one of a much more intimate kind.

Teasing Myka happens to have become Helena’s favourite pastime over the years they have been together. Helena’s investment in this hobby was such, that one might consider granting Helena the degree of Mastre of Tease. Helena’s practice had long since surpassed the realms of small-hand craft and launched itself into the realm of Art. High Art, as well, depending on Helena’s investment in the aesthetics of her scenes of seduction and ecstasy.

And now her neck blushes a bright red and she begins to perspire as she hides a small squirm as she drives, because a handful of such scenes flash before her mind’s eye, and - goodness gracious - they still have a hold on her.

She collects herself with a shake of her hair. “Your accusation is nothing if not hurtful, my love,” Helena looks at Myka again, feigning mild emotional bruising. “Honestly, darling, take a look in the back,” Helena motions with her head swiftly.

Myka examines scenarios and calculates probabilities: scenario one: she looks back and sees nothing - in which case, Helena wins, and will mock her for falling prey to the ploy; scenario two: she looks back and sees one of her friends, one of her family - in which case, said mystery person would have been party to the exchange the whole time (even by staying silent), showing participatory culpability, and Helena wins again, and Myka will be mocked by both Helena and the traitorous friend; scenario three: she doesn’t look back at all. In this case, Schrodinger’s Hitchhiker is both in the back and not at the same time, and it will be up to Helena (and/or the quantum-state guest) to alter the state of the traveller by observing it, which leaves Helena only 50% chance of winning (if Helena was telling the truth), and Myka with a 50% chance of not being mocked at all (if she wasn’t).

Given the three scenarios, it’s clear which one she will opt for, even though the odds are overwhelmingly against her. “How do you always get the better of me?” Myka asks in a huff and slumps back in her seat.

“Oh,” Helena breathes and she catches Leena’s eyes in the mirror. “Because if I don’t, the tentacles will.”

And Leena silently, gently, touches the tip of her index finger to the back of Myka’s shoulder, and Helena nearly tips the car off the road due to Myka’s ear-splitting shriek and lunge to the footwell of her seat.

   II.

 The morning after Myka gets to have her comeuppance as they all gear up for a day in the snow. Helena despises dressing in layers, more so when the layers are predominantly synthetic fibres, and compounded by the graceless, utilitarian design of outdoor apparel and what she considers an abominable glut of zips.

After breakfast, when everyone disperses to their rooms to change, Helena is eerily silent as she puts on the under-layers and tops, only hissing hateful barbs whenever she does or undoes a zip, hoping the dreadful shrill sound of the plastic fastening will mask her curses.

“Can I help?” Myka asks and her face contorts as she pointlessly attempts to stop herself from smiling - from snickering - at Helena’s miff.

Helena turns her head sharply, her eyes spitting every bit of venom as her lips did not a fraction of a second ago. “No, thank you,” she mutters ominously, knowing full well that she is yet to pay for yesterday’s tentacled joke. So if she were to suffer the cold due to a mishap of the garmentary sort, she would rather it be done by her own hand, rather than Myka’s, and thus claimed to be payback for a Helena’s well executed practical joke, even if she does say so herself.

With that, Helena turns back to re-zipping the waterproof trousers at the hip, then zipping the ankle zips, then unzipping them (thinking she will need to open to do her ski boots up), then walking two steps towards where her coat is, then grumbling at the trousers, which (according to Helena) in their current state, are plotting to see her tumbling down the stairs or a hilltop or a cliff, so she seethes as she zips the damn things again, to take battle with her gloves and coat.

“You know, for someone who’s so dextrous, you sure are struggling with something so basic,” Myka comments.

Helena wants to say ‘Zip it’, but her disdain to the fastening method is too great for her to use it metaphorically. “I know you are finding this comical, Myka, but you know that all this…” she gestures loosely at herself, “clothing,” she utters, with notable scorn, “is nothing short of the first circle of hell for me.”

Myka watches quietly, doing her best to make not a single sound, all the while reminding herself to stop finding Helena so endearing in her anger, because she is missing out on opportunities to get back at her.

Claudia’s call from the bottom of the stairs shakes the tense silence. “Will you two knock it off for, like, an hour, so the rest of us can have fun with you?”

Myka can’t help the sniggering snort that escapes her.

Helena exhales tensely, attempting to calm herself.

“We’ll be down in a minute, you guys,” Myka shouts back, which irks Helena even more, as she now loses her concentration altogether. “We’re having some glove issues,” she giggles.

“Love issues?” Claudia pretends to not have heard very well.

Helena looks at Myka, all but breathing fire, and stiffly points to the door. “Out with you,” she spits.

Myka bites on her lips and tiptoes to the door. “You sure you don’t nee--”

“Out.” Helena emphasises the ‘T’, and Myka slips out the door, closing it silently behind her, only to rush down to where Claudia is biting on her mittens and Steve is smothering himself with a scarf - all in a futile effort to mute their laughter.

   III.

 Full retribution, however, doesn’t come until the day after. The team take turns with each other’s favourite sloped activities: snowboarding, skiing and sledding, as they do every year. Helena struggles with these, as they all involved what she had considered high-speed, low control activities, which were neither her forte nor her favourite.

So she spent the past year campaigning relentlessly to add a biathlon course to their list. She wanted to have one choice she thought she would excel at. Helena is, after all, an exceptional marksperson (even if she does say so herself, again...), and cross country skiing is just about the legitimately slowest way to move across a snowy surface, bar, perhaps, having your toboggan pulled uphill by a small child.

The team’s stance on the matter was less than enthusiastic. They didn’t really like the idea of having to brandish weapons while they were on leave. Helena thought that Steve, with his ATF training, would appreciate an opportunity to train in a more relaxed environment, but to her surprise, he took a particularly harsh position on the matter, which may (or may not) have been at Myka’s behest, to give the tall agent means to get back at Helena for something she will have undoubtedly done to her by that point in their annual trip to the Rockies.

After half a day’s worth of mastering the slopes, Myka finds Helena sitting on a wooden bench outside the visitor’s centre, after a failed third attempt on a children’s training course. Helena doesn’t notice Myka heading her way, due to her aggressive shaking of her skiing gloves. She had managed to get snow in both her gloves during her last, and rather spectacular tumble.

Myka’s skis crunch against the packed snow as she breaks a few feet away from a preoccupied Helena. She kicks the bindings loose with ease and lifts her kit from the snow. “Was it really that bad?” she calls as she walks closer to the bench, lifting her goggles up, revealing a faint ski tan.

Helena looks at Myka, trying to hate her for how at home she seems to be in this harsh, frozen, alien environment. But the twinkling smile in Myka’s eyes and the sunburn-come-frostbite on her cheeks and nose just make her so devilishly adorable. “I had just managed to aptly calculate the velocity, when there was an unexpected vector change with significant mass ---”

“Well, dash my wig, Peter,” Claudia exclaims as she grinds her skis to a halt nearby, and comes off her skis so quickly it looks as though she bounced off them, “the surface of the snow does not appear to retain its shape!”

Myka bites on her lips and looks down, knowing that the rub is not only about to land harshly, it is also about to be dealt by people other than Myka, and not orchestrated by her. Whatever Pete and Claudia come up with in a moment, is all them, a fact that will, not doubt, double the insult value.

“I shall hypothesise that the warmth of the sun and possibly other people’s movement across it may be the cause,” Pete puts on his best worst-British accent.

“I shall hypothesise further,” Claudia begins scratching a formula into the snow with her ski pole, “that these are the conditions necessary to maximise the flailing rate on a positively tentacle-y fall."

Pete bursts out laughing and Myka just about manages to keep her composure, while Helena slams her snowed gloves on the bench and walks over to Claudia. As she walks past Myka she slips on an icy patch and instinctively grabs on to Myka, who instinctively grabs on to her, only to grunt in frustration, straighten herself and pace determinedly towards Claudia, where she can scrutinise the maths.

She inspects Claudia’s work for a few minutes. She mumbles to herself, points to the snow, scribbles meaninglessly in the air, only to look at Claudia (who’s smug as a St. Bernard who’s got the Brandy), jeer “Damn you all to hell,” and fall flat on her backside as she walks back to the bench.

   IV.

 For New Year’s Eve, the penultimate day of their stay, the Gang of Eight invite significant others to join them. These are rarely romantic partners, but rather family members and good friends - people who may not know the specifics of the Warehouse, but know the people involved and know by now not to ask too many questions.

It is always assumed that Myka and Helena - a self-contained Warehouse unit - do not bring significant others, something Helena finds irritatingly assumptive.

"I still think it is unfair that if I wished to invite someone here there would be raised eyebrows," she complains from behind the closed door of the bathroom, where she's been holed up for over 45 minutes.

"I don't think anyone will really care, Helena," Myka answers, distracted, making use of this rare idle time to play an arcade game on her phone. "If anything, the guys will probably be more worried about what your inviting someone else means for you and me," she continues absent-mindedly.

"What was that, darling?" Helena asks, raising her voice.

Myka lets her phone fall in her lap and thinks about what she just said. Fearing it will open a can of worms, she changes her tack. "Since when do you care about rules? And what do you care what other people think, anyway?" she says, notably louder. "And when will you be finished in there? I need to get this stupid tuxedo on,” worried she will be late to open the festivities of the evening, seeing as she’s the host.

At the end of each of their annual retreats, the Gang elect the host for next year’s NYE celebrations, as they do the theme for the soiree. This year, Myka chairs the events, which theme is The Twenties (pun intended), and as the ringmaster, so to speak, she must dress for the role, in keeping with the theme.

Even though Myka appreciates the wealth of source material she could draw from (a narrow waisted gown of the 1820s, or an extravagant silk and velvet coat with sleeve trims of golden lace from the 1720s; A Puritan suit of the 1620s or early Tudor dresses with oversized, puffed sleeves), there is only one fitting option for her, given she is the MC.

With a nod to the 20s of the previous Century, she has traditional White Dress tuxedo, with a white bib-fronted, wing-tipped collared shirt, a white bowtie, white low-cut vest and slim waisted, high-cut tailcoat with velvet lapels.

Myka loves a tuxedo once it’s on her. It inspires slick sophistication in her which she otherwise struggles to embody. But once in that shirt and bow tie and tails - the dashing, smooth charm is effortless.

Helena likes her in a tux as well, and she has a plethora of hard evidence to prove it. Some of that evidence is in the form of a paper trail, when she had to pay for damaged returns (which is also the reason why the tuxedo Myka was waiting to put on was her own). And other evidence were the physical sort that would heal within 4-7 days (depending on the depth of bruise or scratch).

Myka’s lips curl to a sweet, nostalgic smile, remembering the last time Helena enjoyed her in her tux, which makes it easier for her to focus on how the evening will end - not only because it will be most pleasurable (irrespective of how the party actually goes), but also because she hates the beginning of it. Much as she loves a tux, she hates putting the damn thing on. The shirt is always too stiff and the bow tie is always a battle, and she always gets frustrated and sweaty doing it up. It's a lot of hard work, but the prize, she knows, is worth it.

And that's why she's eager for Helena to get out of the bathroom already, so she can get the crappy portion of tuxedoing out of the way.

She isn't at all prepared for what Helena has in store for her, though.

Helena opens the bathroom door, hiding behind it. "Are we ready for the grand unveiling?" she asks mischievously.

Myka knows she isn't ready, and her anxiety turns up a notch as she begins to contemplate the many ways in which Helena is about to prank her. Out of the thousands of possibilities, she's just about ready to put her money on a tentacle-inspired hairdo and that terrible corset Helena wears when she wants to assert her superior mechanical skill and historical authenticity.

And in all that, Myka wishes that they didn't keep this silly tradition they've picked up over the years, whereby they treat each other as colleagues when they’re out here, with the Gang, between Christmas and New Year.

This tradition started halfway through their first trip, when everyone in the Gang, Mrs Frederic included, had commented on how together-y Myka and Helena were. It was then that they mutually agreed that for 4 days every year they will treat each other the way they treat the rest of the Warehouse Family - with great care and affection, and with an equal measure of banter and playfulness.

Myka steels herself with a long breath, preparing for the climax of this year's running joke.

But then Helena steps from behind the door.

And Myka forgets to breathe out the air she inhaled to steady herself.

Helena wears a tuxedo that matches Myka's, white vest and bow tie and velvet lapels and all. She wears her hair down, a giddy smile and only the faintest hint of makeup.

Myka's reaction is precisely the one Helena had hoped for, so she takes two sauntering steps towards Myka as she bites seductively on her lower lip.

Myka's jaw drops.

"Do you approve, darling?"

Myka tries to speak but can't, now that Helena's stepped even closer to her and placed an open palm on Myka's chest, just above where her heart is pounding like a roll of drummers.

"Are you well, love?" Helena asks with a smattering of concern. Perhaps she overdid it? She'd always fancied herself a suave debonair, and she knows just how much Myka fancies her when she's at her most dapper. "Is the outfit too much?"

"Uh… nuh… no," Myka manages to utter. "The outfit is…" she tries to come up with words to describe just how utterly perfectly, deliciously, amazingly, stunningly mesmerising and sexy Helena looks that very moment.

Helena would have liked to hear the excess of superlatives of how breath-taking she looks, but she doesn't need to. The sheepish grin stamped on Myka's lips and the rose tint that her cheeks don are all the signs she needs to know that every bit of Myka approves.

"This is not what I thought you'd have on," Myka smiles, bewitched and bewitching, and bites on her own lip while placing her hands on Helena's hips, wanting to kiss her so badly.

"Dare I ask?" Helena's voice drops as she brushes her nose against Myka's.

Myka chortles lightly and leans into her lover's irresistible touch, not at all wishing to entertain any memories of the multi-limbed creatures that haunted her in the past few days. "I thought you'd stick to our holiday tradition."