Subterfuge 2

I apologize to everybody for being at present unable to juggle my work/life balance so as to produce decent fanfictional wordage. Honestly I’m just so tired. Not of B&W, not that, but I need to get back to feeling like they’re the recreational recharge. A fillip of that will occur but then short out... anyway, here’s that most recent fillip. In the opening bit, some people gathered for what they thought was going to be breakfast, only to find that Myka and Helena were at odds in some way (or were they...?). I recommend checking that out to get a sense, however misleading, of what might be going on. This is of course for you, @greenharrow , continuing that @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift, and as always, I beg the indulgence of anyone else who might be trying to follow along as well.

Subterfuge 2

Upstairs:

Myka slips into her (their!) bedroom and gentles the door to, muting its usual clank-close to a polite, even discreet, metal-on-metal version of a throat-clear.

Helena is contemplating herself in the bureau’s mirror, but she turns at the noise, subdued though it is. A smile as subtle as Myka’s door-closing drifts across her mouth. “Did they ‘buy it’?” she asks, quietly sly.

Her tone has already raised the temperature in the room, but Myka tries to keep herself from heating in response. For the moment. “I’m not sure,” she says, certain that Steve would have no trouble with that utterance. “Lots of misdirection, anyway.”

“What did you tell them we argued about?”

Myka readies herself for the conveyance of more misdirection, but Helena preempts her: “Wait, more importantly: did you bring breakfast?”

The avidity is precious, no less so for being entirely predictable. Myka is not entirely abashed to display empty hands. “Pete told me I have oatmeal on my shirt. Does that count?”

Subterfuge

Hello @greenharrow , and best @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange wishes to you! The direction you gave @kla1991 to pass on to me included the fact that you “love soft stuff and happy endings,” so I’ve taken that portion to heart for your gift. This is set in a time when everything has improved from how the show left it: Helena is back at the Warehouse, agenting along, and she and Myka are together. All parties have put past relationships behind them and are forging better futures. This little story is but a trifle from said better future, but I hope it contains an amusing moment or two... I’ll acknowledge up front that it needs more work, but here we are. I’m trying my utter best to stop making giftees wait and wait and wait, so this one is “TBC” only because of my wanting to get the concluding scene a bit more right than the opening one (I did try to avoid the need for continuation at all, but again, here we are), and while you may not see the win in that, my new friend greenharrow, I bet one or two other folks do.

Subterfuge

Early on a Saturday morning at the B&B:

Myka is eating breakfast. Specifically, oatmeal. Steve is sitting beside her; he too is eating breakfast: specifically, Frosted Flakes, which technically belong to Pete, but of which he has just said to Myka, “I need the fortification.”

“Also I’ve heard they’re grrrr-eaaat,” she has just said back.

Now they are waiting for the onslaught.

And so it descends: Pete and Claudia clomp down the stairs, noising up the room, if not the entire world.

“Showtime,” Myka says, locking in, and Steve nods.

“Where’s H.G.?” Claudia asks.

“She had some stuff to do,” Myka says.

“What stuff?” Claudia skeptics.

“Warehouse stuff,” Myka says.

“Before breakfast?” That’s of course Pete, because in his world breakfast obviously outranks anything Warehouse-related. “That’s weird, because I never met anybody who loves breakfast more than H.G. does.” Well, also that. Myka has to concede, internally, that that’s probably true, as he whistles and goes one, “Never get between that lady and the A.M. buffet at a Holiday Inn, right Mykes?”

He is right. Myka hasn’t actually tried to, but she’s pretty sure none of the warm feelings Helena expresses about her at other times would come into play if she did. “She could have decided to wait,” Myka says, now offering “defensive.”

Look at this drawing my fantastic niece made for me! (Not sure how I feel about her being so well acquainted with my fondness for Bering and Wells, but I suppose that's the price of having real conversations...) She gave me permission to share it, and anyway I'm too proud of her to keep her lovely gesture to myself.

Hey there, Gifter! Nothing specific comes immediately to mind, though I should probably say out loud how very much I love (and miss) those Bering and Wells faces. You’d think that would make me want to go back to the episodes often... but there’s a sharp specificity to them by which I fear being pierced. I was talking recently with a fellow longtime B&W-fandom denizen, and we were remarking on the sheer difficulty of doing that kind of revisiting (sheer like a cliff face, or the fall therefrom). Given all that’s happened since, it can also feel like looking at and listening to one of those distant Ages from prehistory. So I guess if I had a request, it would be for you to do something that could remind me of the clear and valuable urgency of that Age; I want to find a way to palpate that again, feel its contours. Hold a reunion, if you will, but the restorative kind, not some sad reminiscence of forever-lost glory.

This probably sounds completely nuts, so please feel free to ignore me entirely. Anything you make, I’ll enjoy—and I’m sure the larger fandom will too. That’s why we’re all here, right?

Persimmon

Christmas just keeps on coming around again, no matter what else happens... and I keep starting seasonal stories that I lately have a hard time finishing. I’d say I’ll use 2026 to turn over several new leaves, but what are the odds? Anyway, here’s an idea I had. It’s a rickety little plane, but I’m imagining I can land it relatively soon. (There I go with the optimism. Foolish.) This is set in a post-series, generally canon-compliant chunk of time, with Helena back at the Warehouse. In my preferred scenario, Myka and Pete have realized the error of their girlfriend-boyfriend ways pretty fast, Helena has done the same with regard to whoever Giselle was, and Myka, in this Helena-is-back is trying not to let herself pine for what she might be able to have but is too scared to let herself believe is possible. How successful could she possibly be with such trying though? Let us see...

Persimmon

Myka bites into the persimmon, expecting resistance, but her teeth pierce their way easily into and through, bruising rich flesh. She should have foreseen the ease: the bright, fat orange berry had practically contused itself as its softness sank against her palm. New, new. “I’ve never tasted this,” she says as thick, perfumy pulp threatens to escape her mouth. “I’d remember.” She should be embarrassed, but she finds no space in her mouth, on her face, for that kind of restraint.

“What else haven’t you tasted?” comes the rejoinder. “I wonder...”

****

Two days earlier

When Myka walks into the Warehouse office, she finds Pete sitting in Artie’s chair. Just sitting. Sitting still.

It’s weird.

He looks up at her and somehow manages to sit even stiller.

Even weirder.

“Are you sick?” she asks.

“Feel fine,” he says.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Playing basketball.”

He’s... sitting in a chair. Unmoving. “Have you been whammied?” she demands.

Court 4

I wish a hearty “where were we?” to anyone who may still be following along with this tale of trial-related shenanigans... of course everything associated with the Warehouse is a trial in some way or another, at least as far as I imagine Myka ideating the world in which she’s found herself. See part 1, part 2, and part 3 to sort-of understand where, in fact, we were/are. I continue to offer thanks to @amtrak12 for being patient (or maybe “resigned” is the better word) as this shambolic @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift unfolds. Or unwraps. Or whatever it is gifts do when they take a long time.

Court 4

It’s exactly how the nightly news had led her, when she was a child, to think a trial looked, to lodge it in her brain: here, now, before Myka’s eyes—or at least occupying her visual field—is a literal courtroom sketch, a broad-stroked, dashed-off pastel rendering of a space featuring an elevated bench, advocates’ tables, jury box... all of them empty, waiting.

But now the wait ends: the single drawing shifts once, then again, then morphs into a flip-book, one offering different angles, perspectives, even movement; as the space begins to populate, she sees Helena take her place at her table, sees herself do the same at her own, watches the two of them nod to each other with respect, the way well-matched (she and Helena are so well-matched) adversaries would do.

Even roughly pigmented, even with canvas-texture interference, Helena is a work of art.

But Myka has little time to contemplate Helena as museum-piece, for the flip-book begins to flip faster, the angle shifting again, as she and Helena rise... ah, the entry of the judge: robed, sober, ready to consider and then to render judgment. This is what she and Helena are here to receive.

Wait. Hold on... the judge—his build, his gait, his entire physical aspect—seems familiar.

He turns to face the court.

Hi Anon—

First, many thanks for your kind words, particularly about Studio, which remains close to my heart. (Of course all the pieces do, in their idiosyncratic ways.) I’m not much of a process-talker, but what I will say—this is no secret; I’ve mentioned it elsewhere—is that I write for a living. That’s mostly how I got where I am: I’ve written and revised and revised and revised in order to eat and pay the mortgage, and I know I’ve improved over time.

I’m tempted to rant about how just writing a lot, that in itself, generally doesn’t lead to improvement, that you need appropriate feedback, but I’d inevitably get over-the-top pedantic about that. What I’ll say instead is that, in my opinion, working through critique of your stuff from folks who read well develops the muscles that enable you to read that stuff well yourself. That’s where I hope I am in terms of how I plot and edit (aside from some self-indulgent tics I may not bother to censor when I’m writing for free on the internet). Also, editing-wise, I do lots and lots of dialogue passes. And then lots more. Recognizing and fixing janky rhythms and clangs in how people talk: that’s essential to the work I try to do. Actually this relates to the answer I gave to the lovely previous Anon who asked whether I wrote for other shows, in that one reason I don’t is that I need to fully “hear” the voices I’m trying to represent... and that requires a commitment to close listening. JK and JM themselves rewarded that commitment for me, WH13-wise; for, say, West Wing, Sorkin’s dialogue and how the actors performed it were the prizes. With regard to other texts, lately, my ears don’t seem to want to engage.

Hm. Why am I having this fit of volubility? I haven’t hit my head recently, so ??? In any case I appreciate the questions!

Hi Anon—

B&W are truly quite the muses... since they came along, other shows haven’t really spoken to me in such a compelling way. I’m mostly grateful for it, in that JK and JM embodied those ladies so fully that I haven’t felt much need to look past them, but I have some regret, too, because part of my inability to move on has to do with both the ongoing shambolic disaster of US politics and the pandemic. In those twin ongoing wakes, narrative hasn’t been working correctly for me, and without access to the full spark of new stories, I’ve been on the one hand lost and fumbling, but on the other, clinging to B&W like they’re the one (joint) buoy the storm hasn’t grabbed up and shattered against the rocks.

Even so, you may have noted that folks from other shows make cameos, some of them extended, in my stuff. I confess to being particularly proud of Giselle, my West Wing crossover, because I wasn’t sure I could ape Sorkin's dialogue, but I think/hope I pulled it off. To an extent. There are some additional sort-of appearances of characters from other shows in certain stories, but none so extensive as the WW one.

Your question honestly made me think about where I need or want to go from here... maybe nowhere. I don’t know yet, but I appreciate your giving me reason to turn the thought over a few times with both hands. My best to you, as well as a wish that your encounters with new stories are going better than mine.

Real 2

In part 1 of this tale (way back in December!) I left Myka and Helena suspended in a post-S5 situation: Helena back as an agent, yet still involved (long-distance) with Giselle; Myka no longer with Pete, yet unwilling/unable to intervene in Helena’s situation. But late late late on Christmas Eve in the B&B, Myka encounters Helena watching the Yule Log—because, she reports, Pete told her to. As for why she’s following such an order—it’s complicated!—you’ll need to consult the aforementioned part 1. As for what’s transpiring... well, Myka has just been moved to offer some real words about something she and Helena have only moments ago begun to discuss for the first time: her abortive relationship with Pete. Myka’s admission? “We fought. Pete and I.” And what does that lead to? This part starts to say.

Real 2

It’s better, at least a little, at least Myka hopes so, than her too-glib “It didn’t take.”

Helena visibly considers the statement, and that’s a tick on the “better” side. Then she says, “I’m surprised. You’re both peacemakers.”

“Is that complimentary or derogatory?”

“Descriptive. Take it as you wish.”

It’s descriptive and discerning. So Myka says what’s true. “I tried not to fight. So, derogatory.”

“Because you felt you should have fought?”

“I felt we would have fought. Unless I worked hard to keep it from happening.”

“Fought about...?” Helena’s interrogative is gentle, but after a beat, she nods. “Ah. Let me guess.”

“No need,” Myka says, stating the obvious. “Anyway, we did. Only once, but once was enough.”

“To end the involvement?”

“Not immediately.” It should have, but Myka had been slow to know it. Slow, and a coward.

“What was the resolution?”

“To the fight? There wasn’t one.”

“Ah,” Helena says again.

But this one is too smug, too proud, too of course you couldn’t resolve it because I cannot be solved for—okay, maybe Myka’s projecting. Even so: “Don’t say it like that. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about it.” Helena doesn’t know—and she wasn’t even really the matter, because she wasn’t there. Only some ghost bearing—flaunting—her name. Uncanny non-matter, haunting everything.

Court 3

To @amtrak12 , who obviously has the patience of a saint, I offer the next part of this @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift. As begun in part 1 and part 2, it’s a vaguely in-universe story in which Myka and Helena are in some fashion being pitted against each other in court.... but that scenario, and everything surrounding it, is of somewhat unclear definition. Why might that be? All will be revealed eventually, I promise, and there are a few hints here in this part. Overall, I hope there’s at least a little enjoyment in the excruciatingly slow ride.

Court 3

Now Artie is waving folders around: “Legal!” he says, flourishing one in his right hand, and then, as if to distinguish by name the one in his next-raised left, “briefs!”

With a little look-at-me shimmy, Pete says, “But what about legal boxers?” Like he’s the first person ever to make such a joke.

“Fisticuffs?” Helena asks, a little plaintive.

So, okay, maybe he’s the first ever to make such a joke in front of Helena. who deserves not to be left in the dark, even by a joke that only Pete thinks is funny. “He means—” Myka starts, but it occurs to her, just in time, before she fully embarks, that she does not want to talk about distinctions between types of underwear with Helena Wells. Or with H.G. Wells. Or with anybody, really, but in particular not with either of those eminences.

But she likes “fisticuffs.” As a word. So: “Never mind,” she says, following up with, “I like ‘fisticuffs.’” To the four surprise-widened pairs of eyes that slew her way—hallelujah, the distraction worked—she finishes, “As a word.”

Artie’s eyes narrow. “Here’s a word: unforgettable. Be that, both of you. On both sides. So nobody questions anybody’s legitimacy when it’s time to take possession.”

Take possession. Why does everything he says make Myka think inappropriate thoughts?

But also: being unforgettable certainly won’t be a problem for Helena.

Court 2

Hi @amtrak12 —here, on the occasion of the B&W-meeting anniversary, I have the next part of your @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange gift, which is turning out overall to be a slower-than-slow unspooling that has something to do with lawyers and arguments and ownership. Herein, the plot thickens. Or maybe just clots, or perhaps congeals. Anyway, events—or “events”?—occur. Following, sort of, what happened in part 1. (Contributing to my usual sluggish pace is the fact that it’s been a rough several months, for me at least. I hope everyone’s holding tight to whatever helps...)

Court 2

Leena stumbles. She is sitting in Artie’s Warehouse office, waiting for Claudia to finish some database update or other, and yet her entire being manages to lose its footing. To stumble.

“Are you okay?”

The question from Claudia startles Leena out of her first response to the lurching sensation: trying to ascertain whether she should have been more attentive, all day, to the background hum of artifactual grumbling. They always want attention, artifacts do, but has today been—and is this moment in particular—about attention? Or has some hapless item found itself in genuine distress?

“Seriously, are you okay?” Claudia asks again, again startling Leena, enough that instead of what would usually be a measured “yes,” she voices an awkward “huh?”

“You look like somebody kicked your puppy. Or wait...” Claudia squints. “More like your puppy did a thing and you don’t know if you should give it a treat or say ‘bad dog.’”

“You do cut right to it,” Leena says, because Claudia has.

“I’m discerning.” She squints again. “Is that what I mean? Myka would know.”

“Even if it isn’t, you are. And yes, she would.”

Claudia beams, likely on both accounts. “Thanks! Probably. So what’s up with your puppy?”

“I can’t tell,” Leena admits. “Something dramatic. And the real question is, which puppy?”

Court

Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange , @amtrak12 ! What I have for you is the start of a story—it would have been a more lengthy start, but work and other concerns perfect-stormed me into an unanticipated time crunch. Excuses, excuses... I know, and I regret it. However! What I don’t regret at all is how your many great ideas inspired me; you’ll see which of those I began with (tweaked a bit!), and as this gift keeps on giving, you’ll find I worked in several other possibilities as well. Here’s hoping they combine into a whole that—over time—brings you some moments of enjoyment. (Many thanks to @kla1991 , of course, for the continued heroic herding of the fandom cats.)

Court

Breakfast, Myka has lately decided, or determined, or realized, is her favorite meal of the day. The reason is not that there is lately a new person at the breakfast table, but rather...

Okay. Yes. That is the reason.

Every morning, she waits for the reason to appear, here at breakfast, to remind her: of importance, of why it (she) is her favorite. Today begins the second week of this lovely new ritual—an anniversary of sorts, one she would like to be cherishing (H.G. Wells, Agent Wells, Helena Wells, at the breakfast table every morning for two weeks!)—but instead, she is being assailed by Pete’s distracting habit of pawing through the box of Lucky Charms, extracting the marshmallows, tossing them into the air (up through which they ascend, and down through which they tumble, in seeming slow motion), and catching them on his tongue like purposeless candy snowflakes. Or not catching them, at which point he scrabbles for them on the floor.

It’s viscerally offensive. Why doesn’t Leena tell him to stop it?

Oh. Leena isn’t here. Why isn’t—

But then Myka is again distracted, and even more viscerally offended, when Artie huffs in and declares, “I need lawyers.”

Greetings of the season to you, gift exchange gifter, as well as huge thanks to you for hanging in there with this small but mighty fandom! I’m delighted to hear that you prefer writing humor to angst, because I’m a huge fan of comedy; anything screwball and/or slapstick is likely to put a smile on my face. In that vein, here are a few B&W questions that might spark funny (or possibly tragicomic) answers: Would there ever be a situation in which one or both of them would be compelled to herd peacocks, or maybe to perform a stand-up routine? Does one or both have a fear of puppets? Might one or both feel supremely confident in having deduced the working of an artifact, yet have to face the consequences of having been completely wrong? Might they have to crash a wedding, or a funeral, or both in rapid succession? Could one or the other get trapped in a completely incongruous location... the overhead compartment of an airplane, say, or the case for an upright bass?

No pressure on you to respond to anything I’ve burbled out here. Whatever inspiration strikes you, I hope you’ll pursue it, because the creation of more Bering and Wells stuff to hang out there in the world is by definition an excellent gift.