#hello meet my wild child claudia
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Bad Blood - Chapter 24
You can find it on AO3 or read the Tumblr Chapter Index here.
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John arrives just after midnight, in civilian clothes and a rattling old baby blue Jeep.
“Were you followed?” Peter asks him when he meets him in the backstreet.
“No.” John jams his hands in the pockets of his jeans as they head for the loft building. Peter can taste his anxiety, sharp and acrid, in the air. “How is he?”
“Asleep when I came out to meet you,” Peter says. “Derek’s with him. He seems to be able to keep him calm. He had a small breakdown a few hours ago, but it might be too early to call it a breakthrough.”
“Yeah,” John says as they reach the steps. “I’m not expecting things to go smoothly here.”
They climb the steps slowly.
When they reach the loft, Allison is asleep on the couch with the throw rug tucked around her. Her shoes are neatly lined up on the floor beside the couch. Laura is sitting in the armchair across from her, reading a magazine in the faint moonlight.
The steel door to the secure room is ajar, and Peter can hear two heartbeats from inside. One is Derek’s. It’s as familiar and necessary to Peter as his own heartbeat. The other one, Stiles’s, is slow and steady with sleep.
Peter draws John over into the kitchen, and flicks on the light there. It shouldn’t wake the sleeping humans.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“I’ve had enough coffee today,” John says, and then squints at his watch. “Well, it’s tomorrow already, isn’t it?”
“Tea then,” Peter says, and begins to make it.
John drifts over toward the steel door, and leans there in the darkness. Peter isn’t sure if he can even see inside with his dull human eyesight, but perhaps he just wants to be close to his son.
On the couch, Allison snuffles as she wakes up.
John turns to face her.
Allison sits up quickly. “Who are you?”
“John Stilinski,” he says. “And you must be Allison.”
She blinks at him in the gloom. “You’re Stiles’s dad. My mom’s… cousin?”
“That’s right.” He gestures toward the couch, and awaits her nod before he goes and sits. “I’ve been up at the hospital today. Your father’s out of surgery, and the doctors say he’s looking at a few months recovery time, but he’s going to be fine.”
Allison exhales. “Thank you. And my mom?”
“She knows you’re with Stiles,” John says. “And she knows you’re with the Hales. She’s sure as hell not happy about it, but I guess she’s decided they’re the safest option for you right now.”
Allison nods again. “This is all so crazy. Werewolves!” She looks across to Laura. “Sorry.”
“It’s pretty crazy,” Laura says with a smile, and her eyes flash red.
Allison snorts.
Something in Peter warms at that, at Allison’s reaction. Allison doesn’t know what red eyes mean. She hasn’t been poisoned against werewolves like Stiles has, like every other child in a hunter family has. She takes Laura’s gesture exactly for what it is—showing off. Allison isn’t afraid of Laura’s eyes. She’s not afraid of any of the pack. She’s judging them by who they are, not by what they are. How unexpected, from someone with her surname.
Of course, these past few weeks have been nothing but unexpected. When all this is over, Peter resolves to never be surprised by anything or anyone again in his life.
He carries John’s tea over to him, and perches on the arm of the couch beside him.
“It’s just been insane,” Allison continues. “Not just you guys, but my dad, and Stiles, and Scott…” Her brows creases and her eyes fill with tears. “Stiles said he was there. He said…”
John darts a glance at Peter, and says, “He was lied to. We all were. Some of the old European families are particularly…” He shakes his head as he hunts for the word. “Zealous. The only good werewolf is a dead werewolf to them.”
Laura’s eyes flash again, and it’s not teasing this time.
“It took me half my life to learn it was a lie,” John continues. “It’s not a defence, Allison, it’s an explanation. When I was a hunter, if I’d seen a werewolf lurking around my family’s house, I would have chased him down and killed him too.” He passes a hand over his brow. “Scott McCall was a good kid. I’m sorry that happened to him.”
Allison swallows and nods.
It is what it is, Peter thinks.
If they survive this, perhaps in time they can plaster over the thousands of fractures between them—some tiny and some not so tiny—and learn to how to heal.
If they survive.
***
Allison goes upstairs to sleep in the end, in Derek’s room since he’s not using it. Laura goes with her to find some fresh sheets. John sits on the couch, his feet on the coffee table and his head thrown back, and Peter watches him doze from the window.
It takes an hour or so, but eventually Peter hears Stiles’s heartbeat change, and then the low murmur of voices.
He’s awake.
Peter treads silently over to John and touches him on the arm.
John jolts.
“Stiles is awake,” Peter murmurs.
John tenses, as though he’s going to stand, but Peter shakes his head and keeps touching his arm. Then he sits down beside him.
With wild animals, Peter thinks, you have to wait until they approach you.
It takes a while—the long seconds draw out into even longer minutes—but then the door to the secure room opens a little more. Peter can see the two figures standing there, but he’s not sure if John can make them out.
“Derek,” he says softly, “turn a lamp on, would you?”
Derek detaches himself from Stiles’s side, and moves to switch on the lamp on the end table.
John blinks in the sudden light.
So does his son.
“Hello, Stiles,” John says at last, and Peter can hear the tension in his tone, the barely-disguised urge to leap up and run towards his boy. And then he’s quiet for a moment, as though wrestling with what to say. His voice rasps when he says, at least, “I’ve missed you.”
Derek crosses the floor to stand with Stiles again.
Stiles jerks his head in a nod. “I…”
And then nothing.
“If there’s anything you want to know,” John says, “about all of this, about you, about your mom and me, about my past, you only have to ask. I’ll tell you.”
Stiles swipes his tongue long his bottom lip. “We… our family. You turned your back on all of that.”
John nods, his eyes shining. “For your mother, and for you.”
Stiles blinks.
“Claudia was a Gajos, Stiles.”
And Stiles flinches back, so Peter guesses he knows the names of werewolf packs just as much as does the hunter families. His expression cracks into something caught between horror and disgust. “Mom was a werewolf?”
“She was human,” John says softly. “But she was a human born into a pack. There was a chance, when we expecting you, that… well, we thought you had a chance of being born a werewolf.”
“You didn’t tell me anything about this! I didn’t know anything!” Stiles clenches his fingers into fists.
“I’d always planned to tell you,” John says. “I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
Stiles opens his mouth to reply, and then closes it again. He shakes his head. “I—I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to say to you.”
And he turns and walks back into the room.
Derek follows him.
The door closes.
***
“No such thing as a fast resolution,” John says as he makes himself a sandwich in Peter’s kitchen. He’s wearing a brittle smile. “I’ve learned that before in the job.”
“That’s true,” Peter agrees, but he knows John is more hurt than he’s letting on, and a hell of a lot more fragile. “Baby steps.”
“Baby steps,” John says. His hand freezes over the tub of butter. “I should have brought him some photo albums. And I’ve got a video of him somewhere, riding his tricycle up and down the driveway. Claudia took it.”
“You can try that another time.” Peter takes the knife off him and spreads the butter. “You can’t push him too hard. It’s been less than a day.”
“Yeah.” John taps his fingers on the counter and nods. “Yeah, you’re right.”
But there’s a difference, Peter knows, between a thing being right and a thing feeling right. And sometimes it’s as wide as a chasm.
After the fire, after he’d found out exactly what happened, Peter had wanted to grab Derek and shake him by the shoulders. He’d wanted to scream at him to stop wallowing in his guilt, that it wasn’t his fault. He’d wanted Derek to get better, now.
But there’s a process, as the therapists of the world would say.
It’s not a straight road. It’s full of bumps and dips and potholes and detours. It gets there in the end, mostly, but the journey isn’t an easy one. And it’s sure as hell not a quick one.
“What do you want, John?” he asks curiously. “When you imagine this all somehow working out, what do you see yourself doing with Stiles?”
John exhales slowly. “Is this the part where I say I see myself on a boat in a lake, sitting with my son, and dangling a fishing line in the water?”
“If you like.”
“I would like,” John says, and shakes his head and smiles, “but that’s not the son I remember. He hated fishing. He hated anything where he had to sit still for extended periods of time. Jesus, when he was a toddler someone had to sit with him when he went on the potty or otherwise he’d just get up and wander away, and we’d find out later he’d pooped the length of the hallway.”
Peter laughs at that.
“I want a teenager,” John says. “I want a sixteen-year-old kid. I want him to play videogames, and lie about having done his homework, and bug the hell out of me for money for shit he doesn’t need.” He shrugs. “What about you? Where do you see yourself?”
“Maybe I’ll go fishing with you,” Peter says. “I know how to sit still.”
John hip checks him softly.
“I want to rebuild the house,” Peter says, his chest aching. “I want us to live in the Preserve again. I want a backyard. I want to help Matty paint his room and put those glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling. I want to get him a dog and sit on the porch and read a book while he runs around the yard with it.”
“That sounds like a good plan, Peter,” John says.
“Mmm.” Peter puts the lid back on the tub of butter. “I wish it felt like a plan, and not a crazy fucking fantasy that will never happen. Such simple things shouldn’t feel so out of reach, should they?”
And John only smiles sadly and shakes his head.
“No, they shouldn’t,” he says, and offers Peter half his sandwich.
Peter takes it.
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out of place/out of mind - 4
(Read first) one step forward, two steps back (v.2.0):part 1+ part 2,
(Previously) out of place, out of mind: part 1, part 2, part 3
I posted chapter 3 at a weird time so maybe later will reach more people (though who knows on a Monday.) To repeat, it's an Instinct replacement and forward fix it fic, in six chapters. I'll fix typos later and thanks for reading!
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After a long, nondescript highway drive, Myka and Helena travel deep into the forest, side roads giving way to back then on to dirt. Dappled light flits across the dash and Helena leans closer to the window, her eyes coming alive in a way Myka hasn’t seen for an eternity. It was a toss-up whether Helena would freak out or feel at home in the woods, but now Myka’s certain this was a good idea after all.
She thought the drive might loosen Helena's tongue and she'd learn more about the cabin “the cowboy” built for his wife and child. But when pushed for details, as per usual, Helena changed the subject. Helena avoids talking about her life there in general, and it drives Myka crazy. She's puzzled “the cowboy’s" backstory out on her own, but Helena’s insisted both worlds be kept separate, so Helena’s experiences of it remain a mystery.
When they arrive at their rented cabin, Helena searches every room, as if looking for something, or someone, hidden inside. She's put off by its layout—it’s more modern than she’d like—but after close inspection, she seems pleased to be there.
It’s an unseasonably warm night, and Helena insists on sleeping under the stars, but Myka, at first, declines to join her. Craving a warm, soft bed, she settles into the loft bedroom, but eventually gives in, feeling silly in the house all alone. She drags out an extra blanket and snuggles up to Helena for warmth, then nods off with her head on Helena’s shoulder.
She's alone when she wakes the next morning, rested but worse for wear, so she wraps the blanket around herself and joins Helena in the kitchen. "The cowboy" must feel at home here, as Helena’s more animated than she’s been in weeks, and if “the cowboy's” happy, Helena’s mood might improve.
After their meal, they finish unpacking, then, post lunch, take a stroll in the woods. Myka naps upstairs while Helena cooks a modest dinner, and as evening wanes, they read together on the couch. Helena made cozy fire as it’s cooler than yesterday, and as they inch together, Myka guides Helena’s head onto her lap. She strokes her fingers through Helena's silky hair and smiles as Helena relaxes into her. Not wanting to wake her, Myka continues reading for a spell, but eventually guides Helena upstairs to bed.
The next morning, Helena’s gone again, so she rises and shuffles sleepily downstairs. Coffee is brewing, but Helena’s out in the yard, her back turned, huddled over the picnic table. Myka slips on her boots and a jacket, then heads out to see what she's doing.
“You’re up early,” she says, but the closer she gets, the more concerned she grows. Is that a pile of feathers on the ground? A quiver of arrows leaning against the table?
“Good morning,” Helena says, with a sunny lilt in her tone.
Myka jumps back as Helena turns to greet her as her hands, and the knife she’s holding, are both covered in blood.
“I’ve acquired dinner, but it's currently not for the faint of heart.” She smiles at Myka and steps to the side to reveal the table.
“Y-you killed that, with that?” Myka points at the arrows.
Helena nods, sagely. “And 'that,' I believe, is a turkey.”
“I thought those arrows were a decoration."
“They were most efficient.”
“You need a license to kill things. And it has to be in season.”
“On our own lands?”
“On any lands. This isn't the Wild West. There are rules.”
“Too late for this fowl,” Helena says, turning back to the table, continuing her task.
“I didn’t know you liked to hunt,” Myka says, seizing the moment. If she keeps Helena talking, maybe she'll open up.
“As the hunter, yes. The game, no.”
“What do you mean?”
The knife thwacks down on the turkey’s neck, and it falls to the ground with a thunk. “You've read my report.”
“I did. I was worried about you and you wouldn’t—“
“Talk with you. Only Abigail.”
“Yeah. I still don’t understand why.”
“You’ve read what happened.”
“It barely scratched the surface.”
"What would you have me say?” Helena turns to face Myka, lips pressed into a thin line.
“Anything. Anything at all,” Myka says, throwing her hands in the air. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened, and right now I'm totally in the dark.” Abigail, too, wouldn’t reveal much, citing doctor-patient confidentiality. She said Helena would open up when she was ready, but Myka’s patience is wearing thin.
“Shall I describe, in graphic detail, how I narrowly escaped execution after being thrown in jail? Recount tales of being hunted like a wild animal, bruised, bloodied, delirious for months on end? Or relive the battle between townsfolk and local tribe where my freedom was gained by brutally murdering my enemy?”
Myka flinches as the knife's point is thrust into the table, Helena's fingers remaining wrapped around its hilt.
“I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. But I need you talk, so I can understand what you’re going through.” All of that was in Helena's report, and Myka's genuinely horrified, but to bring the real Helena back, she needs to understand what she's dealing with emotionally.
“My trauma should never be your burden to bear.”
“Is there another reason you won’t talk to me?”
“Such as what?"
“Did you kill Jamison because Mary asked you to?”
Helena’s glare turns into confusion at the question. “It was the climax of the film, was it not? By then, my actions were no longer my own. Jamison was truly evil, and the child’s safety was at risk. Had that ridiculous flash-forward not been tagged on, I'd have been back years earlier, and I wouldn’t be standing here the mess that I am.”
“Yeah, but, did you love her?”
“The child? Of course.”
“I meant Mary.”
It's a selfish thing to ask, and the flash of hurt in Helena’s eyes confirms it; Myka wishes it never came out of her mouth. But it’s been niggling at her since Helena’s return, and she needs to know for certain if Helena's reluctance to talk is because of a lingering loyalty to Mary.
“I felt as scripted, with little agency. By the time Claudia arrived, I was fully immersed. I did care for Mary, admired her spirit, but even lost in "the cowboy’s" psyche, I understood my heart belonged to another.”
Helena smiles weakly at Myka, and Myka smiles back, tears welling up behind her eyes. She reaches out to hug Helena and Helena lifts her arms, but her hand’s bloodied state gives her pause. Helena looks down at the ground, then turns back to the turkey, shoulders dropping, head hanging low.
“Deep down you knew we were trying to get you back.”
"You’re what kept me alive in the beginning, through my worst moments. When I was freezing to death, I’d imagine you there to warm me, bringing me tea, like you did before I betrayed you.”
Helena folds further in on herself and Myka places a hand on her back.
“That was a long time ago. We’ve moved past that."
Helena breathes in deeply and slowly releases the breath then glances back at Myka. “There were days I’d lose myself in you, gazing into your eyes, kissing you for hours, sharing your bed as we did after Sykes. But then modernity began slipping away, and I was arguing with Charles or traveling with Christina. All my memories became circumspect, and you became a figment of my imagination. I rationalized my situation by believing I ran away to America to escape the trauma of Christina’s death. The thought of better world existing in the future seemed too farfetched, clearly something I'd dreamt up for a novel.”
“Oh, Helena,” Myka says, stepping behind her, skimming her hands down the sides of her arms.
Helena looks down at her hands, at the blood on them. “There were others, beyond Jamison.”
“You did what you needed to survive.”
“Perhaps,” Helena says, sounding as if that bitter Helena, the one straight from the bronze, has reappeared. “Isn’t the saying, dog eat dog world? Survival of the fittest? In hindsight, that’s not justification enough.” Her knees wobble, almost buckling.
Myka grips Helena’s upper arms to prop her up. “Why don’t you finish here and call Abigail?” she says, seeing she's pushed Helena too far. If Helena refuses, she'll call herself, as it’s time to ask for help.
Helena steadies herself and nods in agreement then looks over her shoulder Myka. Myka smiles her most comforting smile and threads a lock of hair behind Helena's ear. As she meets Helena's wild, sad eyes, she says, “I’m real, ok.” She then cradles Helena's chin and kisses her temple. “Never forget, your home is here with me."
----------
As Helena pulls into the driveway, Myka moves to the window and watches her walk directly around back. Helena left hours ago to find cell service, and she's not the best driver, so she was beginning to worry she'd gotten lost. Myka offered to chauffer, but Helena insisted she go alone and wore Myka down until she gave in.
Helena enters the shed and emerges with a hatchet, then walks toward a pile of wood. She selects a specific log, then balances it on a stump and swings the hatchet to split it in two. She repeats the motion several times over, splitting each section into even smaller ones. She then starts whole the process over again, as if on an assembly line, and Myka stares, mesmerized by Helena's lifting, chopping, and throwing.
She wonders why Helena didn't stop in and say hello first, but maybe time is of the essence. She wanted to roast the turkey over an open flame, and for it to be ready for dinner, she probably needed to start it right away.
After ten or so logs, Helena seems to be winding down, so Myka nips out to ask if she needs help. She crosses the lawn and approaches Helena from behind, admiring her fit physique as she walks.
“I thought you might need help with—“
The second she touches Helena’s shoulder, Helena spins around, smacking her in breastbone and pushing her to the ground. Helena then pins her down, forearm to chest, legs straddling hips, teeth bared, hatchet blade hovering just above her neck. With the wind knocked out of her, Myka coughs and gasps for breath, the cold metal stuttering against her skin.
“H-Helena, s-stop,” Myka wheezes, her body limp, save for her cough. Her heart beats out of her chest at the crazed look in Helena’s eyes, one she recognizes all too well. “It’s Myka.”
A hint of recognition flashes across Helena’s face, and she bears down less on Myka’s chest. She scrambles to her feet and hurls the hatchet to the side, stumbling back, tripping over herself as she turns and runs away.
“Come back!” Myka croaks, falling forward as she rises, hand flying up to her chest as she coughs. “Damnit,” she mutters, and as Helena disappears into the woods, she falls to the side then lays flat.
--------
Myka camps out on the porch, huddled under a blanket, tipping her rocking chair back and forth to stay calm. She stares into the darkness, knowing Helena will come back, though the hatchet may add time to her disappearance.
After this afternoon's incident, she Farnsworthed the Warehouse, driving out of the valley to combat fuzzy reception. Months ago, Claudia put a tracking device in Helena's locket, and Abigail located her only a mile away. Myka asked her to email the location, but Abigail warned against retrieving her too soon. She said Helena needed distance to work through her jumbled mind and maybe Myka deserved a break, too.
When asked what prompted Helena's flight, Myka burst into tears, her suppressed fear from that moment releasing itself. She insisted it was her fault, that she pushed Helena too far, triggering harmful memories for them both.
Abigail urged Myka to leave if she didn’t feel safe and said they'd send backup for when Helena returned. Myka said no, she was ok, and ambushing Helena would only drive her further away. She assured Abigail when Helena returned she knew what to say to make things right. She even admitted it was time to face up to hard facts and but wanted one more chance to reach Helena on her own.
When the temperature drops, she heads into the cabin, leaving the porch light on just in case Helena returns. She hunkers down in bed and hugs a pillow to her chest, wrapping her mind around the fact Helena may never be her Helena again.
-----------
A warm light flickers over her eyes as the scent of coffee fills her nose; the sun is up, and Helena must be back. She dons her robe and her slippers and peeks out the bedroom window, seeing Helena cutting up vegetables below. Helena looks up, meeting Myka’s gaze but, without smiling, turns back to her task. She cleans off the knife and slides it into its wooden holder, then glances at Myka before moving to the stove.
Myka descends the stairs and enters the kitchen, grabbing a clean coffee cup from the dish rack. She fills her mug as if it were a normal morning and adds a dab of milk from a carton. She takes a small sip and leans a hip on the counter, all the while, eyes on Helena.
“You're back,” Myka says.
“Momentarily,” Helena replies, dropping peppers into the already sizzling onions.
“What does that mean?” Myka says, hands tightening around her mug.
"I’m going,” Helena says, glancing at Myka, then back at the pan.
“Going where?”
“Away.” Helena adds a bowl of chopped tomatoes and moves the mixture around with a wooden spoon.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” Myka says, stepping closer to Helena and setting her mug down on the counter. She reaches out to touch Helena’s shoulder, but Helena shrugs away.
“I nearly killed you yesterday. Again.” Helena's hand tightens around the spoon, her movements slowing to a stop.
“You wouldn’t.” Myka reaches in front of Helena and carefully turns off the burner.
“You can’t know that for certain.”
“I just do.”
“If I can’t predict my actions, how could you?” Helena’s hand trembles as she places the spoon on the counter, so much so it clambers to the floor.
“I got you through the bad times, remember? Thoughts of me kept you safe. I’m what's real, and your subconscious knows it."
“That’s not enough to keep the demons at bay.”
“Then you wouldn’t because you love me. You said so after Sykes. That your capable of love at all, after Christina, scares you enough to stop.”
Helena grips the edge of the stove and leans forward, closing her eyes, dipping her head down.
“Every time we go on a mission, we risk our lives. How many times have I nearly died? Have you actually died? I think I know by now the difference between almost and inevitable.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.” Myka steps even closer, sliding a hand across Helena's jaw and turning her head, so their eyes meet.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” Helena says.
“But I do.” Myka strokes her thumb over Helena’s cheek, but when the fear in Helena's eyes doesn’t lessen, she draws back her hand. “OK,” she says, nodding. “Have time to yourself. But you have to let Abigail help you. And I have to know where you are.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“You can’t disappear. You owe me that much. No matter what is or is not happening between us, you’re my friend, and I care about you. You need me, and I need you.”
“Surely you have others to turn to?”
“No one gets me—gets to me—like you do. Unless everything between us was an act.”
“Certainly not.”
“I never once gave up hope over those three long years. And look at you, here, now, alive. My wish came true. What more could I ask for?” Myka’s chin begins to tremble.
“More than you’ve been given. More than, ‘I didn't die today.'” Helena brushes a tear from Myka’s cheek and lays a hand on her upper arm. Myka lunges forward, wrapping her arms around Helena, burying her face in Helena’s shoulder.
Helena hugs her close, stroking a hand through her hair. As Myka settles down, she steps back.
“Sorry,” Myka says, wiping her eyes and nose with her sleeve. “You didn't need to see that.” She looks towards the door. “I’ll go. You stay. Just drive me into town.” She walks towards the stairs with purpose.
Helena scrambles behind and grabs her arm. “No. Not like this.”
“Do you love me?” Myka stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I do,” Helena says, without skipping a beat.
“Then let me help you. Let me in.”
Helena drops her hand. “You shouldn’t have to navigate my instabilities.”
“I can handle it, ok?" Myka says, turning around and taking hold of Helena's hands. “You don’t have to shelter me. I know it’s hard to tell, but I’m not all rainbows and sunshine either.”
A weak smile flits across Helena's lips before she looks down at their entwined hands.
Myka brushes her fingers over Helena's cheek then combs slowly through Helena’s hair until her fingers cup the base of Helena's skull. “I know you’re in there, Helena. I need you to come out.”
Helena’s breath hitches as Myka places a light kiss on her cheek then trails her lips across to her ear. She nuzzles her nose into the valley under Helena’s earlobe, and presses kisses down the length of her neck. She always second-guessed herself when they’ve gotten this far before and stopped before moving forward. But this time, Helena's veins tense under her skin, and her quickening pulse gives her the green light.
A guttural growl escapes Helena's throat as Myka teases a familiar sweet spot, and she leans into Myka's touch. Helena tastes like salt and earth, her hair smelling of smoke and leaves, and the earthiness heightens Myka’s resolve to continue.
Helena's hands lift to cradle Myka's jaw, and she kisses her deeply, a latent want taking over as if awakened from a dream. Myka reciprocates, hungrily, her hands moving everywhere at once, then settling the small of Helena's back. Remaining entwined, she guides Helena backward to the couch, and as Helena falls, she pulls Myka down on top of her.
They spend the day lost in a haze of rediscovery and desire, languidly restoring memories of each curve and valley.
-TBC-
#BERING AND WELLS#W13#fix it fic#fan fiction#Myka Bering#Helena HG Wells#instinct replacement#mid-season 4#I'm back at work today#and I think I'm getting a cold#which is highly annoying
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