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Any other time, Pete would’ve busted out laughing, because the sight of H.G. Wells trying to change direction on a slippery floor in her ridiculous boots was something that should have been hilarious. Instead, he just concentrated on willing her not to fall down as she came around the corner of the hospital corridor at top speed. It was something out of a cartoon, the way she couldn’t get a purchase on the linoleum or tile or whatever it was, the way she flapped her arms, the way she was completely out of control in a way he didn’t think he’d ever seen her move before. But then, the circumstances weren’t something either of them had ever had to deal with before. He’d be running down the hall the exact same way if he weren’t already here, if he’d got the phone call she had, just twenty minutes ago. Had it only been twenty minutes? She’d made hella time getting here, then, which he didn’t even want to think about.
And now she’d caught sight of Pete and was sprinting directly at him, yelling, “What is happening!” in a way that suggested she hadn’t really taken a breath in that twenty minutes. And she probably hadn’t. She’d stayed on the phone with him long enough to figure how to get to the hospital, and right as she’d hung up, he’d heard the engine revving and tires squealing, and he knew she’d broken all the laws she’d needed to. Probably some of them were laws of physics.
She tried to stop herself before she ran into him, but she couldn’t quite; fortunately, he’d braced himself for impact. He caught her arms as she fell against him, and he said, “We don’t know anything yet.” He held her in a not-quite-hug, supporting her as she sagged, as if finally being able to stop had made her start thinking about why she was moving so fast in the first place.
They didn’t always get along perfectly, he and H.G., but where Myka was concerned, they were in complete agreement that what was best for her was best for both of them too. And now there was no question about it: what was best for her was that she not die. And her getting herself shot had made making sure of that a lot more difficult than it needed to be.
“Pete,” H.G. said. She never called him Pete; usually, she didn’t call him anything at all. Sometimes “that one,” if she was talking to someone else, with a head tilt in his direction. In the field, always “Agent Lattimer.” To his mom, always “your son.” He didn’t know if that was some Victorian thing, or just an H.G. thing, or just an H.G.-and-him thing.
“H.G.,” he said, but that wasn’t right, not now. He tried again: “Helena. I won’t say it’s going to be okay, because I don’t know that. But I’m hoping as hard as I can.”
“And the doctors have told you nothing?”
“Nothing except that she’s in surgery, and they’re doing everything in their power. I haven’t had a terrible vibe, not since it happened, so that’s something.”
“Then there must be some action we can take… is there an artifact with the power to enhance a surgeon’s ability? Something more generically medical? Hippocrates, Galen; I don’t know anything about modern medicine, so you must help me.”
That was the problem with H.G.—well, one of the problems. She almost always sounded so reasonable, regardless of how crazy she was talking, that she’d have you on board with a plan before you started thinking that maybe things were actually… “Helena, I am not going anywhere to look for any artifact. And neither are you. I’m going to get you some coffee, or tea, or whatever, and we are going to sit here and wait for Myka to get out of surgery and for the doctors to come and tell us that she came through fine.” He kept his grip on her arms and pushed her, as gently as possible, into a chair.
She looked up at him with that same stricken expression that had kept her cartoon skidding from being remotely funny, and she said, “I must do something. I cannot simply sit here. I will harm someone.”
“Then harm me. It’s okay. I can take it. And believe me, it’s not that I don’t want to harm people right now, but I really don’t think that would do either of us, or Myka, any good.” He sat down next to her and rested his elbows on his knees. But he kept his eye on her, too.
“So what are we to do? Make small talk? When all the while, Myka is behind those doors, and they are…” She breathed once, and then her face turned an amazing shade of something awfully close to green. Pete was about to lunge for a trash can for her to heave into when she shook herself and went all steely again. “And they are attempting to sew her life back into her, when all that life wants, I am sure, is to continue to spill out, because it is so much easier, and entropy always wins.”
“Stop it. She’s young and she’s strong and if anybody can will themselves to hold it together, even under anesthesia, you know it’s Myka. So the least we can do is hold it together out here. For her sake. Okay?”
HG gave him the side-eye. She sighed, a huge shudder, and said, “All right. Small talk it shall be.” After a long, slow blink she looked directly at him and said, “How have your sports teams been faring recently?”
“Not well, thanks for asking. The Browns suck.”
“The Browns. Wait, I know this one. American football, yes?”
“Good for you! This makes me think that someday soon you’re going to watch a game and actually be able to tell who has the ball and which way they’re headed.”
“Unlikely. But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Let’s try another one: the Cavs might actually have some game this year.”
“Cavs? That must be short for something.”
“Also Cleveland… you’ve heard me talk about them…”
“Not the Cleveland Cavorites, alas. I suspect defying gravity would be a help in whatever their chosen game happens to be.”
“It actually would,” Pete said. “But come on, you know this. Cav…”
“Cavities. Caverns. Cavalcades. Oh, I have it! And yes, I have heard you speak of them: Cavaliers.”
****
Hours later, Pete stood outside Myka’s hospital room. He watched from the doorway as H.G., in a chair that was so close to the bed that it was halfway wedged underneath it, leaned over and put her head down next to Myka’s torso—the torso that had been ripped open by the bullet and mended by the surgeons. H.G.’s lips were moving, as if she really believed she could talk it into healing faster.
“Pete,” he heard Claudia say softly, from behind him. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here. Did she wake up at all yet?”
He pulled her into a hug, then let her go so she could look into the room. “For just a minute. Long enough to tell H.G. she wished she’d been there to yank her up in the sky, which made H.G. cry like a baby. And then she told me that I’d better make sure H.G. didn’t do anything stupid, and then H.G. started babbling about how I’d made her sit down and talk small talk about sports, and how all the teams should use cavorite, and Myka smiled a little and went to sleep. And now H.G.’s playing bullet-wound whisperer, which is weird but I guess kinda H.G.”
“It’d be more H.G. if she started running around trying to find an artifact that would make any bad guy who fired a gun in the past 24 hours spontaneously combust. How’d you manage to make her sit down and talk small talk about anything, much less sports, when Myka could have died?”
“She actually listened to reason.”
Claudia looked into the room at H.G.—still leaning on the bed, now clutching Myka’s hand in both of hers—then looked back at Pete. Skeptically.
“What?” he said. “She did! I mean, she came in raving about how we’d have to find artifacts to help the doctors and whatever, but she eventually got ahold of herself.”
“It’s the first time in recorded history that anyone not named Myka has managed to talk her down from anything,” Claudia told him. “Do you know what I think that makes you?”
“Happy not to have to explain to Artie why she raided the medical aisle?”
“Well, that. But also, Pete, while Myka is obviously the Godzilla of H.G. whisperers, I hereby dub thee the Godzooky of same.”
“I am not Godzooky!”
“The Scrappy to her Scooby?”
“No!”
“The Mushu to her Mulan?”
“I don’t do that tongue thing.”
“Fine. Dishonor on your cow. The Boo Boo to her Yogi Bear.”
Pete considered. “I’ll accept Boo Boo. I think he was the smart one anyway.”
“I think you’re right. I think that makes you Yogi.”
Pete considered again. “Yeah, I might be Yogi.”
“You’re definitely Yogi,” a weak voice said from the room.
Pete and Claudia rushed to the bed, next to which H.G. was now sitting up. “Hey, Boo Boo!” he exclaimed.
“I see what happens when I’m out of commission,” Myka said. “Everybody turns into cartoon characters.”
Claudia said, “It’s like that episode of Farscape, except in reverse. Kind of. I call Bugs Bunny, by the way.”
Pete heard H.G. say something, very softly. Myka laughed, then said “ow,” then said, “Please don’t make me laugh.”
Claudia asked, “Something you want to share with the class, H.G.?”
H.G. cleared her throat. “I was trying to participate.”
“Participate in what?”
“The… cartooning. Never mind.”
“Oh, Helena. Please. For me,” Myka said.
H.G. leaned her head down the bed again. She kissed Myka’s hand, which Pete thought she was probably never going to let go of. She looked up at Claudia and Pete and began to sing, pretty quietly but incredibly off-key, “Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit…”
And Claudia mock-gulped, “Kill the wabbit?”
Myka laughed again. Then she winced again. H.G. glared at Claudia.
Now Claudia looked genuinely scared.
“Mykes,” Pete said, “I think you know how glad I am that you’re gonna be okay, so I won’t say any mushy words about that. And because you’re gonna be okay, and because I want Claud to be okay too, I hereby hand any and all H.G.-whispering duties back over to you. Pro tip: quiz her on sports in Cleveland.”
END