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A drumbeat kicks in, followed by crunching guitar and finally the oddly jaunty notes of a piano.
A tall female is slumped forward at the bar, head resting in one hand, the other curled round an ice cold beer bottle. She's had one hell of a day. But at the sound of the beat she rolls her eyes, and a slow grin forms as the music reverberates around the practically empty establishment.
'Ah-hooo, werewolves of London
Ah-hooo
Ah-hooo, werewolves of London
Ah-hooo'
She dips her head under the crook of her arm, taking a half spin on the stool. As anticipated, she spots a lithe form stood in shadow by the jukebox.
“Darling, you are becoming lax, did you not catch my scent when I arrived?”
A woman steps forward, attired in dark grey tailored trousers, with the top buttons of a matching waistcoat and burgundy silk shirt conspicuously open. Long wavy hair black as night is pulled around one side of her head to rest perfectly in place on her left shoulder.
“Alcohol dulls the senses...” Turning fully, and straightening to full height, the seated figure leans back against the bar, nose tipped upwards, sniffing the air, “...and really, that song is getting old now.”
The other woman laughs softly, takes one step forward, and in the space of a heartbeat stands only inches away. They are eye to eye, until the seated figure rises, nostrils flaring. The tension in the air is palpable and the bartender has retreated, unsure if this is a meeting of friend or foe.
“Bloodsucker,” she murmurs, dipping her head forward, mouth open...then takes a long drawn out sniff of the pale skin just below an exposed ear.
The subject of this inspection remains absolutely still, until she looks up into green eyes, pupils dilated but red rimmed with stress.
“Lychan,” it's softly spoken, almost a question, and those same eyes close at the same time as tipping back to expose her graceful neck.
A hiss, and the vampire, for that's what she is, steps even closer. Lips part to reveal two fangs extended, and she stretches up to graze sharp points against the skin of that warm neck, instantly followed by the slow chase of her wet tongue.
A low growl and the werewolf, for that's what she is, now tips her head forward to seek out cool lips and a hot mouth. Those mouths are forceful yet slow and passionate, until the werewolf puts her hands at the waist of the vampire to lift and spin her down onto the stool. They stay close, foreheads touching, breathing in familiar air, remembering a familiar touch.
“It's over,” the vampire whispers.
The throaty reply speaks of weariness and disbelief “Truly?”
“Yes, my love. It is.”
And they lean into each other, content to rest in the moment...
“AAAANNND, CUT! THAT’S A WRAP PEOPLE, THANK YOU”
Immediately the lighting shifts, illuminating a film set. Props people bustle in and around the actresses who are still stood, caught in the lens. Claudia, the precocious young director, strides forward.
“Ladies, I have to say, that was intense!”
It's only now that Myka steps back, rubbing her neck, and Helena slips down from the stool, studiously straightening her waistcoat.
“Umm thanks, no third take I guess?” Myka says with a smile.
Helena sniffs, appearing to have recovered from the moment, “Hardly, that was perfect, darling...” she glances at her co-star, “It seems the shoot is at an end.”
Claudia beams, “Sure is, wrap party at the docks - 9 tonight - I will see you both there…” she gives each of them a quick slap on the shoulder, smirks, and bounds off to the editing studio.
“So, wrap party,” Myka says, “Will you be there, Helena?”
“I know I’m not one for the multitude of gatherings this crew seems to enjoy, but I wouldn't miss that, Myka” Helena admonishes in what she believes is a playful tone, and she tugs at her teeth, anxious to get back to make-up.
But Myka frowns, “Fine, just checking,” she says with a forced show of nonchalance, “I might see you there then,” and she turns to stalk off before Helena, a little nonplussed, can respond.
---
It's actually Christmas Eve, the night filming ends at the London set, and it's lightly snowing. So when Helena arrives at the boat where the wrap party is already in full swing, she’s greeted by Christmas lights lining the ramp and the heady scent of pine from Christmas trees dotted about the boat. She scoops a champagne flute as soon as possible, taking two quick gulps as she scans the covered deck area.
She spots Myka almost immediately, how could she not. She is at the far end close to one of the many outdoor heaters, laughing with another one of their co-stars, Pete. She looks stunning in a simple cream dress, hair loose and curly, just enough makeup to accentuate her eyes. Helena can’t quite understand what happened earlier when they were on set. Or rather, she thinks she has a good idea but can't yet work out the best way to respond.
She spies Abigail, one of the writers, and heads over to greet her. Never one to hold back, Abigail whistles long and low.
“Damn, Helena, looking mighty fine tonight!”
Helena shrugs, but can’t help a self congratulatory smirk, having opted for her casual yet refined tuxedo look. Fitted black trousers, barely fitting crisp white blouse open at the neck and bow tie open and loose around her collar.
“Hair down, too,” Abigail leans in, conspiratorially, “Helena Wells, you are dressed to kill,”
“I do hope so,” Helena says, eyes darting over Abigail’s shoulder where she sees Myka moving through the crowd.
They chat for a while and then Abigail snickers, “You know, when we wrote that final scene, the powers that be wanted the kiss omitted.”
Helena is puzzled by the non-sequitur, and her friend smiles, “The writing team fought them on it, I mean come on - as if those two weren’t going to be together by the end…”
Abigail bumps Helena’s hip with her own, and sips at her margarita, pointedly looking over her glass to the edge of the dance floor, where Myka Bering is now stood. She is with Pete Lattimer again, watching people dance to the mixture of romantic, joyful and seasonal songs being played by the excellent swing band that’s been hired. Helena dips her head, feeling a nervousness she hardly knows what to call, because it is quite rare for her to experience it.
“Don’t waste that kiss,” Abigail says, and places her hand in the small of Helena’s back, giving her a gentle nudge. Helena looks at her, incredulous, but Abigail is unrepentant, “Go” she reiterates with a chin up movement, and smiles warmly.
Helena sighs, she wants to do this, but is unsure how Myka will react. Her instinct tells her there is something, absolutely, there is a tension, a friction between them. Yet - they have not acted upon it, Helena hesitant to expose her previously damaged heart, and Myka - well, Myka hasn’t been so talkative about her past. At the least, she is the consummate professional so Helena believes she would never wish to pursue anything while they were engaged in filming. But this is the wrap party, Helena reminds herself, and she doesn’t want them to part ways as a ‘what if?’. She chugs back the remainder of the champagne she is holding and deposits the flute on the first tray she sees floating by on the hand of a host.
She doesn’t look back at Abigail, whose eyes she can feel boring into her, and starts to thread her way to the dancefloor. Almost there, rehearsing words under her breath, almost there...and then Pete takes Myka by the hand and leads the object of her affection out into a dance as the band strikes up a cheerful number. The wind taken out of her sails, Helena straddles a chair front to back, near to a table alongside the dance floor. She watches Myka laugh, twirl and sway as Pete takes the lead, and she sinks into melancholy as she wonders when did this happen, when did Pete become this man who could be what Myka needs or wants for that matter.
“Helena...H.G.?” To her left a voice breaks past her thoughts and she turns to see the kind, open face of Steve, who had the role of a heroic yet tragic sidekick in the script.
“Oh, hello Steve,” she rights her posture, plasters a smile on her face, “Are you enjoying the party? I fear I may reach my limit soon…”
Steve's face scrunches, “I'm just grabbing a drink, what's your poison?” he says, ignoring her comment, and she falters.
“Oh, whiskey sour, please - plenty of ice, thank you.”
He's back in minutes, hands her the drink and drags a chair over to join her. His gaze follows hers, then scans again until his eyes land on a particular spot across from them.
“Do you see that guy over there?”
Helena sees, “Tall, dark and handsome, by any chance?”
Steve grins, “Oh. Yeah, definitely. Well he's a cameraman, so he’s been watching me through a lens for months.”
The man looks up from his companion, sees Steve and winks. Steve laughs giddily, and strangely enough it suits him.
“We haven't said one word to each other in all that time and tonight he came right up to me and gave me his number,” Steve pauses, “..said he didn't want to hook up at a work thing, and would I have dinner with him in the new year.”
“A romantic, then,” Helena grins with him, and chances another look for Myka - who she discovers is looking directly at her over Pete’s shoulder. Helena holds the breath she’d drawn, grin straining, and Myka’s eyes sparkle, before she is spinning around and out of sight.
Steve is chuckling, “You weren't listening, were you?”
She feigns offence, with a frown and a sly smile, because of course he's correct. He is also taking her drink from her hand, and tipping his head at the dance floor.
“I was saying, you should cut in,” he states.
She's a little irritated, if truth be told, and says so. “First Abigail, now you…” she huffs, and retrieves her drink, emptying a glass with resolve for the second time that night.
“You've danced around each other enough, time to do it for real,” she rolls her eyes at his self satisfied expression.
“That is rather lame, as you Americans like to say,” but it's eased her nerves somewhat, though she has one further insecurity, “but Mr Lattimer?”
“He told me he was going to try stirring up your green eyed monster, so make of that what you will,” Steve's grin has returned full force, and she despairs at how blatantly transparent she's apparently been. She wonders if Myka has been receiving the same unsubtle hints tonight.
Helena stands, adjusts the positioning of her open bow tie, and steps onto the polished wooden boards where a good number of people are now dancing. Weaving amongst couples, she again finds her target easily, because Myka is unmissable. Myka doesn't see her at first, and before her bravado fails, Helena taps Pete’s broad back, clearing her throat.
She says, “I believe the next dance is mine, Mr Lattimer, else I suspect a number of people in this room will lose a bet...”
Granted, not the most romantic opening, but Pete is laughing as he twirls Myka once more before placing her hand in Helena’s.
“Oh,” Helena says.
Myka’s tiny lopsided smile grows slowly, and Helena can’t decipher whether she’s surprised by this turn of events.
“Bet?” she questions, as her other hand slides along Helena’s biceps before resting in place on Helena’s shoulder.
“I suspect I have been tag-teamed this evening,” Helena says wryly, slipping her arm around Myka's waist to press her palm lightly against Myka's back.
Myka’s brow raises, then her voice lowers to an almost whisper, “Okay,” she says.
Pete has slipped away quietly without a jest or a nudge, and they are left as one of maybe a dozen couples under the canopy covering the deck. Helena’s heels raise her a number of inches, as do Myka’s, but their hold is comfortable and Helena leads them across the floor in companionable silence. They’ve only ever been this close when on set and in character, and Helena adjusts to the feel of Myka’s body under her hands, against her chest. Her perfume pleasantly tickles Helena’s senses, as do the curls that fall against Helena’s cheek as they take a turn close to the edge of the dancefloor.
She feels Myka draw breath, the silence between them perhaps unnerving her after a time.
“So, what are your plans now that we’re done here?” she asks suddenly, bringing her eyes to Helena’s.
There’s more than one question in those eyes, though Myka seems guarded with it. Helena is determined to find her own answer tonight, but currently is immensely enjoying this dance, reveling in the natural fit they make together. Two flutes of champagne and two whiskey sours have done no harm, but she fears that to disrupt this delicate balance now; she requires reassurance from the the very lovely woman currently looking more and more uncertain as Helena fails to answer.
She smiles an apology, “I have a contract for a West End play which starts in six weeks, so I'll remain in London. I may actually have time to visit family, imagine that,” she drawls.
“That’ll be good,” Myka says, voice a little shaky, but her eyes are in shadow as they pass under an archway, “You have an apartment here, yes?”
“I do, on the Southbank,” Helena replies, and she knows Myka will know that is directly across the river.
Myka hums, “Great location,” she affirms, seemingly recovered from whatever troubled her.
Helena almost blows it but stops herself from clumsily inviting her back to said apartment, just like that, and thankfully Myka is already talking again.
“I’ve nothing in the diary for six months,” she sighs
“You need a better agent, darling,” Helena teases, “I can’t believe that.”
Myka gives Helena her widest smile, and Helena can only helplessly return it in kind, not yet knowing why.
“Oh, but it’s deliberate!” Myka says, and she blushes suddenly as she speaks, as if realising she is revealing a secret as she does so, “A project fell through, and I told Artie not to bother filling the gap…”
And Helena senses a cue, she hopes. In any case, she can’t resist, though she finds herself directing her query to the Christmas tree in her line of sight behind Myka, rather than to the woman herself.
“Why don't you stay in London awhile?”
It seems Helena’s sudden nervousness shifts something within Myka, because she laughs softly, and ducks her head, forcing Helena’s eyes to shift back in focus. Helena spies mischief, and also - possibly - that reassurance she’s longing for.
“Are you asking me to stick around, Helena?”
“I would make a very good tour guide, if you were to do so, Myka,” she says, holding onto the gaze now with a sure, even, smile.
Eventually, Myka’s cheeks pink once more, and she drops her eyes, looks up again and smiles flirtatiously. In that moment, Helena revises her goal for the evening, also - the band stops playing - bringing everyone to a halt. Their joined hands drop but don’t part, and Helena leaves her fingers pressed at the small of Myka’s back, while Myka’s other hand gently, briefly, squeezes Helena’s shoulder. A female singer arrives on stage and the music resumes, a few Christmas songs encourage everyone to let loose, and they throw themselves into it. Then, the tempo is slowed.
“How long have we been dancing?” Myka laughs, flushed and beautiful in her unguarded state.
“I've no idea darling...Just one more,” Helena murmurs, so content in the moment, hearing the bars of the next song floating across the floor.
“Yes,” Myka breathes, and brings their leading hands to tuck in between them, bent at the elbow. Helena applies a little more pressure at the small of Myka’s back, and leans forward to whisper in her ear.
“You are very beautiful, Myka Bering, I hope you know that,”
Helena leaves their cheeks touching and they sway, turn and step together, perfectly in sync.
'This is my winter song.
December never felt so wrong,
‘Cause you're not where you belong;
Inside my arms.'
White lights sparkle above, draped around the masts and stairways of the deck, in stark contrast to the multitude of colours guests are adorned in. Reds, blues, greens and hues across the spectrum merge in the crowd and on the dancefloor; but she and Myka stand apart in their monochrome tones.
Loathe to break this perfect moment, Helena decides that she has a more pressing need to address.
“I want to test a theory I have,” she says softly against Myka’s warm skin.
“Oh?” Myka’s voice croaks, and Helena pulls back slightly to see an adorably furrowed brow.
“Yes, it’s concerning the scene we shot earlier today,” she says innocently, voice still this side of a whisper.
They are so close, faces a few inches apart. Helena feels her own nerves burst forth again, but then recalls that kiss on set. It had felt so real, even under the scrutiny of twenty other people.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Helena says, “..no fangs this time, see?” the last of her trepidation releases with a small laugh, as she searches Myka’s eyes. They close, but then the slightest nod and the feel of Myka’s fingers tightening around her own is sign enough.
She bridges the minute gap, as Myka’s lips part in anticipation. The kiss is sure of purpose, gentle and insistent, resuming where they left off earlier that same day. Helena feels a rumble of contentment in Myka’s throat, vibrating out in encouragement. Their mouths dance and spar even as their bodies have stilled. Myka draws Helena’s bottom lip between her teeth, then delightedly nips it.
It's her turn to take the initiative, “Southbank, huh?” she asks with a gentle smirk.
And Helena laughs filthily, “Yes, it’s in a great location apparently…”
Myka moves to tug playfully at the ends of Helena’s bow tie, pulling her forward for a languid kiss. Then Helena breaks away and spins them around in the dance once more before pulling Myka by the hand, passing slowly swinging couples, oblivious to the laughing exchanges of money between their friends. They stop to surreptitiously and breathlessly steal a kiss and a sprig of mistletoe from above a doorway; and the song's closing bars continue on behind them, snowflakes swirling above as they skid down the ramp and into the London night.
Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?