Notes: this is based off a Rolling Stone article created for AU Week on tumblr by alderaanian-bear, with a few tweaks made. I highly recommend you check that out before reading this story. I've left the link in my profile.

Live: One Night Only

The interior of the most popular music lounge in New York City was lush in a way that only an old building with great architecture could have pulled off. Far from the simple, almost southern influences of The Bitter End and the hedonistic modernism of Le Poisson Rouge, this place was a marvelous study in architectural symmetry, and perfectly married details like sprawling wooden staircases with LED lights strips under the lips of the stairs, and an old crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the great music hall alongside the track lighting that lit the stage. And the drink menu fit the elegant air of the lounge, with only the best bartenders on hand to mix the perfect classic cocktail and a staff mixologist to serve the VIP clientele with drinks made with exquisitely-paired spirits and some scientific ingenuity.

The patrons of the bar came for different reasons. Tourists were directed to the Time Machine because the bookers did a brilliant job of attracting the best talent for rare, unplugged performances. The locals liked that the tourists didn't ruin it, because the bouncers at the door could sniff them out of a crowd, letting just enough of those over-eager newcomers in to grow the legend but not enough to ruin the carefully cultivated ambiance of exclusivity. And still more locals — the more famous locals — loved it because the VIP area was second to none in the city. Typically, celebrities and public figures had an area to themselves that was far away from the stage, designed more for hobnobbing than listening to the musical talent. Instead, the VIP bar at the Time Machine was the one with the best view of the stage, and was kept isolated by careful blocking on the main floor and an intelligent consideration for mob psychology. It was the one place in New York where a celebrity could be seen in public without privacy, safety, common decency being overridden.

But for Helena G. Wells, the club held a completely different allure. Two years ago, in that very room, she had fallen head over heels in love.

Her dear friend William Wolcott had opened the bar some three years before, and had relied on her impeccable taste to help him create the atmosphere he wanted. She had helped him find the location, plan the menu…she had even picked the name. Ever since, she was a common patron, and Wolly (as she called him) had even made sure to permanently reserve a table for two at the railing, the best seat in the house, from which she could look out over the slightly sloped main floor and onto the stage. It was still close enough to the music to hear the delicate sound of a guitar's strings without the aid of an amplifier, but far enough away to spare her from hearing damage and, should she choose, carry on a conversation.

But that was rare. She typically sat alone, and listened to the music with her opinion written on her face. But two years ago, she had caught the end of a brilliant act by a little-known band, and by the end of two songs was enamored with their style and artistry…and she had to admit that they were all beautiful, most especially their bass player.

The club was packed for their performance, and for good reason, and at the end of their session the applause was as raucous as she had ever heard. She joined it in a standing ovation.

And that would have been the end of it.

But the bar was packed, and so was the VIP Lounge, and so a tall young woman with curly brown hair and legs that went on forever walked up to a table that everyone else knew to steer clear of.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but may I borrow your chair?"

Helena lifted her gaze to meet the most glorious, open, expressive pair of green eyes she had ever seen. She recognized the woman — the bass player from that marvelous band — and whatever she had intended to bark back as a response died in the back of her throat.

And whatever the woman — Myka, she discovered — had meant to do with the chair, she ended up taking the seat at the table, instead.

They talked for hours about anything and everything. They discovered a mutual appreciation for literature and a never-ending thirst for knowledge. Myka was smart, funny, and beautiful, and her voice was music to Helena's ears.

She had never really believed in love at first sight and, truthfully, wasn't entirely sure she even believed in love until that night, until the moment those bright eyes eyes locked with her own and the rest of the world was entirely forgotten.

"Miss Lake?"

Helena flinched, drawn out of her memories at the sound of her other name, her public name. "Yes?"

The eager young hostess at her side smiled politely. "May I fetch you another drink?"

The woman looked down at the glass in her hand, empty save for the ball of ice that rolled easily at the bottom. "Yes. Please."

As the young blonde trotted off to take her order to the mixologist behind the bar, Helena ran long, slender fingers through her own thick, black hair. She actually hated the stage name she had chosen for herself, much preferring her given name to Emily Lake, but her father and brother were old-fashioned men with old-fashioned values, and no matter how successful a Broadway actress Helena would become, it would never be an acceptable profession for either of them.

And so she was billed by another name professionally, for their benefit. She was respectful enough of the aristocracy she hailed from to leave it be as she pursued a life entirely divorced from it.

She cast a glance toward the stage as the lights dimmed, as the act came on, and as her friends climbed the stage for the first time in almost a year.

And she swallowed hard as familiar green eyes swept the crowd, seeking a tether, and stopped when they found that tether within her own.

Helena smiled, almost bashfully. The gesture was returned.

A new drink was set before her, and the moment was broken.

The Static Bags might have become her favorite band even if she hadn't become involved with their bassist. They were so very excellent at seamlessly marrying so many divergent styles that simply shouldn't go together, and where their music was powerful in any setting, they simply belonged in the already eclectic but so very seamless venue of the Time Machine. It was their favorite place to play…it was their fans' favorite place to hear them play.

The delicate fusion of the old and the new. Their love affair had been so very much like that.

And then, Helena had broken that delicate balance, and in doing so had nearly broken Myka Bering.

"I get asked about the songs I write a lot."

The British actress watched her former lover carefully as she swapped out her vintage bass for an acoustic and seated herself on a stool at center stage.

"And I never really have answers because they sort of speak for themselves. So…I think I'll just let them keep speaking for me. This one's new, and is called 'Solving Puzzles, Saving the Day.'"

Helena blanched, and instantly felt a chill she knew no amount of well-mixed whiskey was going to dispel.

Solving puzzles, saving the day. That had been their dream for their life together.

Myka's fingers began to pluck out a melody that instantly summoned up all the emotions she had tried to swallow every day since that evening in the park a year ago, all those feelings that screamed that she had screwed up something wonderful, and that she had unforgivably wronged the only person in the entire world that she had ever really loved.

I still remember that night in September,
That night when you walked away.
You said we'd be friends, but I couldn't pretend I
I had strength left to bear when our whirlwind affair met its end.
I begged you to stay.

There was a quality to the younger woman's voice that Helena had never heard, and it sounded a lot like longing tinged with sadness and edged with regret. One of Myka Bering's strengths as a lyricist was in her ability to articulate subtle emotions in her singing. Helena's heart hit her ribcage heavily once, soundly thumping her in the place where it hurt most, before stilling for a moment to emphasize its point.

There was nothing subtle about the raw pain in Myka's voice now, and every ounce of it was her fault.

I've been waiting for months, waiting for years,
Waiting through all of your rage and your fears.
So if I should die before you awake
There's not enough left of my soul for the devil to take.
It's not his, anyway.
I already gave it away.

Saying goodbye is its own special hell
To the one you know better than anyone else.
Oh, you were my sanctum, your love my release
Your passion, my God, saw me brought to my knees.
Solving puzzles, saving the day,
A future so bright when you promised me that you'd stay.
I don't know what to say.
You were already running away, oh.

The song continued, and only once more had Helena been able to bring herself to meet Myka's eyes, so full of the emotions she poured into the song, and looking right at her. Helena was overcome, and she turned away again as guilt crept into her heart to mix with the other feelings, creating a cocktail of anguish as exquisite as the drink in her hand, the one she started into as memories crashed over her. The song ended, the set continued to weave its magic into the club, into Helena's happiest place, and for the first time she wasn't able to enjoy it. She was lost in the past, and in all the wrongs she would never be able to adequately right.

Some time later, Helena's thoughts were once again interrupted by the presence of someone at her side.

"I don't need another drink," she responded reflexively, angrily, hoping it would be enough to send the eager young hostess away again. Instead, the presence remained.

Helena whirled quickly a common rage rising within her as she moved to stand, intent on sending the young blonde away in tears if she had to, but she stopped short when her eyes landed on a more familiar form.

"I was just going to ask if I could borrow your chair."

At once, the rage she felt dissipated, leaving her body as quickly as the air in her lungs could be sucked out, and a name escaped on that breath like a whispered prayer.

"Myka."

The actress sat heavily back into her seat, and at length, the brunette quirked her lips in a slightly amused grin, and took her silence for an invitation to sit.

For a long moment, Helena wasn't sure what to say. It had been a while since they'd seen each other up close like this — they'd talked a little, begun to repair their friendship, but hadn't been in the same city since that day.

And the grief came rushing back.

She swallowed reflexively against a suddenly dry throat before remembering that she held a drink in her left hand. She took a sip, let the melted ice soothe the itch, and then closed her eyes against the burn that was still present in the watered-down drink.

"I am so sorry, Myka. I had no idea. I had no idea what I did to you."

The amused grin disappeared from the singer's face. "How could you not, Helena? How could you think that what you did wouldn't destroy me?"

And there was the answer: she hadn't thought.

They were, the pair of them, entirely alike and yet entirely different. They had helped each other heal, both having loved ones that had been victims of violence. And they were happy together, and good together.

But then, the man that had been accused of her daughter's murder was let free on a technicality, and Helena's mighty rage had come roaring back.

"I…I wasn't in my right mind, Myka. I didn't know what to do."

"You could have talked to me, Helena. Like you'd promised you would. We were both in pain, and we were both so much better together than we ever were apart. I tried to talk to you after the trial, and you shut me out. I kept trying and you pushed me away. And finally, you just left."

The other woman sighed. "I was so very wrong. My darling Myka, I would do anything to change the past and go back to that place before the trial."

They knew each other better than anyone else, and so Helena knew exactly which of her many atrocities had most affected the tall woman seated across from her.

"I promised you I would never leave you like that. I promised you that we would always be honest with each other, that we would always discuss our feelings. And the way I…the way I abandoned you. I was a coward, Myka. A coward and a fool."

"And you were in pain."

Hesitantly, the actress reached across the table and placed her hand over the bassist's slightly longer one.

"I shouldn't have let it overcome me like that. I wanted your love, Myka. I wanted your help. But the hate had grown inside of me like a cancer, and I was so afraid of what I would do. To you…to myself. I wanted to spare you that, and…I was so afraid that you wouldn't like what you saw beneath the surface. I was so frightened of my darkness, and of your reaction to it…"

The hand in hers moved, and for a moment Helena was afraid she had crossed a tender line in her apologies, but instead of pulling away, it flipped and gripped her own fiercely.

"I've seen your darkness. You try to hide it, but it affects everything you do, from burying yourself in work to writing lyrics and plays with only a glass of whiskey to keep you company to the way you smile at a child and treat them with such kindness, and even the charities that you donate your time and money to as both Emily Lake and Helena Wells. I saw my future, wrapped up in that part of you that loved your daughter so fiercely that it infiltrated your every action and every emotion…from the good to the bad."

"Not every emotion," Helena corrected. "And not every aspect of my life. You became my life, Myka. I do many things in Christina's memory still, but not all of them. I no longer see her in every child I meet. I no longer think exclusively of her when I give of myself. I think of you, another beloved person I've lost. I see the daughter or son we will never have in the faces of the children I meet. I think of the things you care about when I give to charity. Christina was all I had for so very long…and then, I had your love. And now, I carry that memory with me, in penance, but also in acknowledgement of someone I loved more than life itself."

Helena's gaze had watered over, and she could see through the tears that the object of her affection had also become so emotional. Cursing herself for causing her more pain, she moved to take her hand back.

But Myka held fast, and refused to let it go.

"You had my love, Helena." she whispered at length. "You had my heart, my mind, my body, my soul…my everything." Green eyes locked on her own once more, and the next words were spoken with a certainty that could never be denied.

"You still do."

The patrons of the bar came for different reasons. Some came for music, some came for fun. Others — like the famous Emily Lake — notoriously came to drown some unknown sorrow at the bottom of a very expensive drink.

But what she really came to the Time Machine for was hope. She came to mull over her past and imagine a better future.

She thought she had found it once, in the arms of a beautiful woman with talented fingers, an angel's voice, and a soul to match the rest, and then she'd let it slip through her fingers.

But that night, she found it again in the watery green gaze of a woman she thought she'd lost. She saw a future she wanted more than anything, and for perhaps the first time, she believed that the glorious life she had imagined could actually come true.

"Let's get out of here," Myka suggested.

Hands still joined, fingers laced together, they left Helena's table behind.