"We all have our time machines, don't we? Those that take us back are memories...And those that carry us forward are dreams."*

The words pass over Myka's tongue as if she has been repeating them for days.

And then she opens her eyes.

And everything is white – from underneath her booted feet to the ice-covered mountaintops in the distance – nothing but winter for miles and miles.

It is beautiful and pristine, like a photograph with startling detail, and Myka fears that to reach out – to try and touch the crystalline surface – would shatter it all. So, she tilts her head back and looks at the sky instead; she pins her gaze upon the distinct movement of snow-flakes through the air and how the wind seems to blow all around her but not a hair on her head is disturbed.

Somewhere, hidden between the cortices, is the knowledge that none of this is real.

And then the breeze carries that knowledge away again.

"Well, are you coming in or not?" A very familiar voice questions from behind Myka and a small smile automatically forms on her lips as she turns around.

And then that smile grows, blossoming outward to the point that her cheeks ache with the happiness, because Artie's head is peeking around that slightly rust-covered door of the Warehouse; the Warehouse, intact once more and looming over Myka like a metal behemoth, beckons her feet to move from where they stand – pulled forth even now, much like she once was, so long ago…

"Pete is busy playing with artifacts again and I need another adult to help rein him in." Artie continues, opening the door wider for Myka to enter. She allows her fingers to graze over everything that she passes – the edge of corners, the heads of bolts, railings and wooden slats and very solid walls by her side.

A sudden touch to her arm catches her attention.

"Everything okay?" Artie asks, with a caring that she has always suspected but with an openness that has always been reticent in being shown. It reminds her, briefly, of a fantasy from the past – trapped in an ancient game of the desert, where wishes led to one's demise.

But that was ages ago, wasn't it? That was another lifetime… wasn't it?

All Myka can manage, though, is a quick nod of her head in response to Artie's softly spoken inquiry and then they are moving once more.

And it is seamless how things transition from one point to another.

Myka is walking to a destination and then, within the blink of an eye, she is there.

She is there, watching as Pete gets chastised but is still wearing that happy-go-lucky grin the whole time – that grin that neither time nor distress could ever tarnish. She is there as Claudia comes into the room, that hard-won Farnsworth open and sentences coming out a mile a minute – only happiness on the girl's face and not a trace of all that anger, of all that endless hurting. Myka is there, in the Warehouse, and it is like the building itself is overflowing with emotion – but only the good kind; only the best, only the finest.

"Okay, Claude, maybe slow it down this time… I don't want to have to break out the warp drive just to understand you." Pete says as he continues to toy with an artifact and as Artie continues to bat the man's hands away from said artifact.

Claudia rolls her eyes in a very pointed manner but the action does not seem to dim her excitement as she shimmies the Farnsworth back and forth in her hand.

"Just got the word from Steve. He and H.G. are heading back now, should be here in the next thirty minutes or so."

And for a second, Myka remembers more than she wants to.

For a second, her body sort of teeters backwards and there is a sharp pain to the front of her head; it's like she has been hit and Myka sort of wants to crumble to the ground, sort of wants to squeeze her eyes shut and never open them again.

For a second, reality filters back in and destroys this slightly tenuous illusion of the mind.

"Myka…? Myka, are you all-right?"

And Myka knows that voice.

And she knows that it has been much less than thirty minutes, she knows that there is nothing left of the Warehouse, she knows that this is a wonderful and terrible sort of fiction being told…

Oh, Myka knows all of these things and so much more.

But the pain melts away at the sound of that voice and chooses to leave Myka's body in the form of a sob-laden gasp. And without a single care as to who might see it, Myka shoots forward as if spring-loaded and wraps her arms around Helena.

It is a fierce embrace, with the muscles in her arms almost shaking due to the ferocity of her hold – it is a fevered sort of desperation that causes Myka to cling to the startled woman in her grasp but Myka cannot seem to give a damn about appearances right now.

Pete is saying something along the lines of 'How come I never get a welcome back like that, huh?' But Myka is tuning them all out – tuning out Steve and Claudia as they joke with one another, tuning out Pete as he jumps into their conversation, tuning out Artie as he reminds everyone of reports to write and of artifacts to correctly catalogue.

All she can hear is Helena's breathing, steady and sure and present.

Oh God, this seems so real… Is it? Am I actually dreaming or…?

All she can feel is the shift of arms as they slowly return this unexpected envelopment.

This isn't due to some artifact, is it? This is truly happening… isn't it?

And Myka wants to believe that this is happening; even if nothing else is possible, Myka needs for this moment to be absolute.

"Tell me you are all-right." Helena whispers into Myka's ear.

And warm air curls over the skin, running down deep into Myka's bones. And that sensation settles an ache in Myka's soul, an ache that has been around for such a long time now – so long that it has felt a part of her more so than it has not.

Am I all-right? Am I okay? Am I awake? Am I still asleep? …But those are questions from a lifetime ago…

…Aren't they?

And, right now, all Myka can see and hear and feel is Helena.

And, right now, that is all that matters.

"I am so much better than all-right." Myka answers in return.

: : :

"C'mon people, we can all hug it out later. Time to hear about—"Artie begins but then Pete interrupts.
"H.G. and Steve's excellent adventure?" Pete suggests and a ripple of chuckling moves throughout the room.

Myka can even feel that vibration of humor move along Helena's form. It starts in the woman's shoulders as they very lightly shake and then it is a delicate push of air from Helena's lips – an exhalation of amusement that hits Myka's ear, turning a brief soundwave into something like a caress.

And Myka isn't able to stave off the shiver that races along her spine.

Helena pulls away gently from their embrace, but not without a curious glint to her dark eyes, and Myka has no other response than to blink rapidly at the woman. Then there is the faintest bit of contact, Helena's smooth fingertips to the top of Myka's hand, drawing Myka's attention to a fine point – a sensory landmark that causes her breath to catch.

"I think you and I should talk later." Helena states in a soft voice.

And Myka, just as softly, agrees.

Then the rest of the room comes back into full focus and Myka notices that another continuous bit of motion has happened, taking them all from standing up to sitting down around a table – Pete as a comfortable presence to her left and Helena as a not-unpleasant tension to her right.

And while those feelings are quite similar to the ones Myka once had in that other world, in this world… well, the faces are the same and the personalities are familiar – but things are very different indeed.

Such as Artie's treatment of Helena…

"First off, Steve, excellent retrieval of that artifact." Artie says with a pleased expression on his face.
"I couldn't have done it without H.G." Steve replies, tossing a gracious smile towards the British woman. Helena inclines her head in acknowledgement.
"We make a good team." Helena confirms with a self-satisfied grin and Artie seems to match that grin with one of his own.
"Well, both of you did a good job… and especially when the press showed up."

Steve shakes his head ruefully and holds up his hands.

"That was all H.G. I hate dealing with reporters so she let me lurk in the shadows." Steve explains and Helena reaches over to pat the younger man on the arm. And Myka finds her own lips curving upwards in a smile because the gesture is so friendly, so full of comradery.

The sight of it causes Myka's heart to soar in a way that she has sorely missed.

"Some charm and some wit and the vultures will lap up whatever you hand them." Helena offers her solution to dealing with 'ambulance chasers' and that's when Myka finally takes note of what is being said.

Such as the outside world knowing about the Warehouse…

"Wait… what reporters?" Myka questions aloud, earning a cursory glance from everyone around her.

"You know, Mykes, like that time we had to do that press conference in jolly ol' England? I swear, I have never seen a face go as red as when the Queen told every newspaper about Myka in that bearskin cap…" Pete trails off with that story as he starts to chuckle.

But Claudia joyfully picks up where the man has left off, sporting a pretty bemused smile of her own.

"Oh, I've sent out several emails with that conference attached. I think it has had over a million hits on You Tube, too." Claudia confirms and while Myka cannot remember something that has not truly happened to her, the pervading sense of professional shame is flooding her senses nonetheless.

"Oh, God…" Myka mutters quietly, not even wanting to know what a dream-state her might have done.

"Hey, it was hilarious, Mykes. No need to be shy about it. I mean, we've all seen each other in some state of undress—"
"Oh. God." Myka repeats louder this time and with an audible groan of discomfort added on.

This brings on a nice round of laughter at her expense and Myka lowers her head as the very distinct sensation of a blush seems to bloom over her face. But then there is a pressure against her thigh, just above the knee, and Myka's gaze shifts from the floor to the hand against her leg.

Myka's eyes study the pale fingers, how they flex – just the once – in a supportive squeeze; as if to say that things are fine and that embarrassment is not warranted, as if to remind Myka that she is amongst family here.

And Myka wants to hold on to the hand that is upon her leg.

And so she does.

Myka looks over, ever so slowly, to witness Helena's reaction. But the woman's stare is more shrewd than curious this time - as if the wheels are already turning within that fascinating British brain. And Myka realizes that the lines between dream and reality are blurring even more as this Helena continues to evolve into the Helena that Myka remembers so well.

"Well, with this case, I'd say you get several gold stars, Helena." Artie's voice cuts through Myka's thoughts and breaks Helena's steady gaze.
"Ah, my favorite reward for a job well done." Helena responds with a cheeky sort of smile and, again, Artie follows suit with his own knowing smirk – like this is the usual kind of banter between the two of them, like there is a respect and a trust between the two of them in this realm.

Myka feels her own hand tighten, ever so slightly, around Helena's hand.

It could have always been this way… it could have been this way the whole damn time.

And there is that pain again; that pain that seems to suck all the energy from Myka's body and leaves her feeling like the weight of the entire universe is lying on her chest, crushing her bit by bit. It is a second of miserable knowledge that causes her eyes to squint, causes her to silently watch while the surroundings go from crisp to mute – all in an effort to escape this sense of reality forever waiting in the wings.

But time within the dream speeds up even more during those agonizing occasions – just like thirty minutes turns to seconds, a talk with everyone around turns to lights going off… one by one… until the Warehouse is almost totally dark and until almost everyone is gone.

Except for the faint glow around endless artifacts.

Except for Helena and Myka, hands still comfortably intertwined with one another.

: : :

Myka has no clue how they got here.

She has no recollection of walking through the Warehouse – it is only the feeling of Helena's palm, warm against her own, that Myka recalls.

She has no memory of the endless stairs they had to have climbed – it is only the sensation of the air around them growing cooler and cooler that Myka remembers.

Myka has no clue how they got here.

But these things don't really matter to Myka, not when she looks over and sees Helena's profile - all pale against the never-ending nighttime sky. It doesn't matter how they got here, seemingly a million miles from the ground below and on top of the Warehouse.

Because logic has no home here, does it?

"There is, though I do not know how there is or why there is, a sense of infinite peace and protection in the glittering hosts of heaven."**

Helena's dulcet tones blend in with the darkness, weaving around Myka's entire being in a way that is almost magical…

"Myka, look up and see."

…And then the real magic begins.

Myka pulls her eyes away from the side of Helena's face reluctantly and then carries her view upwards, head tilting back and back until all she can see is the sky above them. And she has seen stars before – during summer evenings and peering through telescopes – but they have never looked like this; they have never appeared this close or this bright before.

"And there's Vulpecula in the distance, chasing its luminous tail…"

Helena's voice is nearer now, brushing against Myka's cheek in a manner smooth and inviting.

"Then again, perhaps it is poor Ansere that Vulpecula is hunting down tonight. A wild but beautiful goose chase…" Helena muses, letting the words hang there as greens and blues invade the shadows, filling up this canvas of black with technicolor.

"It's an aurora. I've never seen one." Myka whispers, head leaning back even further and pupils dilating in order to take in the vastness of this display. Helena makes a small 'tsk-tsk' sort of noise in response.

"Oh no, Myka, it is not just any aurora – it's Vulpecula. Foxes are extremely vain creatures, you know… and we won't get a good show if we don't praise the little beast more than that."

Myka feels a grin spread over her face and, somehow, she knows that Helena is grinning, too.

And so Myka closes her eyes and opens her arms wide as she shouts out her thanks to some Scandinavian myth from hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Helena's surprised laugh is enough to get Myka chuckling as well, gaze slowly re-opening upon the aurora still in progress. They allow the humor to drift off as quickly as it came and then it is quiet once more, with Myka continuing to watch the sky even as she can feel the heated sensation of Helena's stare move across her face – studying her in a way that could make others uncomfortable, as if they were some new oddity under the microscope. But Myka does not feel uneasy; if anything, she is relishing the attention in a way she never fully granted in that other world.

"I must admit, Agent Bering, that you seem so…"
"Soooo… what?"
"So not like yourself tonight." Helena concludes and a deeper sort of smile tugs on Myka's lips in response because – even in a dream world – Helena G. Wells is not one to be so easily fooled.

"And what would you say if I agreed with you, Agent Wells?"

Myka finally turns away from the aurora and is greeted with one of her most cherished of Helena's expressions: it is that smile, the one that could come off as incredibly egotistical, but somehow – to Myka – was always a very welcomed sight; that smile means that Helena is in her element, that the woman is full of confidence and not at all shy to speak her mind.

That smile is just a glimmer of what I've been missing in that other world.

And Helena does not disappoint in the slightest with her answer, delivered with the perfect mixture of calm certainty and an air of cockiness – so completely Helena.

"I would say that I am a master of observation, of course."

Myka can only roll her eyes good-naturedly as the woman then gracefully lowers herself to the rooftop and gently pats the spot beside of her, beckoning silently for Myka to join. Once the two of them are settled – legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle; mirroring one another all the way down to the placement of the hands, palm-down against the metal surface – they keep looking up instead of looking at each other.

"Do you come up here a lot?" Myka asks as the aurora seems to grow brighter and, for just a moment, illuminates everything around them in a wave of emerald; the surrounding mountains have been turned into gleaming castles of iridescent green.

And it reminds Myka of a story she knows, somewhere… somewhere in that other world…

Somewhere over the—

"No, not very often."

Helena's answer halts wherever Myka's mind was heading, returning her to this rooftop and to the Warehouse so firm beneath them. And Myka blinks as if coming out of a trance, finding the colors duller than just seconds ago – the mountains are in shadow again and the aurora is close to burning out, green and blue trails being pulled across the sky to the point of fading.

"There are times, though, when a particular problem needs extra attention and I will come up here to ruminate for a while." Helena continues on with her reply, so Myka decides to do a bit of peripheral glancing as the woman talks.

And she sees the ivory of a Helena's extended neck in swatches of disappearing light; she sees the edges of tumbling locks of hair that then melt into the surrounding twilight, she sees red lips moving – almost languidly – as they curve over words and let them pass.

And now Myka is no longer just glancing, she is blatantly staring at this woman beside of her – Helena's head still tilted back towards the stars as she speaks, probably very much aware of the intense scrutiny she has fallen under but, apparently, content to allow it.

"Or, sometimes, when I want to feel a bit closer to Christina… I think she would have loved the view from up here."

And Myka holds her breath as if the wound were her own – Helena's pain reached out with long claws in that other world, didn't it? Didn't Helena's anguish nearly ruin me in that other world?

But here, at the top of this fantastical universe, those days are the far-flung nightmares; hazy and unfocused images that fall apart before they can ever take root.

Here, Helena is beyond the grief as those lips slowly upturn into a sly sort of smile.

"And sometimes, Myka, it is simply a chance for me to share something lovely with you."

It is just an inch, at first, but Myka feels her body moving – like ripples over silver water, slow and subtle – and she is moving towards Helena; moving towards Helena as if the woman were the sun and Myka a bud about to bloom.

"A chance to see your 'glittering hosts of heaven', hmm?" Myka murmurs as the rest of her shifts with a purpose so clear and so definite.

And they are near enough now that Myka can see those dark eyelashes flutter downward in a brief second of demureness, which only entices Myka to draw closer and closer still.

"I suppose I am as vain as that fox up in the sky." Helena says with a soft grin playing about her lips and then the woman is lowering her head, causing strands of hair to fall down about her face.

And they are wondrously close to one another, with only seconds of air between them, but it is not nearly close enough for Myka – I want more, I need more – and so Myka's hand sets out to rectify this matter in the only way that makes any sense. She pushes Helena's hair back from one side of the woman's face and threads her fingers through those black locks, allowing the gentle movement to bring Helena's head around.

Once their eyes meet, Myka slips her hold from those midnight tresses and it is the smooth surface of Helena's cheek that Myka finds.

"I would say that both you and Vulpecula are allowed to brag just a bit."

Myka's voice is so quiet now, a hush that barely makes a dent in the nighttime around the two of them. Helena's easy chuckle in response is just another instance of otherworldly gravity at work – pulling and pulling, a tide to an inevitable shore – and Myka can feel each breath that leaves Helena's mouth against her own skin.

"Flattery will not cause me to forget, Myka." Helena states in a manner that is both lightly chastising and affectionately amused. But Helena is also leaning into this touch that Myka has instigated, giving clearance with actions as words try – in vain – to keep matters well in hand.

"Forget what?" Myka's question comes out rather breathless, though, because even air would have a hard time figuring out where to fit between them now – she is so close to me, we are so very, very close…

"That you are not quite like yourself tonight."

Helena's answer floats past Myka's ears, heard but not fully recognized, as Myka moves completely into the other woman's personal space – faces side by side, hand still upon the cheek, lips brushing delicately where the jaw rises up to meet the temple.

"What if I told you that all of this is just a dream?" Myka whispers as dusk finally reaches this moment, blanketing them from the brightest of stars and from the wildest of cosmic spectacles – leaving a world where only the two of them exist.

"…Then it is my wish to remain asleep for as long as I possibly can."

With Helena's quietly spoken words, any distance between them is rendered meaningless as Myka leans back – just a fraction – and then brings their lips together in a kiss.

And if Myka could actually talk to bursts of charged energy, if she could actually say just one thing to some ancient animal running rampant across the atmosphere, it would be this:

Vulpecula, your beauty does not hold a candle to the perfection that is Helena's lips pressed to mine.

: : :

And it is just Myka and Helena kissing, for the first time ever, and so a conveniently forgotten ember banked down deep in Myka's gut comes to life; it flares up and it turns into a flame. Myka feels on fire from the inside out and Helena is both the source and the salvation; Helena is the fuel onto this inferno and the only oasis around for miles and miles.

There is nothing else in this world – no brushstrokes of color from a fox's tail, no constellations hanging low enough to touch, no shining mountain peaks in the distance, no hard rooftop underneath us…

One of Helena's hands cups Myka's jaw, soft but sure, and then Helena's other hand slips along the nape of Myka's neck – another anchor to this ship that has no desire to leave.

And with the subtle flick of Helena's tongue against her own, Myka begins to unravel at a much more rapid pace.

…and there is nothing of that other world either – no bombs, no death, no sadness, no loss, no pain, no anger, no worry and no weariness and no more feeling like all I've done is waste so much time.

Myka releases a moan and it echoes off the endless night around them before it reverbs back into her own ears, spelling out just how incredibly turned on she is. And so Myka's hand leaves Helena's face, fingers tripping over themselves to find more flesh to hold and to lay claim to and—

: : :

"Hel-looo, Earth to Myka! Artifact at two o'clock, close to the surprisingly hot janitor-lady, and Buzz Lightyear is incoming so, you know, time to choose your own adventure, Mykes."

Pete's voice bursts into her right ear with a crackle of static and that's when Myka's eyes shoot open.

Instead of nighttime on the Warehouse roof, though, Myka's gaze is met with blinding daylight within a building she does not recognize at all.

I am torn away from kissing Helena for… well, for whatever is going on here. That's just great.

However, Myka really doesn't have much time to comprehend this rather annoying shift in dreamscapes because someone shoulders past her in a rush, nearly knocking her over in the process.

"Okay, fine. Make me choose the adventure." Pete's voice buzzes into her right ear again.

And while Myka's mind is still playing rather badly at catch-up, her body goes into auto-pilot. Her legs are already moving as she watches Pete slide into action – Tesla out and pointing it at some man in what appears to be a knock-off spacesuit. Myka then looks around the room until she reaches that invisible 'two o'clock' and her eyes land on a pair of boots.

Myka starts digging around in the jacket she didn't even realize she had on and finds a pair of purple gloves. The astronaut guy starts saying something about the Moon, about massive government cover-ups, and about other things that remind Myka – briefly – of that television show from the 90's.

I think it was The X-Files...

"I'm Buzz Aldrin! Those are mine!" The man yells out, pointing at the boots.
"At least I got the 'Buzz' part right." Pete says with a grin, Tesla still pointed directly at the man's chest.

Myka just shakes her head, a small grin of her own now present, as she reaches out and holds each boot away from the other.

"But they belong to me!" The man continues to lament, shaking his puffy white hands in a rage – which is more amusing than it is life-threatening.
"Well, I got here first, Buzz… so I guess that makes me Neil Armstrong." Pete finishes with a pleased smile and a wink aimed at Myka.

Of course, that comment just sets off another tirade from the man in the spacesuit and Myka finds herself getting pretty irritated with this case already.

Especially since I was just dropped into it. Especially since it interrupted something pretty spectacular.

"Pete, where's the-"
"To your right and behind the wall."

Instead of one of the neutralizing bags, it is one of the neutralizing tanks. And, instead of the lid just opening like it is supposed to, it gets wedged stuck – one side halfway off, the other side still caught in the grooves.

"Oh for crying out loud…" Myka mutters to herself as she gingerly sits the boots down onto the floor so that she can fight with the neutralizing tank lid.

Sitting the boots down, however, turns out to be the wrong thing to do.

: : :

Did Pete take his eyes off of spacesuit-man for a split second in order to smile flirtatiously at the hot janitor-lady? Was Myka a tad irresponsible in letting the artifact out of her grasp – if only for just a moment – and thus tempting an already unstable man into action? And just how did a Tesla blast end up going into one of the walls, causing the hot janitor-lady to scream and dive to the ground… and then somehow come into contact with one of Buzz Aldrin's boots?

Of course, when asked about it later (by actual annoying-as-hell reporters), Myka refused to confirm or deny certain aspects to the calamity that ensued.

And so the phrase 'no comment' quickly becomes Myka's new favorite thing to say.

: : :

There is no tell-tell sound of tires on pavement, no rattling of doors over potholes, and not a single gust of wind pushing against the glass. It is just silence as she and Pete float down the road, Buzz Aldrin's boots in the back-seat and the bothersome questions of various news outlets left far behind them.

Trees and sunlight whip by, just flashes of color, and Myka almost wishes she could slow things down – to stop and see if the air carries any sort of scent to it, to see if she can hear birds cutting a path across this alternate-world sky.

I almost wish for more than one day...

"So I've got my excuse, Myka… what's yours?"

Pete's voice, no longer trapped within a device pressed firmly into her ear, is somewhat quieter this time around – not as startling, definitely not as static-y. Her head, suddenly lazy upon the head-rest, turns in his direction as if she were a tape being played at the slowest of speeds.

"Excuse about what?"
"About how our artifact retrieval turned into a three-ring-circus. I mean, don't get me wrong… it was all pretty hilarious. And it wasn't so bad that I ended up having to put some wrestling moves on Tamara—"
"Who is Tamara?"
"Hot janitor-lady."
"When did you have the time to get her name?"
"Myka, please. I am no amateur in this department. One look from me and all the ladies want to know this secret agent man."

And then Pete is smiling. And so is Myka. And it is so much like it used to be (before destruction, before secrets), it is so much like they have always been with one another (two separate people who are in on the same joke).

"You know, when I first met you, you were such a tight-ass."

Pete's still smiling as he says it, though. And Myka remains smiling, too, but she does give a slight eye-roll at his seemingly random comment.

"Thanks Pete."

He chuckles just a little at her dead-pan response, letting his own head fall back onto his head-rest so that they are kind of mimicking each other's positions in the car – quietly talking as the universe goes slower and slower around them, as the car continues to move though neither of them are driving, as Myka gets her wish and is able to make these precious seconds linger.

"But you've changed since then and all for the better, too. I mean… you're still Myka. Still the book-worm, still Artie's favorite—"
"I'm… I'm not Artie's favorite…"
"C'mon, Mykes, you know that you are. Every parent picks a favorite and you are it."

And for a moment, in her slowed-down world, the air in Myka's lungs turns into an unmoving fist - a reaction that is vaguely reminiscent of others she has experienced in this dream-world; it is the sensation of reality and unreality blending together, tugging at her senses like hundreds of hands, until it feels as though she is being torn into.

Sisterly standards never, ever met and never, ever forgotten… A cold voice of disapproval from around the dog-eared corners of some novel in my hand…

But then there is the gentlest of touches to the edge of her chin. And her eyes focus once more on Pete, on Pete's reassuring smile and on Pete's surprisingly tender fingertips upon her face.

And just like Helena knew that Myka was hiding something up on that roof, Pete knows that Myka is in a moment of slight distress.

So, Pete does what he always does – in this world or in any other world– and calms Myka down again.

And to the outsider looking in, this whole scenario might look almost romantic.

But Myka knows better than that.

There are people out there who can know another person so well simply because they are so much alike – their minds create the same fantasies, their hearts ache for the same things, their paths merge so perfectly that, sometimes, it seems as if they are one person instead of two.

We are women racing through time, dreamers with wicked minds… Helena and I are lit up by supernovas of desire; we are built of the same cosmic dust.

Pete's hand slips away, gradually falling down to the middle console in this car, but they remain looking at one another.

"Just always remember that this is where you belong, Mykes - here, at the Warehouse and with all of us. You don't have to hide anymore because this is your home."

And then there are those people who can know another person so well because they are allowed in, past the baggage and beyond the walls of protection - and it's almost a greater act of trust to let in the one who doesn't fully know you than it is to keep a hold of the one who inherently does.

And in that other world, Pete would have asked Myka to look away as he spoke; in that other world, Pete would have followed up these words with a defeated sigh of how 'girly' he was being.

In that other world, I've shut him out and kept him in the dark – more than once. In that other world, Pete, all I ever do is hide.

But in this world, Myka is reminded of her good friend and partner, Pete Lattimer – and it is this thought that brings the sheen of tears to Myka's eyes. Pete looks away then, hands going to the steering wheel in a move that is more like what a non-dream Pete would do and clears his throat needlessly.

"Wow, your excuse must be pretty damn lame if you think crying will get you out of trouble…"

Myka laughs as she wipes a hand over her face, then she reaches over to very lightly shove Pete's shoulder.

And he smiles over at her and she smiles in return. And it is so much like it used to be.

And Pete is right - Myka doesn't have to hide a single thing, at least not in this world.

Because, in this world, everything is exactly as it should be…

Myka notices that Pete's smile seems to falter a little bit now and that the colors seem to be fading outside of these car windows, as if she were closing her eyes without knowing it. And it feels like she is sinking further into this seat, boneless and heavy, as the sound of Pete's voice goes from a low murmur to nothing at all.

…your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying…***

And as the numbness slips so comfortably over her body, Myka's make-believe day begins to falter.

: : :

Were you able to hug your parents enough to make up for all the times you missed out on? Did you tell them how much you love them, how much you miss them, how much you still need them in your life?

And did any of it matter to you once you were awake again?

If anyone were to know, it would be you, Bethany Jackson.

But I doubt that I'd have the courage to ask you these things and I doubt that you would answer me.

I think I understand you, though… if only just a little bit… if only in this moment, with these shoes on my feet and the thundering sound of my own heart battling hard within my chest…

…I think I understand every person who has ever put these ruby-red slippers on.

I think I understand, so completely and so totally, the rules a person can break in order to make sense of incredible sorrow. I think I truly understand Claudia and the metronome now.

I think I finally understand Helena, too.

And if you were standing in front of me right now, Bethany, I could tell you that none of us are wrong for wanting our own happily-ever-after. None of us are wrong for feeling so lost that we would grab onto anything – a drink, a new identity, an artifact – in order to feel whole again.

We aren't wrong, Bethany.

But we are not right either.

And I know that nothing in this dream will ever be enough… but, Bethany, it's a start…

…Isn't it?

: : :

There is a theory that every person in a dream is just a part of the dreamer – the faces of friends, family and lovers are merely facets of the dreamer's personality, brought to surreal life like inner-therapists as one sleeps the night away.

If this theory is true and if even an artifact-induced slumber is just another chance for Myka's own subconscious to speak and to be heard, then every pair of eyes that is currently looking at her is only a mirror of the many gazes within Myka's mind.

And by the expressions on their faces, I'd say that I am kind of freaked out.

"Myka, can you tell me what exactly happened?"
"I already told them, Mykes, but you know Artie—"
"The more we know, the better we will be equipped to figure out what is wrong."
"Jeez, Myka, you really scared me there for a second. I did a scan on you and your heartbeat was so erratic—"
"Pete says you didn't come into contact with Buzz Aldrin's boots at all, so I think we can rule out that—"
"It's like you just, sort of, passed out or something, Mykes. I couldn't wake you up, though, and rushed you into the Warehouse…"

Artie, Pete and Claudia continue to talk over each other, relaying the details of Myka's unexplainable fainting spell. Their communal worry and concern is something Myka is used to; it is a familiar security she can latch onto as that 'erratic' heart of hers starts to beat more normally.

But her still too tired head turns languidly in the direction of the voices she has yet to hear.

She glances at Steve, standing just to the left and behind Claudia, and his stare is one of caring – but it is of curiosity as well. In that other world, Steve could see through deceptions and masks; in that other world, Steve would have caught her in this incredible lie, like a spider trapped by their own web.

In this world, though, Steve remains silently inquisitive – as if he suspects something but is unable to put his finger on the solution.

Of course, if everyone in this dream is me, then I guess I am just stalling for more time.

Then Myka's eyes move further along and that's where she finds Helena waiting.

The woman has her arms crossed and is leaning against the wall, obviously having found a good place to watch what is going on – and all without getting ensnared in the babbling conversation that is happening around Myka's reclining body.

Much like Steve, Helena's look is one of care mixed with puzzlement – those dark eyes roam over Myka's face like an archeologist over a new find and, again, instead of causing Myka to feel exposed…

…I feel so hopelessly in love.

And that is when the sweetest of fragrances begins to fill up the room.

"I… I think I smell…" Myka's throat is dry when she attempts to talk, so the words come out sounding choked and rough.

Both Pete and Artie respond with a somewhat-terrified cry of 'Fudge?' but Myka is shaking her head in the negative. Her senses are blinking back to life quickly as she inhales this clean, crisp aroma – one that only she appears to be aware of – and this delicious scent washes over her like an invisible wave.

It smells like apples.

: : :

There was a lot that Helena never told Myka.

There was a lot of pain that was never fully expressed and there was a lot of anger that was never dealt with either – between them, around them, involving them. They were always starting conversations that never got finished, due to hundred-year-old mistakes in the making or technological imprisonment.

Or death. Don't forget about that one.

Myka could not say a damn thing she wanted to on that day.

All she did was allow the tears to gather at the edge of eyes; all she could do was bow her head and look away as fate stripped her of another bittersweet romance.

And Myka never questioned the meaning of that 'thank you'; Helena was a woman out of time and Myka's belief in her was one last chance at getting these intangible things right.

'I smell apples', though, lurked in Myka's head for so long that the phrase started to take on a million meanings other than the obvious – was it some kind of code? Was it in some story I cannot recall? Is it Heaven? Is it Christina? Does it mean she has finally found peace?

On some of those long nights, when sleep was but a distant memory, Myka liked to tell herself that 'I smell apples' was 'I love you' in another language – a language that Helena must have been proficient in but that Myka could barely struggle her way through.

And on a few of those long nights, Myka actually believed that little tale she weaved within her heart.

But she'd look around at all the empty spaces, all the spaces where Helena should have been, and the story would just fray and fall apart again.

Because 'I smell apples' really only meant 'good-bye'.

: : :

Claudia's voice is becoming panicked again, talking about how Myka's heart-rate is accelerating too quickly. And Pete is taking a hold of her hands, all warmth and fear, as he begs Artie to figure out what is going on with his partner. Artie is a blur of movement, artifact files flying like birds around the room and questions barreling out of him like shots fired off.

It is Helena that has captured most of Myka's attention, though.

And the woman is looking right back at Myka with an unflinchingly open stare – no secrets this time, no hidden agendas, no old sorrows covered up by new masks.

Myka's body is lifting upwards before her mind catches up, ignoring the protests of her friends as they beg her to stay still, to stay lying down, to stay motionless and to let them figure out what is wrong.

But what is wrong is only everything, isn't that right, Bethany? Because no matter how good it may feel, it'll never be real… and this is only a chance, just a crazy damn chance, to say good-bye…

"I smell apples." Myka whispers and she reaches out a hand for Helena.

And there is no barrier separating them, no ticking time-bomb left behind by a mad man; there is only this moment – the one that Myka lied for, that Myka stole for – and that is all there will ever be.

: : :

The steps still creak and groan under their footfalls, but other than that, all is quiet in this bed & breakfast. The walls catch their shadows as they pass by them, shades in-flux in the dying of the sunlight – there one minute, gone the next. And the door opens on a dusty room, with a bed still unmade and curtains still drawn against the afternoon; a shirt lays carelessly over the back of a chair and a number of books are strewn upon the floor and the scent of apples gives way to something harder to fully define.

Like leather-bound text or left-over gunpowder, there is something quite lovely in the air in this room – antiquated and soothing at the same time – and Myka's gaze flutters shut as it fills up her senses.

"I remember coming in here one time, after doing inventory all day, and my first instinct was to kick off my shoes, to flex my toes and stretch and then maybe settle down for a long nap."

Fingertips move against Myka's palm and then those fingers turn until they can interlock with Myka's own.

"And then I looked over at your desk, covered up in notes and devices picked apart, and you were sitting there with a pencil between your lips. I wanted to see what you were creating more than anything but I knew I shouldn't ask, I knew that you needed time to adjust to this new world you were living in and that you needed space…"

Myka's eyes stay closed as she speaks, allowing only the breath it takes to keep talking and acknowledging the subtle presence of Helena's hand within her own by holding on just a little tighter than before.

"…But, in that moment, I felt this ache inside of me… I felt like I had found something amazing and that, somehow, it was mine to protect and that it was mine to cherish. In that moment, while you were tinkering with the end of the world, I was falling in love with you."

Helena's hand drifts away and Myka's eyes open again.

And there, in that chair and at that desk, sits Helena – as if Myka had just left the woman there seconds ago instead of more than a year; pencil between the lips and concentration so beautifully poised upon the woman's brow, with smudged stains of lead on rolled up sleeves as elbows bear down on endless sketches.

In that other world, Myka quietly turned around and left Helena's room, saving all her questions and interest for another day, another hour, another time in a future that she didn't know would never exist.

But this is Myka's dream and so, this time, Myka does not leave.

"Hey."

Helena sort of jumps and sort of spins around in her seat at the sound of Myka's voice, that look of intense focus melting away to a hint of shock and annoyance – but then even that look fades even more to one of possible amusement and relief.

"Myka, god, you startled me. I'm afraid I was in some rather deep wool-gathering."

Myka murmurs a 'sorry' and then slowly pushes the door open further, her hip digging into the doorframe as she leans there. Helena is twirling the pencil between her fingers and a nice smile finds its way to the woman's lips.

"Would you like to come in?"
"Only if I am not bothering you…?"
"You are never a bother, Agent Bering."

And that nice smile becomes a little nicer still, growing more indulgent at the corners. And so Myka matches that sight with a grin of her own as she leaves behind the rest of the bed & breakfast, as she steps fully into Helena's room and then reaches back to shut the door – a single click and they are the only two people in the entire universe.

Myka takes a deep breath and Helena is watching her closely – but it is not a scrutinizing gaze at all. And if Myka were to take a guess at the sentiment rolling off of Helena's stare, she would say it looks a lot like fondness and affection.

Myka would say that it looks a lot like the beginning of an impossible love.

"I really like your room." Myka says as she finally exhales and Helena breaks their gazing by glancing around.
"It's a bit untidy at the moment…" Helena replies, hand still spinning that pencil around and around.
"It smells good, though."

Helena brings her gaze back to Myka and it is lit up with calm sort of inquisitiveness, easily inviting Myka to explain the meaning of her comment.

"Maybe it's because I grew up in a bookstore but, when I am in your room, I am returned to a good part of my childhood… I am back with those tattered pages and black ink and never-ending stories. And it's kind of comforting to me."

Helena's nice smile goes all warm then, as if she understands what Myka means at some level that no one else has ever reached. And Myka actually feels like she will start crying, which is something she doesn't want to do – not now, not when I still have so much to say – but that shuddering sensation is filling up her throat nonetheless.

"Then you should come in here whenever you like, Myka… Consider my room your own."

Myka takes another deep breath to try and hold the tears at bay as she nods her head in acceptance of Helena's offer. And Myka's arms are already moving of their own accord, hands working deftly to untie the laces on her boots, and then she is pushing them off - one foot at a time - until they topple unceremoniously upon the floorboards.

And Helena does not appear confused nor concerned at Myka's actions.

Instead, the woman lets the pencil drop to the desktop and gets up from that chair, coasting towards Myka as though they were both standing on air; instead, the woman gently guides Myka to that unmade bed and encourages Myka to lie down, to be enveloped by sheets still heavy with body-heat of another.

And so when Myka next inhales, she breathes in everything that is Helena.

Side by side, following the slow back and forth of dark lashes near pale skin, and Myka cannot blink. And she doesn't want to blink, she doesn't want to forget this or misplace this – she just wants to pull Helena closer as they rest on this bed together and she just wants to make a thousand promises that will never be fulfilled.

"I love you."

And it happens just like that.

Every declaration never spoken, every poem never recited, every invention never used and every thirst never quenched – and it happens just like that, all that they never said to one another when the moment finally arrived…

…as you saved me once again, as you tried to tell me a lifetime worth of stories with a look…

"I love you, too."

And it is just Myka and Helena kissing, for the last time ever, as this daydream finally grinds to a halt.

/ /

TBC

*= from The Time Machine

**= from The Island of Dr. Moreau

***= from Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd