Disclaimer: Characters of Warehouse 13 do not belong to me, sadly. I'm just borrowing them for a while, but I'll put them back once I'm done. The song that inspired this fic is 'In Dreams' by Windsor Drive.

In Dreams

My wondering mind will lead me

To a place where we only meet in dreams

And we both surrender ourselves

Then I wake up, and I go back to sleep

Let me guide your steps

And I'll move you in time

We'll dance the night away

If you were my song

Then I'd melt you with words

But you're not, (you're not)

~Windsor Drive

The human brain is a wondrous and complex thing. So much so that even the greatest minds on the planet aren't even sure how exactly it works and its mysteries only serve to make the thing more fascinating to those that pledge their lives to the study of it. It is what gives us our most basic motor functions and the ability to turn a baser skill into one more finely tuned. It allows us to imagine, to regard the most impossible undertakings as merely impractical for a moment; a miraculous feat when one considers the simple impossibility of trying to accept that five plus five could ever amount to twelve or sixty-three or some other ridiculous number. The brain works in strange and often incomprehensible ways.

They – the general 'they', that is – say that the human brain possesses the ability to protect itself and the vessel it has been safely nestled inside of. That should some traumatic turn of events transpire or a person should be made aware of something they aren't yet ready to understand, the brain can simply ignore it. Like pulling a blind down over a window to ignore the tornado raging outside; it was largely ineffective in terms of longevity, but perfectly useful for the time being.

Myka had been having the same dream for months, but the memory of it always faded as the first indications of morning teased the edges of her awareness. It would be gone by the time her eyes opened, blinking blearily in the soft light that slipped in through the curtains of her bedroom at Leena's, or of her room at her parents'. Back before she'd returned home, before Yellowstone, and even before H.G. had been reinstated at the Warehouse. It had, fundamentally, been the same dream, though if she'd been aware of it she would had noticed the subtle changes as time wore on.

But to Myka, the nights where her reoccurring dream returned to her were a peaceful undisturbed blackness. She never saw the setting sun, did not recall the face before her or the person speaking in hushed tones and whispering her name.

As a child, Myka had never been interested in dancing. All the other girls at her school spent a couple of hours after school once a week engaging in either ballet or tap dance lessons, or some variant, but the stage had never called to her. It was too big, too much wide open space and there were always far too many people staring back at her. No, Myka liked her solitude; specifically the kind that could be found in libraries all over the world or between two stacks at the very back of a bookshop. She'd occasionally enjoyed jabbing people with swords too, still did, but rarely achieved the same kind of peace when she was fencing as she did when she was reading. She devoured books; read her favourites until the pages fell out. She deconstructed every sentence and then reassembled them, leaving a part of herself among the words and taking those that meant most to her with her. Which was, more often than not, a great deal of them. She carried the words of long dead men around inside of her to keep her company when no one else would.

It seemed somehow fitting that the best friend she'd ever know would turn out to be one of those 'long dead men'; the brain behind the man that had portrayed himself as H.G. Wells.

Standing before a wall of mirrors that stretched from the floor to the ceiling hanging at least another six feet above her head, Myka considered the irony of it all. She'd been a shy, timid bookworm and had been largely friendless because of that. But now, look at where her reading and her studying and her bookishness had gotten her. She had friends at the Warehouse, a family. There was Pete, Claudia, Artie, and Leena, even Mrs Fredric to a certain extent, though that particular opinion would never be voiced. There was Helena.

Myka blinked at her reflection, seeming to only now realise it was staring back at her. She was draped in the most elegant looking dress she'd ever worn, ever seen anyone wear. It was a dark green that shimmered when she moved and the skirt swelled outward in the way that Victorian dresses tended to. The dress left her arms bare, but she wore elbow-length gloves of a matching shade of green and she lifted a hand to brush her fingers over the necklace resting against her collarbone. Helena's locket. She dropped her hand. Helena. She was there somewhere, waiting for her. Myka glanced at her wrist to find her watch missing and then turned to scan the painted walls of the room she was in. Moments from history played out across them, hand painted by someone who obviously had honed their skill over many years. There was such precision, such detail. But there was no clock, though there was the feeling of time slipping through her fingers.

She moved without conscious thought, wandering from the mirrored room and into a thickly carpeted corridor. The hallway was decorated in various shades of red and accented with golden highlights, and huge portraits hung on the wall to her left and she was flanked on the other side by large windows that allowed light to stream into the walkway. The paintings reminded Myka of those of Rembrandt or perhaps Johannes Vermeer, only she didn't recognise the people in these paintings. One thing was clear from the décor though; whoever lived here knew how to spend their money.

The hallway ended in an open doorway and Myka could see the polished hardwood floor of the room beyond catching the light from the huge arched windows that appeared to line the far wall. She could see no furniture or sign of decoration whatsoever, and the only things that littered the space were the thick beams of early morning sunlight. Crossing the threshold, Myka took a breath, running her fingers along her stomach as if to calm the sudden anxiety she was feeling, and then turned her head to the right.

Helena stood toward the centre of the room, gaze downcast and dark hair falling over her shoulder as she glanced at something she was cradling in her hand. Something about her appearance struck Myka as odd and it was only a few seconds before she pinpointed the cause; Helena's clothes. She was dressed not as Myka realised she'd been expecting, fashion fitting the era of her own, but in more modern attire. Tan coloured dress pants and a form-fitting white shirt open at the collar, accompanied with a vest the same shade as the trousers. Svelte and elegant; entirely Helena, and seeing her, Myka smiled. She felt her feet moving before her mind gave consent and the clicking of her heels on the hardwood caught the inventor's attention. When their eyes met, Helena's own beaming grin was as bright as it was breath-taking.

"I was beginning to fear you might not come." It didn't take long for Myka to close the distance between them and, as she neared, she saw that Helena was holding a pocket watch. The Englishwoman's smile turned sheepish as she slipped it into the pocket of the vest she was wearing and straightened, clasping her hands behind her back and allowing her posture to slide effortlessly into a stance that seemed to exude elegance and grace. Not for the first time, Myka caught herself wondering how H.G. made it all look so easy.

"Have you been waiting long?" She asked, voice echoing in the empty room. Helena's grin softened to a smile but remained utterly sincere.

"An eternity would not be too long to wait for you." Myka felt herself blush.

"Why do you do that?" Helena's brow furrowed, betraying her confusion, and Myka gestured vaguely with a gloved hand. "Say things like that. Like I mean more to you." Her explanation did nothing to ease the inventor's obvious confusion and raven locks swayed as Helena tilted her head.

"Don't you know what you mean to me?" Myka shook her head, suddenly acutely aware of how odd-looking she'd found herself to appear whilst looking into the mirror in that first room. Glancing down the length of the dress, Myka shrugged her shoulders somewhat despondently.

"I don't know what any of this means." A melodic sigh lifted her gaze and she found H.G. watching her, warmth lingering about her expression.

"You need not worry about that now. I have the utmost faith that you shall remember all in due time." Reaching forward, the inventor extended a hand towards the taller woman and, befuddled, Myka did little else but breathe and stare at the offered limb until she managed to wrangle an understanding from the motion.

"I never learned how to dance." As she spoke the words, Myka had the inexplicable feeling that she'd said all this before. "I never went to any dances at school, and later on it never seemed important. Or necessary." Myka's evident bemusement did nothing to stall Helena's chuckle and the inventor leaned forward, ducking her head and lowering her voice to a level that could easily be considered conspiratorial. She tsked, dark eyes sparkling like diamonds with some private amusement.

"That's what you always say." Archly raising an eyebrow, Myka let her confusion dissipate with little regard for the lack of effort Helena exerted in order to steal it away; it simply seemed like the natural course of events; to have the other woman ease her worry. So, she smiled again.

"How do you usually respond?" She asked, watching as the mischief that was never truly absent returned to dance upon the striking landscape that each perfectly rendered facet of H.G.'s features made up. With a wry and, Myka idly mused, rather devastating smile of her own, Helena slipped her hand into Myka's, leaving the taller woman with few options but to follow her lead.

"Come, let me guide you." She submitted undecidedly to Helena's urging, her feet shuffling inelegantly across the hardwood as some part of herself clung to the last vestiges of resistance.

"I'm afraid." A giggle left her, nervous and easily worthy of causing a blush to light her cheeks but Helena continued to regard her with thinly veiled affection that was coloured with traces of perplexity.

"Darling, what could you possibly be afraid of?" Helena's slender fingers were cool as they curled around Myka's, grip firm and reassuring. "All you need do is take that first," and with a final encouraging pull, Myka was moving with purpose, "step." Right into Helena's waiting arms.

It should have surprised her, the ease with which she found her dancing legs, but something about the grace with which they moved across the floor suggested to her that H.G. was in complete control, guiding her. Moving them about the room with a smile so dazzling that it blinded Myka to all else.

Her dress twirled as Helena spun her for the first time, making Myka dizzy and light-headed as she found herself pulled back in close against the form leading her.

"See?" Warm breath tickled Myka's cheek as Helena whispered to her. "It's rather easy, once you find the rhythm."

"Find the rhythm?" Myka echoed. "There isn't any music." And good-naturedly, Helena rolled her eyes, never ceasing her movements for a moment.

"I don't think that's the point." Myka knitted her brows into a frown, the existence of which was short-lived.

"Then what is the point?" As Helena's fingers absently skimmed the top of Myka's outstretched hand and then intertwined them with the gloved ones beneath her palm, all traces of the frown melted away. Helena smiled wryly at her, inky black tresses swaying with a shake of her head.

"You can't extract questions with such myriad answers from me with such a simple question." She chuckled then, pulling another smile from Myka. "I'm not so easy." And Myka couldn't remember any other statement ringing more true.

There was silence then, as endless as their dance seemed to be and ringing clear through the empty room surrounding them. Myka felt her control slip away and gave herself over to the invisible pull that seemed to be unravelling her from the inside.

All thoughts, memories and feelings faded to nothing; there was only Helena, the fluidity of their dance and the quietly dying light that stroked their forms as they passed by the windows.

And it was the notion that the day had faded so quickly, that she had lost herself so thoroughly in the other woman and their movements that she'd somehow neglected to notice time moving on around them that finally pulled Myka back into a world where things other than the two of them existed. Her feet scuffed noisily against the shining floor and Helena guided them to a gentle stop, though her hands did not shift from their position; one at Myka's hip, the other still clasping her hand.

"It would appear as though our day is at its end." Myka's fingers sank into the material of Helena's vest, fear gripping her suddenly and the inventor's gaze was soft and remorseful as their eyes met, though Myka could not remember her vision straying at all during their dance.

"Stay." She breathed, feeling an acute pang of loss as Helena's hand dropped from her own. "Please. Just for one more dance." Myka would not remember how the dream had played out before. Before Helena's betrayal had forced the Regents' hand, before she'd been taken away, before the pain of losing such a valued friend had rendered her unable to remain in the one place that made her happiest.

"I can't, Myka." Before, Helena had always stayed, unable to refuse Myka anything. There had always been one more dance.

"Please." And before, Myka had had to beg for nothing. Now there was the sting of tears behind her eyes and a crushing weight against her chest. "Don't leave me." Helena's eyes were dark and her features drawn by remorse. She shook her head, gaze falling from Myka as she whispered words that went unheard, but the meaning of which were keenly felt.

The sun seemed to plummet beyond some far off horizon as Helena turned from her and began walking away. Myka called out to her, but the artificer would not stall, nor turn back. Soon enough, she disappeared through a doorway, leaving Myka alone in the centre of the darkening room. The air turned cold about her, and she shivered.

Waking was never more sudden than it was on the mornings that proceeded those nights that saw her tossing and turning under the heartache of that dream, though Myka would not realise why. She'd go about her early morning ritual the same way she always did, with an underlying feeling that things simply were not 'right'.

And would not remember the dream, or be able to decipher its meaning, until it was much too late.