A/N: I know zero about music. Also, neither Claudia Jardine nor John Gordon Byron are mine. Seriously.

There is a record in Claudia Jardine's Chronicles, strangely uninformative. "October 7. Jazz club." And a cassette.

The lights are dim. Her piano is alive, Walter is away and Duncan will fly out of Seacouver tomorrow, London is all hers.
There is a vulgar, focused man in the corner giving her leers over his untouched beer.
There is a woman with pasty skin, there is a guy with misty eyes, eyes all kinds of wrong. And lots of other uninspiring people.
There is an Immortal with Attitude clipping oh-so-politely and climbing onto the stage, taking the mic out of Steve's hand and crooning last sounds of Fever.
She is collected; counting ways out.
The Rude Guy calmly waits out Steve's indignant squeaks and just nods to her.
My way, he whispers, and she could play it in her sleep, and this is not a bleeding karaoke night, it's a charity concert, but. She might have a chance of living through it if she complies.
Steve's pushed off and away.
The vulgar guy from the corner is strangely alert, like he picks up on the tension, even though he's mortal and clueless and not a savior and play, Jardine.

She's flawless.

She's better at this shit then she was on improv two songs earlier.
The song's irony cuts less the blade will, she knows. When the music's over, a challenge will wait right out the door.
So she'll make this count. Humming and closing her eyes and wishing for a better light so she could be memorized, maybe, by these losers, or maybe for darkness so she could cry.
And it floods through the song. The firm, tender voice and raw, simple piano.

They finish in complete fucking silence.
He turns, smiles, kisses her hand and leaves, Steve rushes on stage, muttering about how there's music in the gushing of a rill. Not the best of insults, but then he's still off his game.