Disclaimer: I don't own CBS's "Zoo." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Inspired by this prompt:– "every time we've been reincarnated we always end up becoming really famous and there are pretty big parallels with our past selves and i think by now some historian is going to notice a pattern." – Set post 1x13 in an au where they save Jamie from the crash, they cure the animals and everything is fine.

Warnings: reincarnation au, adult language, 1920's dancing (is that even a warning?), established relationship, past lives.

Here's a story for the papers (a bearcat and a bluenose fell in love)

"You've got to stop being reincarnated as a scientist," she hissed, fingers digging like anxiety-curled claws into his forearm as they ducked under the red velvet cordon and away from the blitzing media cameras. "That was too close, Mitch!"

"Yeah I'll get right on that," Mitch snarked back. Not angry, but clearly frustrated as he ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the closed door with a grateful sigh. Still blinking through the afterimage of maybe two dozen camera flashes all going off at once. "Because clearly my vocational preference is the problem here and not an overzealous conspiracy blogger that probably made a deal with the Devil to dig up that piece of ancient history!"

She blew out a breath between her teeth, kicking off her heels and tossing herself into the closest chair. Massaging her sore toes as she conceded it had been one hell of coincidence. How that sleezeball got a hold of that picture and decided to confront them with it during the middle of a global press confederate was anyone's guess.

"How was I supposed to know someone cared enough about my findings at that funding dinner to photograph it? I don't even remember that photo being taken. The only thing I remember about that night was the brandy," he snarled, only slightly petulant this time. Clearly coming down from the adrenaline as he paced around the room. Messing up his slicked back hair as the stubbornness of his usual messy waves made a soft, understated return despite the grim-faced, government-appointed hair-stylists best efforts. Ignoring the almost constant ding of their phones as Abraham and Chloe's ringtones blared into the relative quiet of the empty board room.

They were missing the rest of the press conference.

Sage and Jackson were probably going to be pissed.

But honestly, it felt like they had bigger problems right now.

That picture the idiot held up had been pretty damning and if-

"That was what, 1915? How the hell did a single photo of an obscure dinner party survive all that?" Mitch broke in. Still firmly in the denial stage of dealing as her thoughts raced ahead and tried to think about damage control.

"1920," she corrected, scrolling through her texts and missed calls. The press conference was wrapping up. It seemed like Director Sage had made excuses for them - something about exhaustion or maybe a sudden case of food poisoning. Different media outlets seemed to be reporting slightly different information - as per usual.

"Ugh… Whatever," Mitch answered, tugging on his tie and tossing it behind him in a balled up tangle of expensive coal colored silk. "You realize that this isn't going to get better, right? The more technology keeps advancing the more it's going start getting difficult to hide the fact that we are the universe's bitch."

"I know," she sighed, wriggling her fingers for him to join her as he half collapsed in the chair beside her. Quietly seething. "But in your own defense, you did look rather handsome. I miss seeing you in a bow-tie."

He just hurmpphed noncommittally.

"Maybe we should take the next few lives off? Do something normal. Boring. Take the heat off for a bit, hmmm?" She proposed, bumping shoulders with him as she thumbed the engraved band on her ring finger with a soft smile. Suddenly glad she'd kept the stone turned inside her palm for the press tour – showing only a simple gold band. The same as the one currently on his finger. More than aware that if the blogger had gotten a shot of her ring he would have been able to compare the style and stone from the old picture and then- well- things would have gotten a whole lot more complicated than just a case of historical doppelgangers.

They hadn't had time to have the ring altered like they usually did. Not with the whole saving the world thing and nailing Reiden Global into the corner even they couldn't escape from. Their engagement and quiet elopement was still more or less a loosely kept secret. Deciding not to wait another second of their - god, what was it now? Seventh chance? - after they'd rescued her and the leopard cub after the crash.

"And how do we do that exactly?" Mitch asked, more or less just to distract himself at this point. "Considering we never remember anything until we meet and by that point we're already mid-career - or in too deep to afford going back and redoing anything."

"Do you think there are others? Like us?" she asked eventually, giving voice to something she'd wondered for a long time as the slit of her purple dress pulled tight around her thighs. Already longing for her jeans and more comfortable shoes as she shifted restlessly. "We can't be the only ones."

He nudged his glasses further up his face before tipping his head in acknowledgement.

"Statistically it is far more possible that there are others out there. People experiencing this same…thing with us. Far more likely than the alternative, anyway. It's kind of like the question of alien life and infinite galaxies. We know it's a possibility – a good possibility – I mean with those odds there's no way there couldn't be. But we can't see it. We still don't have proof. And whatever 'proof' we have here has been diluted and commodified by emotionally unstable crackpots that claim everyone was a king or a queen in a past life," Mitch snorted, nose twitching as she tugged at his dress sleeves. Picking off imaginary lint as a cover for her own nervousness. "Not exactly grounds for a solid scientific study."

Seeing that old picture had rattled her.

It had rattled both of them.

She sighed, slipping her phone back into her clutch. "Well, we'd better get back out there and make an appearance at the dinner. The sooner we go the sooner we can have the evening to ourselves. Besides they are having Jellied Tomato and Pimiento Salad and Nesselrode Pudding Macaroons. How long has it been since you've had Nesselrode pudding, huh?"

"Long enough to know it will probably pale in comparison," Mitch shot back, easing himself to his feet as he rocked back and forth restlessly. "They never get the pudding right. Something to do with the cream, I think."

"You're just saying that because it isn't Emilia's," she hummed, smiling. Entertaining her own fond memories of the people closest to them in their past life. Emilia had been with them for close to thirty-five years before the cheerful woman's old age had forced her to resign.

"Absolutely," he confessed, cocky and unrepentant as his new shoes squeaked across the floor. "Damn that woman could cook. Do you remember that thing she did with pork? The one with the roast apples and that sauce, what was it-"

"Alright, picky," she laughed, stomach grumbling. Holding out her hand for him to help her up. "Take me to dinner."

But just like he was prone to do sometimes, he caught her off guard.

Extending the crook of his arm instead.

"Yes, ma'am," he said smartly, catching her around the waist and swirling her around so that her bare toes skimmed across the tiles. Setting her down on the tops of his shoes as the wide of his palm spread across the small of back. Transforming their relationship with gravity into a lazy, swaying waltz as she leaned into him, smiling into his tux. Reacquainting herself with the feel of him in one, in this life.

She had to admit that there were some things about the old days she missed. And seeing Mitch in suits – fine and high quality suits, mind you – was a treat she'd missed more than she realized.

"You know, no matter how many times we do this- no matter how many times the world recycles us, I still don't like dancing," he murmured, nose nudging intimately at her ear before resting his cheek against her hair. An old form of the perfect lovers pose.

"But you're good at it," she protested, laughing. Allowing him to dip her before carrying on around the room. Swaying to an imaginary beat.

"Of course I am. I didn't get my ass wacked with a carpet beater by my mother's tutors until I was the perfect specimen of a gentleman for nothing, you know," he sassed, nipping at her earlobe before skidding to a wavering stop and looking down his nose at her – mock serious.

"Times have changed, Mrs. Morgan. It seems like the modern man doesn't need to know how to dance to attract a wife anymore. Even back then… I just had some damn good incentive at the time. Which happened to be you, by the way."

"Have they, sir?" she said, laughing again as she slipped off the top of his shoes and brought herself into an old, familiar position. Bare feet poised up on the toes like she was back wearing her favorite leather pumps. The ones with the scuffs on the front and the chips in the rubber heels. Merit badges from one too many dance halls and late nights.

"I'm not sure about that," she remarked coyly, directing him over to the table so she could grab her phone and type a sloppy search into google. Feeling giddy as he watched her with the rare hint of a challenge in the back of his eyes. "Besides, I seem to remember you did a pretty enthusiastic Charleston back in the day."

His eyes narrowed.

"You wouldn't."

She just grinned, cheeky and wide as the beginning strains of that old swing music aired out through her phone's speakers. Beckoning him over as she hiked up her dress and-

"Oh, I would, Doctor Morgan."

"You know, you might not like dancing- but speaking as a completely non bias third party it does help," she pointed out afterwards, only slightly breathless. Flushed, happy and double checking her hair in the floor length mirror as he rescued his tie from behind a chair and sloped over beside her to tie it.

"Does it?" he hummed, lethargic and distracted as her phone started cycling through an old-time playlist. Remembering the dances, just like she was. The Peabody. The Turkey Trot. Allowing her to figure him out when he fumbled with the silk just a bit too long. Fingers itching to knot it properly. Just like she had a hundred times before. Back in that other life and the one before that - all just as real and present as the one they were living in currently.

Some things changed.

But others?

Others stayed exactly the same.

He'd always been hopeless with ties.

"Hmm…in that case, it's a good thing I'm a fast learner," Mitch shot back smartly, handing her back her clutch before pressing a kiss into her sweaty temple. "We might want to get in better shape, though. I forgot how much work the Charleston was. Besides, I hear some of the new dances these days are-"

She cut him off with a kiss, demanding his lips as he moved towards the door like a drive by. Fingers curling in his lapels as she brought him down to her level, tugging at his lower lip playfully as the firm of his cock nudged against her belly. Overeager.

"You sure we need to go to dinner?" he rasped, following her instinctively as she slowly pulled away. Voice rough and breathless in that way he had – especially when she got him all riled up. "Com'on, it'll be like that time in- what was it called? Royan? That tiny French villa after the war? There was still a food shortage and you stole that asshole's sugar ration for our tea? Good times- and we didn't even get arrested either. This time I'm pretty sure there'll be room service and honestly-"

The door leading to the hall creaked.

She froze.

She could have sworn they'd closed the door when they'd-

"You closed the door…didn't you?" she whispered, leaning back into him so that anyone peering through the cracks would only see an affectionate gesture. Feeling him stiffen, then nod. Watching warily as she firmed her stance, closed the remaining steps, grabbed the knob and-

When she came face to face with- well- everyone- Chloe, Abraham, Jackson and oh shit- even Amelia Sage, she honestly wasn't sure if getting caught by people they knew was a good thing or the worst thing. Their expressions ranging from guilt over eavesdropping to an entire range of stuttered disbelief.

"Hey guys, we were just- um-" she started, trailing off when Chloe crossed her arms and looked at them like they were children on Santa's naughty list.

"We can see that," Jackson observed, coolly but mostly just confused. Like he'd seen and heard something that just wasn't computing. Giving her temporary hope that maybe all they'd seen was her and Mitch tearing across their makeshift dance floor to old time Charleston beats or-

"So, haha- just curious but how long have you guys been standing there?" she asked, trying for a winning smile as Abraham towered at the rear of the group. Sincerely wishing she could do some serious backpedaling when the expression came out more like a wince and - if anything - they looked even more suspicious.

Ah.

Fuck.

"I am not sure if the answer is long enough to know there is something you have not being telling us or- not nearly long enough," Abe remarked quietly. Pointed. "Though I believe it is mostly the latter."

Busted.

"Huh," Mitch echoed, doing absolutely nothing to convince them otherwise or even begin to refute it as he settled in behind her like breathing. Knowing her well enough to be able to settle into all the lonely grooves and edges of her. A warm, comforting weight against her back as her heartbeat slowed back down to something manageable. The flat of his palm hovering over the small of her as they entered new territory together. "Getting caught red handed- that's a new one."

The other's jaws dropped like they were one animal.

Looked like they had some explaining to do.

A/N: Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.

Reference:

"bearcat," – a 1920's slang term for a lively, spirited woman, possibly with a fiery streak.

"bluenose," – a 1920's slang term for term for a prude or individual deemed to be a killjoy.