So, after some deliberation, I have decided to call this tale "AU". It isn't technically non-canon for season one….but honestly, if the show-runners actually decided to *go* this direction in season 2, I'm not sure I'd be able to handle it. So, for my own emotional well-being, and for that of anyone who still decides to read this thing, after an intro like this, I'm going with "AU", and I'm sticking to it!

Wyatt POV and Lyatt, although not a traditional "romance" story, multiple chapters. I absolutely own nothing, etc., etc.

If there were a word more intense than "angst" as a category….I would have used it.

He stared through the window opposite his couch, looking into the night's blackness. His view, such as it was, contained parked cars, a dumpster, and pavement. Pavement which was now wet, from an unexpected rainstorm. He imagined the dark clouds that must be rolling over his building, moving across the sky. It was taking every ounce of his carefully trained will-power to do battle against the similar clouds that were trying to sweep their way into his consciousness.

Wyatt turned slightly, to glance back toward his bedroom door that was still slightly ajar from when he had left the room, moments earlier. She was still there, sleeping. Her soft breaths were barely audible, competing against the patter of the rain on the window. Suddenly, it was as though his breath had been knocked out of him—so strong was the feeling that swept through him. He gasped with the sensation, knowing that there was no other label for it than happiness—a happiness he hadn't felt in years—brought on by just thinking of her there, in his bed. He closed his eyes, letting the unfamiliar warmth of the feeling permeate his mind and body, really feeling it, categorizing it, storing it away in that compartment in his mind labelled "Lucy".

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime—multiple lifetimes, if he really thought about it—their careful dance had come to that point that must have been written from the beginning—if one believed in things like that.

She had appeared at his door earlier that night, unannounced, ascribing her visit to an inability to quiet her mind after their latest wild Emma chase through time. She had asked to watch a movie, or play a game—anything to slow her mind from racing.

"A game?" he had asked, ushering her into the living room.

"Yeah, a game. I don't know—cribbage, or something."

He chuckled, rubbing his hand across his face in bemusement. "Lucy, with everything you know about me, what possible piece of information have you stored away in that head of yours that would make you think I own a cribbage board?"

From that point forward, Wyatt's memories became rather...muddled. Apparently, somewhere in his statement, had been the magic—whatever it was that Lucy had been waiting for. Even thinking back on it now, standing in nearly the same spot, he had no ability to organize what happened next into any true sequence of events. Instead, there were just images, flashes:

Her—closing the distance between them in a single step, tugging him toward her with her hands at his shoulders; him—raking his fingers through her hair; her—pressing her lips, hot, against his mouth, then sliding them slowly along his neck and collar bone; him—pressing his body against hers; her—running her hands down his back and then up again, pulling his shirt along with them, over his head. And then, it was both of them—moving as one, toward his bedroom, because….well, because she wanted to. And when had he ever been able to deny her anything? Particularly when what she so clearly wanted, in that moment, was also everything he wanted, everything he had been wanting since long before he had brought up the topic of possibilities at Mason Industries.

In his bed, their bodies moving together, he found himself lost in her eyes, their dark and seemingly impossible depths gazing into his own, and silently speaking of trust and hope, and something that looked a whole lot like….love.

It was only later, lying tangled in each other's arms, that she had put voice to what he had seen in her eyes. She said—well, she said something about love. Except it was contained in a long string of rapid-fire French, whispered into his ear, so he wasn't exactly sure what she had said….because, after all, that was just so….Lucy. But he knew that he'd caught the word love somewhere in that whispered confession.

He had been about to tell her all the reasons he loved her….in Farsi, of course….because hadn't turnabout always been fair play with them? But the words had stuck in his throat, with a suddenness that shocked him. Unable to say anything, he did the only thing he could think to do, and tucked her tighter against his chest, holding her tight. Because he knew he couldn't say it….couldn't say any of it.

How could he? How could he say those words to her, with what he had done, with what he was still doing….with what he was? You couldn't say those words when your every move, your every breath, was a betrayal—a betrayal of trust, and a betrayal of hope. No, he couldn't say those words when, if she knew what he hadn't been saying, what he had been hiding from her….if she knew any of it,—she would hate him.

Wyatt opened his eyes, staring back at the window, watching the raindrops run in rivulets across the glass. It was laughable, really. Him, basking in the summit of his hopes, finally being able to let go of some of the darkness, finally feeling free, finally feeling fully alive—and simultaneously knowing that it was all about to go sideways….spectacularly.

His will-power faded, and the clouds rolled in, full-force. The compartment in his mind labelled "Lucy" was pushed to the side by another, darker, compartment; one without hope and love. This was the compartment that, over the years, had become his own personal prison, and of his own making. Because he only had himself to blame—how this was all going to go.

He had done it to himself, because of weakness—that stupid part of him that wanted, even after everything, to keep hoping.

He knew that he had given up that right, the right to hope, years ago. When he didn't ask the right questions, when he accepted things at face value, and when he had looked the other way. When he had refused to ask why, or to look too carefully at the situation, even though he knew things were too good to be true.

And, after all, things that good didn't happen to guys like him.

He sighed, letting the dark compartment take over his brain. And, so, it seemed, he was destined to do it again. To not stop when things seemed too good to be true, to keep moving forward when he knew he had no right to….

God. She was going to hate him.