A/N: I'm here to give the people (and myself tbh) what they want - the outtakes of part 1 from Wyatt's POV! Sorry that this took so long & probably doesn't even make sense unless you revisit chapter 1 or have the memory of an elephant. I tried to make it easier by numbering all the sections in both chapters for quicker reference..? Hope that helps :)

warning : you may want to go get some water and a snack since this stupid thing is almost as long as the original

i.

The phone rattles him awake in an instant and Wyatt answers it on the first ring, adrenaline coursing through him just as it always does when he's jolted out of a dead sleep. He's already had an entire conversation with Agent Christopher and is hanging up by the time Lucy begins to stir, so he steals one long look down at her sleep-softened face while he still can before he's forced to downplay the way his heart beats faster at her nearness.

They've fallen asleep on each other for the third time this week, and he can't bring himself to admit that it's turning into a bad habit. There has to be a loophole somewhere that allows for platonic friends to repeatedly curl up beside each other on the couch and pass out to the backdrop of late night television, right? No big deal.

Not that he really thinks of Lucy as a platonic friend, but those are the terms for now. Those illusive 'possibilities' temporarily went out the window when her life got shot to hell about a month ago. With everything else that she's processing regarding her mom and Rittenhouse - along with the fact that they've now been redoubling their efforts to chase Emma through time - he won't do anything to rock the boat any further until he's sure that she's ready for more. It seems as if stability is the best thing that he can offer her for the time being, and they're probably both better off that way anyhow. God knows he would most likely make a mess of anything else if they moved too quickly toward something more significant.

"Mmm..." her hand slides across his chest as she tries to find her voice, "we're jumping?"

"Yep. I told her we're on our way."

Lucy's eyes are still closed as she lifts her head off of his shoulder and smooths her hair down from where it's been crushed against his shirt. He stands and pulls her to her feet, suppressing a laugh at her bleary-eyed look of annoyance. She does not function well with these middle-of-the-night disruptions. Of all the new things he's learned about her in the last few weeks, this one really came as no surprise, but it still amuses him to witness it firsthand. She's a woman of order and routine; an early riser. She somehow does better on no sleep than she does on minimal sleep, and her childlike crankiness on a night like tonight entertains him more than it should.

"It's my turn to drive."

Wyatt does a double take at that. Her eyelids are barely open in the faint light of the glowing TV screen, and he values his own life - and definitely hers, for that matter - enough to realize that he cannot allow her to take her turn tonight. "Lucy..."

She stretches her arms above her head and makes an indistinguishable groaning noise that may or may not be her way of replying to his use of her name. Wyatt intends to tell her right then that she can forget about driving, but he's momentarily distracted by the sleepy little sounds she's making...and the way she's arching her back as she continues to stretch herself out like an agile cat...and by the notion that she's still wearing his sweatshirt and it absolutely dwarfs her willowy figure in a way that he can't ignore.

She's always cold. That's another thing he's recently learned about Lucy. They usually hang out in her apartment - always better food there - and the sight of Lucy layering herself in a collection of blankets and sweaters and fuzzy socks has become a familiar one. But tonight they somehow ended up at his place for a movie, and they were barely past the opening credits when he'd noticed that she was silently huddled against the couch with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. There was no need for either of them to make the trek down the hall to get her something warmer to wear, not when she could just as easily borrow something from him. So he'd gotten a sweatshirt from his bedroom and flung it at her with a smirk, not thinking twice about the weird ways that might turn up the dial on his attraction to her. He's avoided looking at her too intently for most of the evening, but now? He feels like a damn caveman for the fact that he can't stop himself from staring as she sluggishly locates her shoes.

Good thing she's basically sleepwalking, because he's being anything but subtle at the moment. It's not until she passes him on her way to the door that Wyatt snaps out of it, and then she's stabbing her arm repeatedly into the depths of her coat, missing the opening to her sleeve three times before he decides to intervene.

"Thanks," she mumbles before blindly digging around in her pocket for her keys.

"Lucy," he calls more deliberately, his hand on her arm to stop her quest.

She bats his hand away with a narrow glare. "My turn to drive, Wyatt."

He thinks she can't be serious, but then she's staggering through the door and he lurches after her, hastily checking the locks almost as an afterthought before he races to catch up.

And here's one more thing he's discovered about her: a sleep-deprived Lucy is very susceptible to suggestion. As long as he can give her a reasonable alternative to whatever it is she's obsessing about, she's not going to argue with him.

"How about we skip your turn this time?" Wyatt tugs on the sleeve of her coat, redirecting her misguided path before she can stumble right into the stairwell's railing. "You can go twice in a row after this one to make up for it."

Her forehead ruffles for an instant, but then she shrugs and hands him her keys. "Okay. Just this once."

"Alright, let's get outta here, sleepyhead," he murmurs with a grin.

It's hardly the first time he's seen her act like a drunken toddler when they've left in the small hours of the night, and in hindsight it really makes him frightened to know how she ever got to Mason Industries on her own before they lived just down the hall from each other.

"God I need a coffee," she mutters once they're outside, blanketed in cool night air.

"We'll get some at Mason," Wyatt says as he opens the passenger door for her. "He's got better stuff than either one of us anyway."

She hums her agreement and then he's making his away around to the other side, sliding into the driver seat with a muted curse as he bangs his knee on the steering wheel. It makes her laugh even though she's halfway through a yawn when he does it, and that somehow alleviates the irritation he feels at repeating that act again. He's driven her car a few times now, usually when they get back from a particularly ugly jump and she's either too exhausted or on-edge to responsibly make the return trip to their building. Or that one time when she'd gotten just tipsy enough on a post-jump bar crawl that he'd felt the need to confiscate her keys for the evening. No matter what the occasion, it's pretty much a guarantee that he will smack his knee before he remembers to adjust the damn seat to accommodate his height.

More often than not, she's willingly handing her keys over when necessary, but for some reason she's lacking a bit in the self-awareness department tonight.

And later, once they're at Mason and ready to suit up for the jump, Lucy's lacking self-awareness becomes even more pronounced as she somehow misses the fact that everyone within a 50-foot radius is gaping at the two of them like they've walked into work naked or something.

It takes Wyatt less than thirty seconds to realize why they're staring, and when it does dawn on him, all he can do is laugh to himself.

Lucy is still wearing his sweatshirt, and since it looks so damn good on her, he can't bring himself to care what anyone else might be assuming. Let 'em talk.

ii.

Their jump to 1790 is wrapped up within nine hours, which means it's barely six in the morning when they return to Mason Industries and Wyatt is feeling every minute of sleep that he's missed out on, especially after that raging bout of nausea that had nearly wiped him out from the very beginning of the mission. Even now he feels the leftover twinges of seasickness deep within his gut, but at least it's been far more subdued on the return voyage than it had been on the trip out.

For once there's no real reason to wait around for Lucy; they both have their own vehicles since he came straight from the bar last night, and his assumption is compounded when he sees that she's showing no signs of crashing anytime soon. It seems like their actions in New York had some fairly substantial ripple effects to the present timeline, so of course she's more than a little fired up as she learns of the consequences. Wyatt tries to listen as she takes inventory of the changes with Agent Christopher, he really does, but the trip back to 2017 has rekindled that thunderous headache from hours ago and he simply can't concentrate on a history lesson at the moment.

He figures Lucy will probably be attached to her laptop for hours anyway, so he slinks off to change into his street clothes as soon as the official debrief is over. If he's lucky, no one will come between him and a hasty exit. He has a date to keep with a few tablets of Tylenol and his pillow. Nothing short of a national state of emergency could detain him at this point.

Wyatt is back in jeans and a t-shirt, almost to the parking lot, when a shrill voice slices through the corridor.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home," he responds gruffly, not bothering to turn around, "we didn't come together, remember?"

Lucy isn't so easily deterred. "I'll take you. I can be ready in a minute."

He sighs, then shifts sideways to fend her off. "Lucy, you don't - "

"Well, maybe two minutes because of the damn corset."

His eyes wander to examine the amplified cleavage that's been taunting him all day, and he thinks the damn corset might not be such a bad thing. Wyatt distantly realizes that he's being obvious in his appreciation of what exactly that corset is doing for her, and by the time he tears his eyes away, he knows it's too late. There's no way she's failed to notice that he was totally checking her out like a lecherous creep. He waits for her to turn away with a scoff or a blush or something, so he prepares a lame apology about being too tired to behave properly or something equally pathetic, but the moment never comes.

Lucy closes the distance between them, takes his face in her hands, and looks him straight in the eyes. "I'll give you a pass this time since you look like absolute hell right now, but don't think you can get away with that again."

He squints back at her, feeling a reluctant smirk curving across his mouth. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."

"You deserve a break after drunkenly saving our asses in...what year was that again?"

"Very funny," he says petulantly with an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

One hand drops away from his cheek as she snickers in response, but then she's all business again. "Just wait here, okay? I can tell that everything's finally catching up to you, and the last thing I need is for you to drive straight through a red light or something."

She leaves a surprising kiss on his cheek and then spins on a heel, her skirt billowing behind her as she marches toward the locker rooms with unflinching purpose.

He stares after her - his mouth slightly ajar and eyes unblinking - until she disappears from view.

"Fresh air...fresh air will help," he finds himself mumbling for the second time in the last nine hours, albeit for very different reasons this time around.

Wyatt shuffles over to the door and props himself against the opening, careful to stay in sight as he breathes in the crispness of a morning that's just beginning to dawn. He tells himself that his brain won't be able to handle the octave her voice will inevitably reach if she assumes that he's ignored her orders, but in all reality, he really knows that he'll do just about anything to keep her from worrying about him. There are plenty of legitimate stressors in her life; he refuses to add to the list whenever he can help it.

iii.

She's driving him crazy. Absolutely freakin' crazy.

Wyatt knows deep down that it's not fair to hold her responsible for his own heedlessly wanton appetite. He feels like a stupid hormonal teenager for how badly she's affecting him, and it's not like she's really herself at the moment, but how the hell is he supposed to ignore what she's doing to him? Her hands are everywhere and she won't stop yammering about that damn kiss in Arkansas. He thinks about it enough on his own, but then to have her blabbing on and on about how good of a kiss it was in front of Rufus...? It's just too much.

Some part of him wants to be angry about how transparent and exposed he feels, but how can he take that out on Lucy? None of this would have happened if he'd done a better job of protecting her. He never should have let her out of his sight. God only knows what exactly she's on, and if the drugs in her system have any sort of lasting effect on her, he'll hold himself personally responsible. It's his job to keep her out of danger and he's failed her yet again.

And even if his guilt hadn't been enough to keep him from lashing out at her for all of the excessive touching and rambling, then the ridiculously cute pouting would have done the trick too.

"Wy-att," she whines, dragging his name out as slowly as she can with pursed lips, "I'm gardening. Let me garden. Why are you in such a rush?"

"Because Emma isn't here anymore and everyone back home will be worrying about us if we don't show up soon."

Her arms twist around his waist again and he ducks his head so Rufus won't see the unhinged look that is surely contorting his face as Lucy pitches herself too close to his neck and protests. "But I'm having fun here. I don't want to go home."

Wyatt isn't sure how much more of this he can take. All he wants to do is pin her against the nearest tree and tug that gauzy little dress right off of her.

Shit, get it together, Logan.

He hears Rufus snickering from beside them, and then it becomes crystal clear. Get rid of Rufus and then he can take care of this once and for all.

"Why don't you go ahead of us and get the Lifeboat ready for takeoff?" he suggests in a voice that hopefully comes off as innocuous. "We're not far now and I'd like to get her to the medics as soon as possible...just in case."

Lucy loses interest in the two of them and wobbles toward a pigeon, her voice carrying on the breeze. "Hey there, wanna hear about our friends Bonnie and Clyde? Did you know that they were supposed to die in a car but we changed it? We're not supposed to change things but Wyatt says there's always a mess."

Rufus hesitates, and Wyatt is suddenly a man of great faith, practically begging some higher power to grant him this one little favor. Probably not the right thing to ask of God, but oh well. He's desperate.

"Uh, okay. You sure you can deal with this on your own?"

He nods swiftly, trying not to look unnaturally enthusiastic at the prospect of being alone with Lucy. "Yeah, I'll handle it."

Rufus is silent for a moment, his regard darting between the two of them before he finally answers. "Alright, see you guys in a minute."

He releases a shaky breath as Rufus makes his way toward the trees, but Lucy isn't experiencing the same sense of relief. "But, Rufus! Wait! Don't you want to meet the pigeon?"

"Hey Lucy," Wyatt breathes quietly, his hand finding hers as he pulls her away from her beloved bird. "Wanna hear a secret?"

She goes very still at that. It's probably the first time she's been stationary since they found her in that sketchy bar. "Yes. Definitely."

He smirks at the incredibly serious expression on her face. He leans into her, looping his arms around her waist to keep her close. She reciprocates by gripping his shoulders and when he's this close to her, he automatically forgets everything else. It's just him and her, and he's enamored, absolutely hypnotized.

"That night in Arkansas? I thought it was a really good kiss too."

"Really?" she asks, her eyes enormously round in the moonlight, "you mean it?"

"Yep," he replies with a grin, "and someday I'm gonna kiss you again, and it will be even better than the last time. But until then you have got to stop talking about that other kiss...at least for tonight, okay?"

She squints up at him as if she's not sure that he's telling her the truth. "You wanna kiss me again? For real? Or because we're pretending again?"

"For real."

The smile that spreads across her face is unbelievably contagious. "Can I tell you a secret now?"

Wyatt wants to do the right thing. He probably shouldn't encourage an already-unfiltered Lucy to tell him anything that might qualify as a secret when it seems like nothing could possibly be off limits to her right now, but some horribly selfish impulse wins out instead. "What is it?"

Lucy's nose brushes against his. "Do you know how blue your eyes are, Wyatt? Like really, really blue. Prettiest eyes I've ever seen. They're perfect."

He has no idea what to say to that, but even as his mouth opens to somehow string together a response, he realizes it doesn't matter. Lucy isn't interested in a verbal reply. Her fingers are in his hair and her mouth meets his with a fervor that sends sparks surging through his entire body. She immediately takes advantage of the fact that he had been a moment away from speaking, her tongue slipping against his without any resistance as she rocks forward into him. He can't think, can't do much of anything, just falls into the kiss with an appreciative groan, because dear God she's been unintentionally toying with him for the better part of an hour and his body is more than ready to ignite into flames at this point.

But then his conscience shouts back at him, reminding him that he's supposed to be more levelheaded than this. Her own words from long ago bounce back into his brain - I trust him, he makes the right choice every time.

"Lucy," he exhales raggedly between kisses, "we - we shouldn't."

She ignores him, her teeth latching onto his lower lip, and he hisses with erratic approval. He finds that his hands fit just perfectly around her hips, that her mouth tastes even sweeter than he's remembered, and he nearly loses control altogether as her hands slide down the front of his shirt toward his belt.

He honestly has no idea how he does it, but he somehow harnesses a herculean amount of self-restraint before she can get any further.

"No, Lucy," he gasps into her ear as he seizes her hands in his. "Not tonight."

"When?" she whines, fidgeting in his grasp.

"When we're both ready. And preferably when neither of us are high."

She makes a huffing noise against his throat before tipping her head back to examine him. "You're no fun."

"Sorry, but something tells me you'll appreciate this decision later," he says with a grin, shifting his grip on her hands so that their fingers are now laced together. "Come on, Rufus is waiting for us, remember?"

Her face lights up. "Rufus! Rufus is our friend and he knows how to fly a time machine. Can you believe that?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer, and suddenly she's the one who's pulling him toward the Lifeboat instead of the other way around. She continues to recite other fun facts about Rufus along the way, and Wyatt is amused to discover that Rufus looks funny in a cowboy hat and apparently sings show-tunes in his sleep. He's so busy laughing at her lively little commentary on the third member of their team that he's totally caught off guard when Lucy yanks on his arm to stop him just a few feet short of the time machine.

"What? What is it, Lucy?"

"One more for the road."

He has no idea what she means by that until her arms are hooked around his neck and her lips are dancing against his again. And he's not a total killjoy, so he obliges and relinquishes full control to her, his hands grappling along her rib cage to acquire some semblance of balance as she very nearly knocks him right off his feet. His back thuds against the frame of the Lifeboat as she presses one last searing kiss against his mouth.

"Remember, we're not talking about this," she whispers against his lips before slanting away from him and making a zipping motion across her face.

"Right," he whispers back with a muted chuckle, trying to collect himself before Rufus can come investigate the scene that they're surely causing. "Up you go."

He flips their positions with his hands on her waist, then calls out through the darkness - "Incoming!"

Her delighted peel of resounding giggles brings an idiotic smile to his face as he lifts her up and watches her vanish into the time machine. For a split-second he wonders if there's such a thing as a secondhand acid trip, because he's feeling a little woozy himself as he climbs in behind her.

But if he's willing to admit the truth, he knows that the only high he's experiencing has nothing to do with drugs. It has everything to do with the fact that Lucy clearly wants him just as badly as he wants her.

God, he's going to have to take one hell of a cold shower when they get back to Mason Industries.

iv.

"We don't have to dance," Lucy mutters uneasily. "Not if you don't want to."

She's jumpy, her whole body resonating with unspoken discomfort. Truthfully, he doesn't really want to dance either. He's not even good at dancing by modern standards, let alone is he well-versed in whatever the hell is happening on that dance floor at the moment. There are actual steps involved, and his military training somehow failed to cover this particular scenario. Believe it or not, there weren't a lot of people doing the jitterbug in Syria.

But then the music slows to something that may or may not be a waltz, and between Rufus' not-so-subtle scheming and the way Lucy can no longer make eye contact, Wyatt has had enough. He's taking control of this situation. He's been miserable all week for no reason other than he's missed her; he misses Lucy even though she's been right down the hall this whole damn time.

She's been acting standoffish ever since they came back from the '70s, and he's a bit ashamed to recognize that he's been playing it cool with her too. He knew she would prefer some breathing room when she first came down from her trip, but he'd nearly lost his mind when she continued to be unreachable for the better part of three days. Just when he was ready to break down the door of her apartment for fear of what had become of her, she'd blindsided him in the hallway with a stiff apology for her disorderly behavior and then majorly sidestepped any further discussion by rushing off to go do God-knows-what.

Since then they've only seen each other in passing until today's call from Agent Christopher, and Wyatt was fully expecting to have to patch things up between them somewhere along the way, but from the moment they stepped foot onto Mason's compound, Lucy has acted as if nothing is amiss. She's been totally normal all day - talking, planning, smiling - all without a trace of awkwardness. It's like the last week of isolation and avoidance has never happened, has somehow been erased altogether.

Until now, of course. Because it's finally just the two of them, no Rufus or Jiya or Agent Christopher to divert her attention away from what's happened between them. So she's giving him an out, a clear way to bypass further contact - we don't have to dance.

Oh, we're going to dance alright, he thinks to himself with a grin.

"No, Rufus is right. We'll blend in better if we look like we actually want to be here. Plus we can have eyes on both sides of the room if we're dancing together."

Lucy tilts her head at him like she's fully prepared to argue, but he isn't taking no for an answer. He sweeps her out onto the dance floor with an arm locked around her waist and then they're swallowed up in the sea of other couples. It's been a long time since Wyatt has done anything like this, but he figures Lucy is the type of partner who will probably start leading herself if he's as terrible as he imagines.

It takes all of ten seconds for that assumption to be confirmed.

"Wait, not like that," she instructs quietly, "hold my hand out in frame. This isn't prom."

"That's a shame," he says close to her ear, taking pride in the resulting shiver that she can't conceal from him. "I was hoping to request an Usher song when the band was done with this one."

He feels the laugh that reverberates through her. Mission accomplished.

Lucy steps further into him, then pushes against his hand until he takes the cue and begins to copy the movement of the other dancers as best as he can. "Usher, huh? I would have guessed Lonestar or Shania Twain."

Wyatt smirks down at her, letting his fingers trail deliberately across the gracious span of silky skin that's on display thanks to the backless cut of the gown. "There may have also been some Lonestar in the mix, but I draw the line at Shania Twain."

"Really?" she responds with a calculating smile. "Are you sure you're from Texas?"

He almost doesn't answer because he's so engrossed in the red lipstick that accentuates the shape of her mouth, making him desperate for a reprise of last week's indiscretion. "Okay, so maybe they played Shania Twain at my prom, but that doesn't mean I was out on the floor for that one."

"Too busy trying to get your date to visit the back of the limo?"

"Hey now," he replies, putting on his most convincing look of offense, "I'll have you know that I was a perfect gentleman, ma'am."

Her expression turns more serious, all signs of her teasing evaporating as she stares up at him for several breathless seconds. "Yeah, I can believe that."

Wyatt is taken aback by the sudden sincerity. He angles his face closer to hers as they continue to spin in time to the rapturous orchestra. "You look beautiful tonight, by the way. Much better than any prom date I ever had."

She smiles softly and looks away before murmuring her response. "Thank you."

"Although almost every girl at my prom had a mouthful of metal and used enough hairspray to knock a small army unconscious, so take that compliment with a grain of salt."

Lucy's smile expands into laughter as her hand slides down off of his shoulder to straighten his pocket square. "You're such a charmer, Wyatt."

"Don't I know it," he says with a brazen wink.

She rolls her eyes at him, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly in the dim lights of the ballroom. Just as he's beginning to brainstorm the best way to make that tiny blush of hers grow into something greater, his intuition snaps to life and his eyes flicker beyond Lucy to catch a glimpse of Emma as she slinks her way along the edge of the room.

Damn it.

"What?" Lucy asks, twisting in his arms to glance backward. "Did you see her?"

"Yeah, we gotta move," he answers succinctly, keeping one hand fastened around hers to pull her through the crowd with him.

Funny how five minutes ago he didn't want to dance at all and now he hates the fact that it's over.

v.

He's felt her eyes on him all day. There's been a palpable tension radiating in Lucy's every movement since the instant Agent Christopher had told them where they were going, and as much as he hopes to prove her wrong, there's a lingering fear churning through his stomach that can't be ignored. That fear rapidly amplifies into something almost unmanageable once he gets a good look at their surroundings in 1847. Dry heat, war-torn villages, the sights and sounds of battle hanging in the air with the heaviness of a stifling blanket that can't be escaped.

Wyatt mentally repeats the truth of his circumstances over and over again - he's a time traveler, this isn't the Middle East, he has a new team that needs him, and most importantly, he won't put Lucy in that same position again. He won't get so lost in his own head that she has to run into the line of fire to save him from himself. He refuses to risk her life like that a second time. It simply is not an option. He can do this, he can stay present. He'll do it for her even if he can't do it for himself.

Miraculously, it works. He gets through the whole first day without incident, keeping any hint of a flashback or panic attack at bay by fixating all of his energy on the task at hand. He isn't the only one who is breathing easier a few hours into their mission; he can see how relieved Lucy is too. She hides it pretty well, but he catches on nonetheless. Her shoulders unwind slightly, her words come more naturally, and she's allowing herself to spare him a smile or two by the time nightfall is approaching.

The relief is short-lived, however, when everything he's been repressing comes clawing back to the surface after they've found a place to stay for the night. Rufus and Lucy have been asleep for more than an hour, but Wyatt can't find the off-switch to his racing thoughts. It hits him so unexpectedly that he's losing the fight before he even knows what's happening. All he sees are his guys in Syria, the ones he's left behind to die, the ones he's failed.

He's unraveling. He can't sit, can't sleep, can't breathe.

And apparently the 'can't breathe' part is what drags Lucy from her bed, because next thing he knows, her face is swimming into view and she's pleading with him to slow down, to inhale and exhale, to come back to her. She guides him determinedly to the lumpy little sofa. He doesn't know how long they stay like that - her hands framing his face as she kneels in front of him and coaches him in a steady voice - but eventually he can feel his heart returning to something resembling a normal pace and he watches despairingly as her face crumples before him.

"Hey, it's okay," he whispers roughly between deep breaths, "I'm okay."

She presses her fist to her mouth and nods, but he can see the flood of stress and worry that rushes into her eyes despite his reassurances. She's belatedly experiencing the residual shock of what she's seen, the weight of it breaking over her now that the danger has passed.

Wyatt reaches for her without hesitation, pulling her up from her knees and drawing her into his lap. "You did good, Lucy. I'm right here, okay? I'm fine."

She sinks into him, a slight tremor running through her. "I was so scared. I-I didn't know how to help."

"You were perfect," he murmurs into her hair, still shaking a bit himself as he weaves his arms more securely around her. "I'm sorry, I wish you didn't have to - "

"No," she responds adamantly, "don't apologize, Wyatt."

He doesn't remember much after that. Fatigue pulls at his eyelids and numbs his brain, and he gladly lets it take him under its spell, his arms still holding her firmly against him as he finally nods off.

When he wakes the next morning, it's to find Lucy making an awkward attempt to extricate herself from the jumbled entanglement of their limbs. He's so surprised by the realization that they've mysteriously arranged themselves horizontally across this pitiful excuse for furniture and stayed that way for a whole night - something that's never quite happened in the present - that he fails to say anything as he squints up at her in the feeble light of daybreak.

"Sorry," she mumbles in a raspy voice, looking terribly guilty at the thought of disturbing him.

He shakes his head at her with a lethargic smile, then shifts sideways and places his hands on her waist, piloting her up and over him until he's sure she's found solid footing. "No problem, ma'am."

She seems to be a little reluctant to go too far now that he's awake, so he sits up slowly - his muscles stiff and sore from that godawful position he'd apparently slept in - and catches her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'll be alright, Lucy. Promise."

Her fingertips stroke over his whiskery jaw, and he's paralyzed at the tenderness of her touch. She looks like she wants to say something, and he senses that there's some kind of internal battle going on inside of her head, but the moment eludes them at the sound of Rufus stirring in the next room.

Lucy's eyes are inexplicably sad as she steps backward and tilts her head toward the bathroom. "I'll be ready to go in a minute."

Wyatt nods, already missing the warmth of her presence just a second after she's gone.

vi.

He huffs up the steps so quickly that he isn't sure if his feet are even touching down or if he's somehow floating up the three stories on his way to her. At least he hopes he's on his way to her. It's impossible to know for sure. Yeah, her car is parked in the lot outside, but that really means nothing since he was the one to drive to Mason earlier that morning. She could be anywhere really, but if she's even half as upset as he is, then this is really his best bet. Lucy is the kind of person who retreats into her feelings, needs to go off the grid to let herself work through the heartbreak. He's witnessed this firsthand over the last several weeks as she's bravely dealt with her mom's treacherous Rittenhouse revelation. And as if he didn't already know this, he now can say with absolute certainty that Lucy is easily the wiser of the two of them. Wyatt prefers to swallow down his wayward emotions with an excessive amount of liquor or beat it out by getting into stupid arguments and brawls. Lucy seems to instinctively know how to process the shit that's been handed to her, a skill that he'd been taught in post-deployment counseling but still does not come naturally to him.

Just one more thing to admire about Lucy Preston, right?

That, and her insane ability to flee Mason Industries faster than a bat out of hell. How she'd gotten anywhere with such a measly head start is ridiculous, but there would have been no head start at all if he hadn't been so thickheaded. God, he's an idiot.

"Wyatt?"

She's frozen at the threshold of her door, staring at him with wide eyes. He realizes that he's just burst out of the stairwell with enough emphatic urgency that she probably thinks Rittenhouse is on his tail, and he almost wishes that were the case because then he'd have a compelling reason to make her talk to him.

No such luck.

"Hey," he says, fighting to catch his breath after sprinting across the parking lot and up the stairs like a madman. "Listen, I need - "

"No," she interrupts curtly, her head shaking as she jams her key into the lock.

"But Lucy - "

She almost drops her purse as he steps nearer. "No, Wyatt. I don't want to do this. Not right now."

"Even if I'm only here to tell you that I'm sorry for acting like an unimaginable asshole?"

Her door is finally swinging open. She stands rigidly at the entrance, one foot in and one foot out. Her eyes study the floor as if all the questions of the universe are answered in the lines of her striped welcome mat.

"I'm sorry, Lucy. I overreacted and I'm sorry."

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to apologize for ratting you out to my psychologist?" she asks in a low voice, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"No," Wyatt says gently, "this is the part where I apologize for acting like I have any say in what you can and cannot discuss in your appointments with her. Not my place."

She eyes him hesitantly before exhaling a deflating breath and nodding toward the apartment, inviting him to follow after her as she enters. "I don't want you to get reassigned. I can't do this without you."

He waits until the door is shut and she's clicked the deadbolt into place before he replies. "If Agent Christopher didn't kick me to the curb after I stole the damn Lifeboat, then you're probably stuck with me indefinitely."

"But you said..."

Wyatt sighs and drops his gaze away from hers. "Yeah, about that. There's no excuse for how I acted, but first of all, it's safe to say that you won't be the only one who is forced to attend mandatory sessions with the shrink after this. And I...I hate psych evals. Been there, done that. I'm no good at them."

"I stand by what I said," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, "I want you to get help...even if you resent me for it. If that's too much for you - "

"It's not," he returns without a shadow of indecision. "I care about you too, Lucy. You know that."

The room seems very small even though they're standing several feet away from each other. Wyatt's heart is thudding heavily in his chest as he watches a range of emotions play over her face. But then her expression hardens and she's gripping the edge of her kitchen counter with white knuckles. "What's the second thing?"

"What?"

Her brown eyes drill into him with startling precision. "You were explaining why you reacted the way that you did. First of all, you hate psych evals. Secondly?"

He inhales purposefully, confronted with the landmine of what's at stake here and not sure how to step around it. "Secondly, I...I don't want anyone to think I'm incapable of doing my job. I don't want to give anyone a reason to doubt me. Not Agent Christopher, not my team, not you...especially not you, Lucy."

She creeps forward and looks like she's going to reach for him, but he's disappointed when she maintains a shred of distance. "I don't doubt you."

"Yes you do," he says with a cynical smile, "why else would you need to talk about how I cracked up at Buena Vista?"

Now she's the one who's smiling, and if he's not mistaken, there's almost a glimmer of a laugh brewing inside of her. "God, Wyatt, seriously? Do I actually need to spell this out for you? It's not for a lack of trust or faith or whatever you want to call it."

He shakes his head and crosses his arms, totally lost and not afraid to admit it. "Yeah, you're gonna have to give me more to go on than that."

"I feel like all I ever do is talk about you in those sessions. Am I sharing the burden of my family situation with anyone else?" Lucy asks in a voice that he can only assume is her mimicked impression of the shrink from Homeland Security. "Yep, Wyatt. What brings me peace of mind when it feels like the bottom is falling out of my life? Oh, that would be Wyatt too. Are you taking time to decompress between jumps? Yes, because Wyatt is there to drag me out for drinks with Rufus or is convincing me to split a pizza with him while we start GoldenEye for the third time - you know, since I keep falling asleep in the middle of it. Wyatt is the one who forces me to act like a normal human when all I want to do is hibernate for the next six months."

She moves closer, and he sees tears gathering in her abundant black lashes as she blinks up at him. "Sometimes I feel so dependent on you, Wyatt, and it's not necessarily a bad thing, but..."

"But what?" he questions hoarsely.

"But it's nice to know that it's not always a one way street...that I can be there for you too when you need it. That's how we got on the subject of Mexico, okay? Not because I was expressing doubts over whether or not I could trust you out in the field. We were talking about reciprocation. About purpose. I don't want to be a drain on everyone around me."

His brow furrows as he braces his hands on her upper arms. "You are not a drain, Lucy. I have never - "

"I know," she says, waving a hand dismissively, "I'm past that now. I got it all out about two hours ago...right before we started publicly tearing each other apart in front of everyone at Mason Industries."

Wyatt winces at the memory, sure that they'd put on quite the spectacle. "Sorry about that. I'm betting that really added fuel to the fire."

She peers at him with a look of utter confusion. "Meaning..?"

"Meaning most of our pals at Mason think we're doing a whole lot more than eating pizza and watching GoldenEye on our nights off."

"What?" she screeches, decidedly panicked. "Why-why would they...?"

"Um, I don't know," he can't help but laugh at the pink hue that's spreading up her neck, "probably because we both want to be doing a whole lot more than eating pizza and watching GoldenEye."

Lucy opens her mouth and promptly closes it again, then finally manages to string together a real sentence after a long delay. "So today was what? A lovers spat?"

He nods in response, a smirk sliding into place as he takes note of the fact that she hasn't denied the accuracy of what he's just suggested. "So you tell me - are we just ordering pizza later or what?"

Her hand drifts over the front of his shirt. "I'm not very hungry. I think the pizza can wait."

The metaphor is starting to get muddled in his brain as her lips get very close to his. He's not really sure what the words mean anymore but the signal in her eyes is clearer than ever. "Are you sure, Lucy? Because I think I used up all of my self-discipline in 1974. There's no chance of stopping myself if I start kissing you this time."

"I don't want you to stop," she confides quietly, "as long as it's what you want too."

Wyatt feels the culmination of every near miss, every lingering hug and a litany of meaningful touches, every night that she's fallen asleep against his shoulder, every small act of affection that's passed between them; all of it has been building to this moment where there's no pretense and no excuse. The words are burning inside of him and he ignores the small thread of fear that tries to tell him only bad things can come from this. He can't hold back on her. He won't.

"It's all I want," he admits before his mouth latches onto hers with a tenacity that she readily matches. It's everything he remembers from their LSD-infused lip-lock except now he knows she's just as greedy for this kiss even without the added intensity of hallucinogens in her system. Her lips are warm and welcoming, but insistent too, like she has no intention of letting go of him for at least a hundred years. Wyatt bunches the fabric of her blouse in his hands as she rakes her fingers through his hair and he's feeling absolutely winded by the desire that's threatening to consume him right there and then. It's with a staggering breath that he breaks the kiss, only moving his face fractionally away from hers so that he can speak the truth that's pulsing through his veins. "I am so in love with you, Lucy Preston."

He doesn't get the chance to see her reaction because as soon as the words escape him, her hands are pressing on the back of his neck and her lips are attacking his, tongues colliding. The feel of her body moving flush against his, the softness that is just intrinsically Lucy molding against every inch of him, sends his senses into overdrive. His hands wander past her hips to find a decent grip and then he bends slightly to lift her up onto the countertop. She immediately locks those distractingly long legs around him and another wave of heat washes over him as he lets himself - freely this time, finally without an ounce of shame - imagine all of the possibilities that come with those legs. He's groaning then, and Lucy smiles against his mouth before she leans back and lets her eyes sweep over him.

"I love you too," she whispers, looking shy and certain all at the same time, "in case you weren't sure."

"Good to know," he replies with a dimpled grin.

She reconnects their mouths and uses her legs to better align his hips against her center, and he grunts sharply, automatically thrusting forward. There's no question as to where his body thinks this is going, and he'd be lying if he said his brain wasn't hoping for the same thing. She goes very still for a moment and Wyatt pauses with baited breath, waiting for Lucy to lose her nerve and back away, but then she cautiously nudges against him again - almost experimentally - and dips her head to leave a feverish kiss on his neck. He shudders and sags into her with his hands digging into the smooth skin at her waist. Curtains of her wavy dark hair fall on either side of his face as she kisses her way back to his mouth, and Wyatt allows his fingers to slip beneath her shirt and trace up the aisle of her spine. She squirms in response, which confuses him for a second until he inches backwards to see her expression.

"Ticklish?" he asks in a husky voice that he almost doesn't recognize as his own.

Lucy bites down on her lower lip and nods. "You're not allowed to use this information against me."

He smirks at her, twisting a strand of her hair between his finger and thumb. "No promises, babydoll."

His statement - and that absurd nickname, he's sure - earns a scoff and an eye roll. She scoots down off of the counter then, and he feels every bit of her sliding against him until she's standing still, her breath hot against his neck. "Then I guess we're done here, sweetheart."

She makes a move to leave, but his arms cage her in on both sides, palms planted on the countertop behind her. His forehead rests against hers, a sinful smile on his face. "Oh no, I think we're just getting started."

Her mouth opens, but he cuts her off before she can protest, his lips crushing against hers once more. His hand pushes past the hem of her shirt for a second time, although he's careful to elicit a different response now that he knows better. He wants it off - really wants all of her clothes off - so he teases her skin until she's arching deliriously into him, her eyes nearly black as she ends the kiss and holds her arms up in invitation. Wyatt accommodates the request without delay, his hands eagerly gripping the edge of the thin material and pulling the blouse straight over her head before letting it drop to the floor.

And he's speechless, head gone fuzzy, heart hammering out of rhythm at the sight of her and there's no sense in hiding it this time. A gorgeous woman - one he now has deep, undeniable feelings for - is about to take her bra off in front of him and this time he actually gets to watch. No, to hell with that, this time he's doing it himself.

"Just like the day we met," he murmurs, his fingertips toying with one lacy strap, "except I think I'll leave the underwire in this one."

She smiles coyly, and if that doesn't makes his blood boil, her response sure does the job all on its own. "Do whatever you want to it."

His eyebrows practically hit the ceiling. Yeah, he's definitely taking it off himself.

The world seems to blur at the edges until there's nothing but a melody of these intoxicating little moments. He's kissing her everywhere he can reach, working the tiny hooks of her bra as fast as he can, and then she's returning the favor with her hands diving beneath his shirt to run her fingers across his abdomen. His muscles twitch beneath her touch and he barely has the concentration to finish his task, finally ripping the bra off of her and then taking his shirt off too just to even the score. She's kissing him frantically now and he keeps her naked torso fused to his, needing as much of her skin dissolving into him as possible. She makes a whimpering noise into his mouth and he can't even find the words to ask for her permission. He just hitches her legs up around his waist again and lurches somewhat blindly toward her bedroom.

They tumble gracelessly across the mattress. Lucy's hands seem to be charged with electricity as she wastes no time finding the buckle of his belt and he's endlessly grateful for the small miracle that there's no obligation to stop her this time around. He's wanted this so badly since she'd flung herself at him in the '70s, even before then if he's being honest, and on some level Wyatt wants to slow down and attempt to savor the moment now that it's really happening.

But when Lucy succeeds at unbuckling his belt and is tugging his jeans down over his hips, the notion of slowing down is officially impossible.

And there in her sweet-smelling room, in a bed that's softer than anything he's ever slept on, all of the complications that define them fall away, become meaningless. He stops being the grieving widower. She forgets that she's been living like an orphan in an unfamiliar world. They aren't coworkers or time travelers or fighters in a clandestine rebellion, they're just two people in love, and for once they aren't feeling the pressure of defending the past or preserving the future; the present is all that exists.

vii.

"We should really start carrying Excedrin on these jumps. What's the worst that could happen? Aspirin was already discovered here in some form."

"Lucy..."

She continues to rummage through the adjoining bathroom, her voice fraught with emotion. "I'm not kidding. We need to be more prepared for emergencies. I'm researching the historical timeline of different painkillers when we get home."

Wyatt sighs impatiently from where he sits against the headboard, tentatively swiveling his upper body from one side to the other to test his sore shoulder and aching ribs. Just as he expects, the damage is minimal, which is what he's been trying to tell her for hours. It's done nothing to erase the stubborn lines of worry that crease across her forehead. "This isn't an emergency, Lucy. I'm fine. Just come out here please."

The sound of her distressed hunt for some outdated version of a first aid kit continues on from the next room. "It shouldn't be too hard to find something here. The guy who is credited with synthesizing aspirin - Felix Hoffman - is from Munich, and I think it hit the market at the beginning of the century. I would go out to get some but that bar is probably the only thing that's open right now...unless someone there has it on hand, which could - "

"Lucy."

"What?" she finally abandons her search and comes flying into the bedroom, "what is it?"

He immediately sees that she's misread his insistence as a sign of alarm or a cry for help, but he can't bring himself to feel bad about it. She's in his line of sight and that eclipses any sense of guilt that could potentially take root. His eyes appraise her from head to toe, something he's wanted to do since she first emerged from the dressing area at Mason Industries but couldn't get away with until now. Her body is perfectly suited to the style of the time period, but when isn't that the case? The neckline of her blouse sets off her delicate collarbone and the skirt's drop waist silhouette effortlessly showcases the elegance of her long, slender frame. The fluttering hem falls in varying points just below her knees, hinting at the enticing contour of her legs hidden beneath the flimsy chiffon material.

"Wyatt?" There's still a dash of concern in her voice, but recognition fills her dark irises. This is the first time they've truly been alone all day and there's no point in concealing how that's affected him. He can tell she's struggling too.

"Come here," he murmurs, patting the spot next to him on the quilted bedspread.

She sits down gingerly with her fingers caressing the top of his hand. "Are you sure you don't need anything? Not even something to wrap around your ribs?"

He leans into her and kisses her soft cheek. "Nope. Just you."

That brings a smile to her face as her hand ruffles through the stubble on his jaw. "Always the smooth talker."

"I've been told I'm very charming," he says before capturing her mouth with his.

She returns the kiss without pause, surging against him for several euphoric seconds before pulling away with a shadow of fear in her gaze.

Wyatt furrows his brow as his thumb smudges a line across her lower lip. "What's wrong?"

"It's getting harder...standing on the sidelines while you fight, watching you get hurt." Her eyes flicker downward. "I've never liked it, but it's worse now."

That statement strikes a painful chord for him even though it's one he should have anticipated. Jessica had felt the same way about his career with the military, but Lucy probably has it even worse since she's forced to see him in action on a regular basis. Of course it's impacting her differently now that their relationship has taken on new meaning, and even though he can't do anything to change their circumstances, he's burdened with the need to ease the melancholy frown that's splitting across her face. He presses his lips against her temple, then uses the pads of his fingers to raise her chin so that she'll look at him. "I get it, Lucy, but that's always going to be a part of what I do. Even when this is all over and we beat Rittenhouse, I'll get a new assignment that comes with its own risks. That's just what I'm trained to do."

She nods against his hand, blinking back tears. With nothing else to offer her, Wyatt bridges the gap between them and kisses her again. It's unhurried and deliberate, wishing to prove to her just how alive and well he is despite the hits that he's taken earlier in the day. The embrace escalates when he feels her tongue at the seam of his lips and he opens his mouth to her without question. His hands claim the curve of her hips, shifting her closer to better accommodate the kiss, but she takes it a step further when she slings a leg over him and lowers herself into his lap. His head tilts back with a contented groan as he clings to her more fiercely.

"Oh my god," she mumbles in an exhale, tearing herself away from him but not getting too far since his reflexes are faster, his arms securing her in place before she can scramble off of him. "You're hurt, oh my god, I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking and we shouldn't be - "

"Yes, we should. That wasn't because you did something wrong...it was because you did something right," he corrects with a crooked grin.

"Oh," she returns timidly, her pale skin flushed with the remnants of desire. "Still...here, Wyatt? In 1923 Germany? We're technically on the clock."

"When aren't we on the clock?" he mutters with a kiss to her neck, and then another. She's melting into him, allowing him to maneuver her closer again, but just when he thinks he's sufficiently distracted her, she puts both hands on his chest and pushes him back against the headboard.

"Wait, what about Rufus?"

"What about Rufus?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. "Something you haven't told me there, Lucy?"

She chokes out a laugh and thumps his chest playfully, careful to avoid anywhere that could actually cause him pain. "Hilarious. I meant Rufus could come back any minute and find us like this. I told you I don't want everyone gossiping about us."

"And I told you that everyone is already gossiping about us," he insists with a smirk, "Rufus included."

"Even if you're right, we still can't have sex here, Wyatt. He's right across the street."

"I know," he relents with his hands in her hair. "We'll stop."

She nods her agreement and lowers her face against his, kissing him tenderly. "Okay."

"Okay," he returns with a hum.

But they don't stop. How could he possibly stop when she's straddling him with stars in her eyes, somehow still smelling irresistible even after the hellish day they've had? And he plans to hit the brakes eventually, but Lucy doesn't object when his hands untuck her blouse and roam upward to flirt with the clasp of her bra. She also doesn't prevent him from removing the shirt and bra altogether when he can't resist any longer, and then she's the one who's clawing at the buttons on his shirt and yanking it off of his shoulders. Can he really be blamed for the fact that they've completely lost track of everything but each other?

Going by the venomous glare that Rufus is sporting a few minutes later - while rubbing the spot on his forehead that's collided with the wall, no less - it's safe to assume that, yes, Wyatt can definitely be blamed for this particular lapse in judgement.

Whew congrats if you made it to the end! This one was really supposed to be shorter than part 1 but whooops a lot of foreplay happened and I'm hopeless. Please review because I feel like I just wrote/edited the equivalent a marathon ;) Unless something wild happens, this fic is officially done. THANKS!