a/n: hiiii. I am nothing but a ball of lyatt feels & this fic is a celebration of only the pure goodness of Hollywoodland. No angst. No dead wives. Pinky promise :)

For real, the most pessimistic thing about this story is probably the title (shamelessly stolen from La La Land and all too accurate for our current predicament).

lovebirds

Ruby mouth, dark curls pinned in place, a vision of gliding white and gold… Wyatt might be a little biased, but Lucy is easily the most beautiful woman in the room tonight. She's an undercover historian with the voice of a star on Broadway, and she's outshining an entire crowd of the most famous models and movie stars that 1940s Hollywood has to offer. He's a little surprised at the transformation that's taken place before his eyes, but then again, it's Lucy. She's been keeping him on his toes from the start. Why not add brilliant singer to the long list of her accomplishments?

She's pressed firmly to his side on the ride to Hedy's home. The towncar's roomy backseat feels a lot less roomy with five adults squished in together, but Wyatt isn't complaining. After an evening of escorting her around on his arm, touching her back, guiding her by the waist, he's almost used to this feeling of playing the part of her other half. They're Logan and Preston, right? A duo. Duos stick together.

He helps her from the car once they've rolled up to another glowing mansion in the hills, not even remotely sure where their cover story ends and his true feelings begin. The proximity seems right, like it's second nature. It's really always been second nature with her.

The drinks are poured and Rufus is being led away, so they do as Hedy suggests. They make themselves at home as...lovebirds. A laugh bubbles up as soon as he's alone with Lucy, but it's a skittish laugh, a dizzied burst of apprehension, maybe even a bit frantic, because maybe...

Maybe she's on to something. Maybe after tonight, he'll have no reason to laugh off that assumption anymore.

Cheers, indeed.

He sheds his jacket, undoes his tie, and swallows a long gulp of alcohol because he's suddenly terrified at the loss of additional company. Lucy removes her shoes with a satisfied sigh, shrinking before him until she's back at her natural height. He's never really understood the pain that women put themselves through for a damn pair of high heels, but he can admit that it's been nice having her face floating so near to his all night. Even now, though he has to make more of a deliberate effort to do so, his eyes keep flocking back to her brightly painted lips.

The whispering folds of her dress have collected around her bare feet, dragging over the ground as they wordlessly agree to meander through the patio doors to snag a better view of the pool. Wyatt stays close to her so he can keep an eye on that tedious hazard of a hem. She's proven herself to be a major clutz, after all. He's watched her trip over lesser obstacles, right? The dress is too long without the shoes and he's just looking out for her.

But that's not the only reason he's staying close. Of course it's not. No sense in trying to convince himself of anything less than the truth. And there's so much he wants to say, so much that's been lingering between them from the moment they found each other in that tent in 1918, but for some reason those words aren't what rises to the surface when he opens his mouth. It's a question about George and Hedy.

George, who spends all of his time collaborating with a smart, engaging, attractive woman… George, who clearly desires a relationship that extends well beyond the boundaries of a professional partnership or amiable friendship. George, who according to Lucy probably never had a real shot, so he stayed on the sidelines. He never took the risk.

Wyatt can't do that. He can't be George. He won't make the same mistake.

Thank God it's not really much of a risk in his case, though. He's under no illusions that Lucy doesn't want this, not after she's drawn him in for two almost kisses since she's been back, and for damn sure not after she'd locked her big brown eyes right on him and crooned about love with a conviction that literally took his breath away. Like he was the only person in the room. Like the entire song had been for him alone. Like she loved him, couldn't escape it, and she wanted him to know it even if it scared the hell out of her.

With the pool reflecting over her face, the stars of Tinseltown winking overhead, and a flurry of nerves whirling through his stomach, Wyatt goes for it. Badly. He botches it, makes an awful joke, laughs stupidly as she wades through his miserably obtuse subtext. He can't just tell her she's smart and beautiful without sounding like a backwards idiot. Even when he's finally got his head in the game, she's still cracking jokes in a voice that's a little higher than usual, playfully reminding him that she's the only reason he's standing here in one piece after so many jumps gone wrong.

It doesn't matter that he's terrible at this. He's determined to get it all out there for her once and for all, so he won't let her detract from the gravity of what he really means. He holds his ground, shakes off the rust, and confesses that she's restarted his entire life from the inside out.

His whole body aligns itself in the direction of hers, shifting like a planet in orbit as she reciprocates with a confession of her own.

He needs her. She's the one who's jump-started his icy heart, and she says she needs him too. They need each other.

They also need to continue this conversation in a place that finally affords them a little damn privacy.

And they do, oh God they do, but it isn't so much a conversation as it is a consummation of thousands of conversations, centuries of impassioned looks and comforting touches and soul-shattering hugs, a long-awaited meeting of two hearts that almost seems fated by the cosmos.

He kisses her until the last traces of ruby red is smeared away from her mouth, till her dark curls have tumbled from their carefully arranged pins, not stopping until the white and gold shimmer of her elaborate gown has glided into a puddle on the floor. Lucy whimpers into his neck when he slides slowly against her, and then he kisses her some more, knowing without asking that these are the exact brand of kisses they'd both die for.

afterglow

Wyatt's eyes are tiny crescents of sparking blue in the dying glow of embers from the fireplace. He's fighting sleep, and the effort is as valiantly adorable as anything she's ever seen, but Lucy knows it's a lost cause long before he'll admit it.

He's everything she's expected him to be. Diligent, focused...athletic. Skillful to the point of overzealous.

But also so generous. Open. Unapologetically intimate. And selfless, unbelievably attentive as he'd coaxed her body through two toe-curling releases to his one. He never takes his eyes off of her for long, constantly gauging her reaction to every synchronized push and pull of their bodies coming together. His attention returns to her again and again, stubbornly holding on even now, with his lashes falling to rest against his cheek every few seconds, lingering there longer each time until he pries them open once more.

She doesn't think she's ever truly known the meaning of afterglow until this, until him, until she's watching with a smile as he tries to stay awake for long enough to build up the physical stamina for another round. Lucy won't be protesting either way; she's already just about as happy as she can be, and staring at his sleep-softened face while he's out of commission is hardly her definition of sacrifice. Her fingers flutter across his stubble, eliciting a subdued noise from deep within his chest.

"It's okay, Wyatt. Close your eyes. We have all night."

His lips twitch with a rueful half-smile as he barely slurs out his one word response. "Sorry."

"Shh," she soothes with a kiss to his bristly cheek, "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Lucy waits till his head sinks further into his pillow and his breathing has evened out, but it's still no picnic to part ways with him for even a minute. She forces herself out from under the sheet, staggers slightly on legs like jello, but makes it to the bathroom and back in what might just be record time. The creamy satin slip - something she'd pilfered from the on-set wardrobe department to go beneath her evening gown - catches her eye right as she's almost to the bed, and some silly part of her wants to feel it against her skin as she falls sleeps feeling all raw and sensitive and loved. She doesn't own anything like it back home, not even back when she had a real home apart from a few grubby sets of clothes in an equally grubby military bunker. The slip is glamorous, the epitome of Hollywood in the 40s, and her not-so-inner history nerd pretty much demands that she give into this frivolous impulse. Plus maybe it'll be more fun later when Wyatt has to work a little harder to get what he wants.

That decides it. His impatience with getting her undressed the first time had been as amusing as it was endearing. She's hoping this will give him something to get all growly about when he's back at the top of his game, because growly Wyatt is a very attractive Wyatt.

Not that she's ever encountered an unattractive Wyatt to date.

He pulls her closer as soon as she's settled in beside him. She glances over her shoulder, but his eyelids haven't flickered in the slightest, his mouth is hanging just the tiniest bit open, and the firm muscles of his body aren't budging for anything but this one task of tucking her soundly against him.

Of course...as if she's not already completely overwhelmed by the depths of her feelings, the cherry on top is that - unconsciously and without intent - he's a ferocious cuddler too.

She hadn't chosen to sing "You Made Me Love You" for any reason other than the words were familiar and she knew it fit the time period. It was a stroke of luck, a matter of convenience. In the moment, she'd mentally congratulated herself for pulling that random title off the top of her head in the midst of sheer panic.

But with each new thing she learns about Wyatt Logan, that choice feels about as far from random as a person can get... It's really as if that song existed to be sung by no one but her.

morning

He's halfway to hard before the door swings open. Aside from the basic biology of morning wood, there's also the steady caress of Lucy's soft hand on his arm, his neck, his face...up and over his ear, then her nails are raking pleasantly through his hair, which is where he feels himself springing to life again. Wyatt isn't sure that she knows what she's doing to him, but God does it ever feel good. It's been so damn long since the last time he's woken up to the gentle touch of a warm hand on his skin. Hell, until Lucy, he'd spent years without anyone really touching him at all. It's not something he's ever put much thought into, but now that she's here and she's smiling so widely with that hand roaming freely from one rapturous whim to the next, he's amazed that he's survived so long without it. But it's morning now, and he's finally waking from a sleep that's lasted for the better part of five painful years. His eyes are still heavy, voice cracked and rusted, but Lucy has stirred him back to land of the living in more ways than one.

His euphoria doesn't fade when Rufus comes sputtering in like a fish out of water, eyes wide and words jumbling together in a way that's barely intelligible. Wyatt is grateful to be buried under the bulk of the thick bedspread, because otherwise their gawking teammate would be getting a much more obscene eyefull. He glances sideways, catches a glimpse of thin ivory straps gracing Lucy's shoulders, and as much he's doubly grateful that she's covered up, he also wants to get her uncovered as soon as possible.

He's rolling over her just a beat after the door swings shut, not a single damn care in the world beyond having her again. They have a few hours to kill before the drop between Rittenhouse and Hearst, Rufus is gonna think twice before walks into any room unannounced from here on out, and Hedy has already alluded to the fact that she thinks they could use some privacy. Beyond this fleeting retreat into a world that's far brighter than their own reality, Wyatt has no idea when they'll have another spare moment to devote to this.

Lucy's dark eyes are beckoning him forward with a knowing look, so he molds himself into the space between her legs, rumpling up that silky slip thing in his fists and yanking it higher with a throaty grunt of dissatisfaction. It's a flimsy barrier, but it's a barrier nonetheless.

Lucy laughs from beneath him with her head thrown back across the pillow, fingertips pressing disarmingly into his neck.

"Wanna let me in on the joke, Luce?"

She shakes her head with a grin, leveraging a hand into his hair and pulling him down for a kiss. "You're just cute. That's all."

He grazes his teeth over her lip and slinks his way into her mouth as soon as she's gasping with an exhilarating little inhale. He kisses her thoroughly, skims his tongue over hers, grips her hips in both hands and grinds teasingly against her until she's practically writhing with need.

"How's that for cute?"

She breathes his name with a twist of longing and he's as ready as he'll ever be, so that damn slip is hitched up and over her head and then he's groaning into her mouth with one smooth thrust.

Sunlight spills across Lucy's pale skin, her eyes darken as her walls contract around him, and Wyatt remembers that there's only thing that's better than waking up to the gentle touch of a warm hand - having the time to do something about it.

roadtrip

One long blink merges right into another. And another. The newly constructed prison has melted away in the rearview mirror, which means the last phase of the mission is complete and now it's another few hours in the car until they're back at the Lifeboat. The adrenaline at taking down another sleeper agent and successfully getting in and out of the jail without notice has drained away, allowing the steady rhythm of the car's engine to lull Lucy into a peaceful trance. The rush of air around them is aglow with late afternoon sunlight, a little loud but somehow comforting too, like a happy California cocoon that's wrapped it's way around her heart.

Wyatt's hand is warm through the fabric of her dress as he gives her leg a light squeeze. "Scoot over here."

She glances back at Rufus with a shy grin, but his eyes are glued to the striking view of rapidly passing coastline. Wyatt gestures her over again with a sly tilt of his head and she doesn't need a third invitation. She slides across the smooth leather bench with a quirking smile. His arm winds around her shoulders, guiding her against him until her head is nestled into the crook of his neck.

"Looks like someone didn't get enough sleep last night," he says quietly against her ear.

Between the noise of the convertible and the low - yet aggressively suggestive - tenor of his voice, there's no way Rufus can hear him, but Lucy's cheeks are coloring anyway.

"Really? What was your first clue?" she flings back at him with a laugh.

He plays along as if clues had actually been necessary. "All those yawns you've been trying to hide. The fact that you can barely keep your eyes open now. It's funny how you think you're being anything less than obvious."

"Nice try, Sherlock, but I think you may have had some insider information in cracking this case."

His face flashes with a rascally grin. "Ha. Insider information."

Lucy bats her hand to his chest, fighting off a stupidly giddy chuckle. "Be good."

"You should know by now that 'good' is not my default setting."

She lets her eyes slip closed and eases further into him. "Wrong. The only thing I know by now is that you have a very skewed sense of self."

"That didn't sound like a compliment," he says in a low rumble that matches the hum of the engine.

"Well it was. Might not have been the most direct compliment of all time, but it was in there somewhere, I'm sure of it."

Wyatt feathers a kiss into her hair, the smile evident in his voice. "If you say so, Lucy."

She can't stifle her next yawn. It ends with a sleepy grin, because she knows he's reveling in being proven right.

He wastes no time in confirming her assumption.

"Damn, I really must have outdone myself last night. Or you know what, maybe it was this morning that did you in." A deep chuckle rolls through him, one that she feels resonating against her cheek. "Sorry for wearing you out, Preston."

"Don't be, Logan," she mumbles in return, "cause I'm not. Not sorry at all."

"Me neither."

The last thing she feels is another press of his lips to the crown of her head, and then she lets herself reclaim a small portion of the sleep he'd so deliciously deprived her of - the sleep she'd gladly lose all over again.

home

Wyatt gravitates toward her room as soon as he's traded his slacks and sweater for a set of normal clothes. He hesitates at the threshold, unsure of the current rules of decency between them. He's seen all of her now, touched all of her, memorized every beautiful curve and dip of her body, so there's no surprises waiting for him on the other side of that door. That doesn't mean she wants him barging in without permission, though.

Nothing can dull his sense of anticipation as he debates what will happen next. He's restless with a need to have her back in his line of sight, dressed or undressed…not that he doesn't have a preference between those two options.

He's still standing there battling with his insatiable depravity when Lucy emerges without warning, nearly mowing him down since she's in some kind of hurry and he's stationed inexcusably close to her door. His hands brace against her arms to keep her from bouncing right off of him and landing on her ass, and he can't help but laugh at the flustered astonishment her face.

"Going somewhere important?"

"Maybe," she answers with a bashful smile, "waiting on someone important?"

Leave it to her to simply volley the question right back on him. Wyatt arches a brow and concedes with another laugh. "Yeah. I, uh...thought I might be lucky enough to catch an encore performance from Hollywood's latest sensation."

She blinks up at him, casting some kind of sneaky spell over him with the sensuous curve of her lips. "An encore of the song…? Or of something else?"

Oh God, she's gonna kill him if she keeps this up. Death by innuendo. What a way to go.

Lucy springs up on her toes and kisses him quickly, then takes him by the hand and drags him away from her room. "C'mon. We need to do something to occupy ourselves until we can check in with Agent Christopher. I can't have you lurking around in my doorway and not...you know...announce it."

"I was wrong about Rufus, though. He's not cool at all, so prepare yourself for the likelihood that he'll have a congratulations banner strung across the bunker before the hour's up."

"You actually thought he would keep his mouth shut?" she questions with an incredulous laugh. "He's the one person around here who makes me look cooler."

Wyatt weaves his arms around her waist and pulls her to a stop before she can make it out of the hall. "Ouch. I'm telling him you said that.

She pushes him off of her with a disbelieving scoff. "Wait, aren't you supposed to be on my side now? You'd just rat me out to Rufus even though - "

"Even though you're responsible for getting me laid last night?" He tries to maintain a look of smug superiority, but his expression is cracking at the first squawk of a laugh that comes from Lucy. "One night in my bed and you think you've bought my silence, Preston?"

She covers her face and releases another loud laugh, muttering a muffled, "Oh my God" into her hands.

The sound of that laugh proves to be contagious, so by the time Wyatt is pulling her into the open space of the common area, they're both out of breath and looking a little foolish. They haven't been kissing, haven't really done much of anything at all since they've arrived in the present, but anyone who takes so much as a glance in their direction wouldn't know the difference.

He likes that. He wants to keep on laughing with her until they're nearly red in the face, smiling till the muscles around his mouth start to hurt. He's probably laughed more in the last 24 hours than he has in entire years of his life. It almost feels irresponsible, being this happy in light of everything else they've been dealt lately.

Lucy rifles through a sad collection of ancient board games once they've gotten themselves under control, not sparing him a glance until she finds what she's looking for, and then her eyes are filled with a childlike gleam of hope as she holds the box up for his inspection. "Know how to play?"

"Checkers?" Wyatt nods, his lips twisting with yet another chuckle of amusement. "Yeah, who doesn't?"

She shrugs indifferently, but her face holds no secrets. He's clearly won some bonus points with that answer. "Not everyone does. Amy hated it when I tried to teach her. Actually, Amy hated most of the games I liked. The boring ones, according to her."

"Strategy games are the only board games I can get into. Guess that makes us both nerds, huh?"

Lucy plops the game down onto the table and moves toward him, tipping her chin up with a look that sends a shockwave of anticipation down his spine. "Yeah, guess so."

They're so damn close to kissing that he can feel the quickened breath that leaves her parted lips, but Jiya chooses that moment to come clattering down the hall and Lucy backs away with a grin, because apparently his sigh of frustration brings her some kind of warped entertainment.

"Prepare for the ass kicking of a lifetime," she taunts shamelessly before dropping onto the couch and reaching for the box again. "I'm really good at this."

"Big surprise," he says with an eye roll. "What aren't you good at?"

"Many, many things." She tilts her chin to the side and begins to tick them off on her fingers. "Sports. Cooking. Anything that requires coordination. Car chases. Gun fights. Fist fights. Really any of the fights."

Wyatt shakes his head at her antics, but his humor shifts quickly when he sees her tucking her knees up against her body with a shiver. "Let me add one to the list - staying warm."

Her laugh is a little sheepish this time. "Bingo. See, I have plenty of - "

She stops mid-sentence while he shrugs off his flannel shirt, and then he tosses it over to her, smirking at her blank expression. It's a carbon copy of the look she'd given him in South Carolina when he'd draped his jacket over her shoulders for the same reason. Wearing his clothes does something to her, a fact he's made careful note of, and Wyatt is bound to enjoy every last minute of that awestruck reaction. It's not often that he has a chance to leave Lucy Preston speechless.

"It's a shirt," he informs her plainly. "Your arms go in those things called sleeves. Might help cut down on the chill in this damn hellhole if you put it on."

The teasing condescension in his voice breaks through to her. There's a snarky smile as she pushes her hands through sleeves that engulf her, but her words are almost achingly sincere. "You didn't have to...I mean, thanks, but now you'll be the one who gets cold."

"I'll be fine," Wyatt assures with a chuckle, "looks better on you anyway."

Lucy busies herself with setting up the board, but she can't mask the appreciative flush that dances over her cheeks. He relaxes back against the lumpy old couch and watches her at work, marking the concentration of her brow and the easy movement of her fingers as she gets everything properly arranged. She must feel his eyes on her as her hands go still for a second and she fights off a grin, but she doesn't pause for long. The thrill of kicking his ass at checkers is probably too tempting to give way to distraction.

Wyatt doesn't stop watching, though, not until she mumbles an insistent - "Quit that" - under her breath. Only then does he allow his eyes to wander elsewhere.

This damn silo can't hold a candle to Hedy Lamarr's mansion. It's poorly lit, there's a terrible draft, the fixtures are all broken down, the air is hopelessly stale. Everything is covered in dust even after all these weeks have passed, and the halls are haunted with phantom sounds that clank all night long. Even so, Wyatt hears the words of their gracious host from the night before ringing through his head - you two lovebirds make yourselves at home.

They don't have much of a home in the here and now, but one look at the woman across from him, and Wyatt is sure that they've found a much more permanent home in each other.