a/n: thanks for all the likes/reviews on part 1 :) And now, I present a little Wyatt POV for your entertainment!

He bolts upright in a flash. Everything spins. His head is on the carousel from hell. But then his stomach contracts and he realizes his head is the least of his problems.

There's a muffled noise behind him. Lucy.

Oh God, she cannot -

That thought dies away in lieu of something that's too urgent to ignore, and he's gone. Off the bed, out the door, down the hall.

All the while, Wyatt silently pleads for her to not follow. A woman who hates the sight of blood surely won't be too fond of what's burning its way up his esophagus. He doesn't have time to warn her off, though. It's all he can do to get to the bathroom before his stomach empties itself of the poison he's been pouring down his throat all night.

He collapses over the toilet, sweat builds across his forehead, the world narrows, and the wrath of too much whiskey is vehemently expelled from his body.

When he finally shrinks away and mops a shaky hand over his brow, he senses her there without having to look. Great. He can't think of a more charming way to start winning back her affection.

"I...I'll get you some water, okay?"

He nods in the general direction of her hesitant voice. He hears the chair scrape into place, thoughtfully affording him some merciful privacy just in case anyone else is burning the candle at both ends tonight, and then her footsteps fade away.

Wyatt waits another moment, flushes that godforsaken mess down the pipes as soon as he's sure there won't be a reprise, and rises cautiously. His legs tremble beneath him, but he doesn't give up. He wants - he needs - to pull himself together before she's back.

The pale sickly vision that mocks him from the mirror has him cringing, but at least there's some level of reawakened sobriety in those eyes. He begins to splash cool water up into his face, runs wet hands across the back of his neck, and scrubs at his mouth until he's sure there's no lingering trace of what he's just done.

And that's when the mirror reflects a second pale face, one that's pinched with worry.

"Here," Lucy says softly, sleep still crinkling at the corners of her eyes as she hands him a water bottle.

He nods his thanks, not trusting himself to speak until he's gone a few rounds on rinsing out his mouth. Then he gulps down what remains until the plastic bottle shrivels down to nothing.

"Maybe I should have brought two," she murmurs, stationed close behind him.

"No, this is good," he answers without glancing back at her. "Thank you."

Lucy moves nearer and skims a hand between his shoulder blades. "I - I should have never let you go to sleep on your back. This could have been so much worse. That was - I wasn't thinking, and I...I just didn't..."

A phantom smirk works its way over his mouth. "What? Didn't think that I was the type who couldn't hold my alcohol a little better than this? Me neither. I haven't drunk myself sick in years. Not exactly a streak I'm proud of breaking."

"Wyatt…" she turns him with gentle, prodding hands. He still doesn't meet her eyes, but as it turns out, that isn't what she's really after. For the second time in one gloriously screwed up, wonderful, unimaginable night, Lucy is gathering him in for the privilege of something he'd had no hope of ever reveling in again - she's hugging him.

"I'm sorry you had to witness this," he whispers against the top of her head. "I'm sorry about a lot of things, really. Just when I thought I couldn't make this any worse - "

"You didn't." She presses her face into his shoulder for one magnificent moment before taking a small step back. "Don't worry about it. I want you to feel better. That's all."

Wyatt traces his fingertips over her shoulder. He remembers the day she'd flinched away at a similar touch, a day she'd fled as far as she could at the mere graze of his hands on her shoulders. For every bit of heartbreak that Jessica's vanishing act has inflicted upon him, there's so much silver lining in this; in having Lucy here, close and comforting and certain. It's such a rare phenomenon to face a version of Lucy who doesn't feel compelled to split off from him like airborne shrapnel.

She's the real thing. His realest thing. The love he can't forget or deny. The woman who's owned his heart all along. He's known it even when she hasn't.

He almost reels her back in right then, almost throws himself at her out of desperate, crowning necessity, but the sour taste on his tongue sends up a flare of the warning - not now.

"I'm going to, uh…" he points toward the sink, shrugging apologetically, "...you know, toothpaste. Mouthwash. Repeat about a hundred times."

"Sure. I'll be...back in my room then, if you want to…"

He seizes that dangling strand of an invitation in an instant. "I'll be there as long as I'm still welcome."

Lucy smiles her relief. "See you there, then."

He watches her go with a smile of his own. There have been days lately where he's felt like he'll never smile again. It's no shock to find that she's the one who can so easily contradict that theory of his.

It doesn't quite take a hundred rotations of scrubbing and rinsing to clear away the aftermath of his whiskey purge, but it definitely takes more than one. He's buzzing with impatience each time he spits into the sink and starts the cycle again. All he wants is to get back to her, but at this rate she'll be dead asleep by the time he's done.

She proves him wrong again. She's always been pretty good at that.

Her eyes are trained on the door when he comes back in. She's slouched halfway to upright against the wall, feet tucked beneath her, and her face is serious. Scary serious.

"What's wrong?" he asks from across the room, unsure of her expression… And even more unsure of whether she wants him to come any closer. Being welcomed back to her room is not the same as being welcomed back into her bed, especially not when she's looking at him like that.

"Nothing. Just thinking."

He sits across from her once more, sending up one hell of an unspoken 'thank you' to Jiya for leaving this bed open tonight. "Not happy thoughts, if I had to guess."

He doesn't expect her to elaborate too much. Neither of them have been overly forthcoming with each other in recent days, and even before this newest mess of theirs, she's not always the quickest to volunteer information that she'd rather keep to herself.

She's still not done surprising him, though.

"I want to tear her apart for doing this to you." Lucy's voice shakes with rage, with tears, with pain. "I want to fix it. I want to know that you're going to be okay."

"I'm going to be okay," he answers roughly as soon as the disruptive sensation of his wildly thumping heart allows him to speak again.

"You really think so?"

"Yes." Wyatt leans over his knees, drilling his eyes into hers with a magnitude he feels bone-deep. "I've watched you do this too many times, Lucy. No matter what these bastards throw at you, you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and you fight. Even when the people closest to you are the ones that hurt you most, you have never stopped fighting. If you can keep going..? If you've survived everything that's happened this year? Then so will I."

"I, um…" she clears her throat and glances down at her hands. "I got some good advice once. Something about knowing what you're fighting for when you're not sure you can keep moving forward. That's gotten me through more times than I can say."

It's the last thing he'd expect her to say. He doesn't deserve a shred of credit for her impenetrable strength of character, so to say he's flattered doesn't even begin to cover it. "Knowing what you're fighting for, huh? That sounds vaguely familiar."

She quirks her lips to the side. "He was a soldier and a war hero. Maybe you knew him."

His eyes flicker up the ceiling with a soft scoffing sound. "I'm not sure I like the sound of this guy."

"I do. He's been known to lose his way from time to time, but he always bounces back eventually. He's pretty resilient like that. An incredible teammate. I trust him with my life."

Wyatt lowers his gaze to hers, feeling a little out of breath at the confidence threading through each and every word that's come out of that gorgeous mouth of hers. "Can I start by bouncing my way back over there to you? I'll understand if it's a no. You might trust me with your life, but I wouldn't blame you if you - "

"C'mon, what are you waiting for?" She's already peeling back the blankets and crawling in herself, beckoning him toward her with an unceremonious wave of her hand.

"Are you sure, Lucy?"

He's far more present now than he was the last time she took pity on him - although what she's just observed in the bathroom was also pretty damn pitiful - and the last thing he wants to do is exploit her for all of the kindness she has left to give. He's already burned through too much of her generosity. He can't be greedy, not anymore.

Her eyes are steady as she meets his skeptical gaze, and the love she has for him - the love that should have gone bankrupt ages ago - is profoundly transparent. As transparent as a woman in white belting her heart out on stage, boldly confessing all of her feelings like there's only one man in the audience. "I'm sure."

"Good," he croaks back in disbelief. "You look so comfy, and cuddle-able...it's a hard combo to resist."

"Cuddle-able, huh?" she asks with a hint of a grin as she makes room for him beside her.

God love her for finding any part of his beleaguered brain to be the slightest bit amusing.

He slides in and snuggles her back against his chest, an arm winding firmly around her waist to hold her close. "Maybe I'm not totally sober just yet."

"Maybe not," she hums in reply.

"Either way, I'm not taking it back. You, Lucy Preston, are very cuddle-able."

She tangles her fingers through his and squeezes. "Goodnight, Wyatt."

It's nearly four in the morning, far closer to daybreak than it is to the fall of night, but even so, he returns the sentiment with his mouth brushing the alluring strip of porcelain skin that's peeking out from the drooping shoulder of her too-big nightshirt. "Goodnight, Lucy."

The hand in his hair can't possibly be real. Soft, long strokes that ease him gently from his sleep…? That's a Lucy trademark. And Lucy doesn't touch him anymore.

But then familiar fingers are tracing over his cheek. Her voice practically sings his name.

He's afraid that it will all go away in an instant if he opens his eyes.

It doesn't. She's there. Her face is bent close to his. She's beautiful.

"There you are," she murmurs. "Hi. I brought pancakes. Coffee too. And a whole bottle of Advil. Thought you could use it."

"You…" a few dim memories filter through his pounding head, and none of them offer any explanation as to why she'd be taking pity on him this morning. His drunken puking ass deserves much, much worse. "...really?"

"Don't worry," she says with a tentative smile, a smile that almost shines with the brightness of a Lucy he'd once known. Seeing just an inkling of her former joy is like the brilliance of a long-forgotten sun peeking out from between storm clouds. "I didn't make them myself. I had help."

He smiles back at her, albeit a little bleakly, but even the world's worst migraine can't keep him from relishing in the glow of her expression. That smile of his dims slightly when one horrifying possibility surfaces in the swamp that is his brain right now. "Your buddy Flynn isn't the one who helped you...right?"

"Not Flynn," she laughs. "Jiya. Pretty sure she has no real reason to go slipping arsenic in your pancakes, so they should be safe."

"Thank God," he grunts with a raised eyebrow.

That makes her laugh again, and he swears he's never heard a sweeter sound. She holds onto him as he leverages himself up onto his elbows somewhat unwillingly. The smell of those pancakes - and more importantly, the wafting scent of coffee - hits his nose and that motivates him further, his stomach emitting a ferocious growl as soon as he's gotten himself somewhat vertical.

"Looks like I'm right on time." She steers him up off of her bed and over to Jiya's, offering an explanation as they go. "You already made a mess here, so we might as well contain you to the scene of the original crime..."

"I think I'm feeling a little more coordinated now than I was then."

"Sorry, but that's not a bet I'm willing to make."

She does seem to be betting on him, though. By the way the she's sticking so close - delivering his plate of pancakes with a flourish, administering a dose of painkillers directly from her palm to his, sitting next to him and stealing sips of his coffee, keeping a knee or an arm or some part of her body in continuous contact with his - it's clear that they're in a much different place this morning than they had been before he came barging in here last night. To think that his stupid, bumbling, blind-drunk self was somehow capable of reversing weeks of tattered, insufferable distance between them…? It's nothing short of a miracle.

His miracle. He'd called Lucy that last night.

Wyatt turns to her abruptly, nearly overturning his last few bites of pancakes, which of course launches another round of her teasing before he can say a word.

"See - " she points smugly, " - you're not to be trusted with food or drink in here. That was an awfully close call."

"I meant what I said last night."

The grit in his voice immediately brings her full attention straight to his eyes. "You said a lot of things last night. You'll have to be a little more specific."

"I'm glad Jess is alive. Even if she's Rittenhouse. Even if she's been playing me all along. Even if her death was a total sham. Because I know - " he leans forward and sweeps a thumb along her cheekbone, " - I know now that this uphill battle I've been fighting for years is over. You said it was a miracle that I had her back, but you were wrong, Lucy. The only miracle here is you. There's no other explanation for the selfless, unconditional way that you've proven your love. You're too good to be true, and you - you can't possibly know the impact you've had on my life."

Her eyes are glittering with tears, and he knows she's at a loss for what's supposed to come next. She's been rehearsing the same script for so long now, and if the number of times she's told him that he has to be happy with his wife is any indicator, there's no telling how often she's been reciting that misguided declaration to herself. What if she can't get past it now? What if he's never able to undo the damage that's been done?

That thought adds one more bruise to a heart that's already taken a nasty beating. It loosens his tongue once more, forcing more assurances from his brain to his lips, helplessly piling on and on until there's nothing left to say.

"You're the one I can't stay away from," he whispers. "The one I kept coming back to no matter how wrong it may have been...the one that makes me smile, the one that makes me want to be better...that's you, Lucy. You're the one I'm in love with."

"I'm - I'm in love with you too," she admits, and he can tell it costs her something great to do so. "And I want it to be - I wish it could be like it was, but I...I'm not sure I can - "

"I know," he says in a rush, feeling like the walls might come caving in on his happiness if he doesn't act fast enough. "Trust me, I get it. All I'm asking for is a chance. Possibilities, right? Just tell me you're still open to - "

Her eyes are huge, mouth parted in astonishment, as she makes a grab for his arm. "Yes. I was just thinking - yes, Wyatt. I'm open to possibilities."

Lucy hurtles herself against his chest before he has the chance to ask what exactly it is she was 'just thinking' about. She's knocking the plate out of his lap and robbing the oxygen from his lungs, and he's so damn elated by the force of her embrace that everything else just falls right out of his head.

"Too many more of these hugs and you're gonna send a man into early cardiac arrest."

"Just imagine what'll happen when I let you make out with me again."

Wyatt groans a long, exaggerated groan. It has her shaking with laughter against him, and that reaction only eggs him on further. "Are you really so sure you want to pass up on that now? I had these fantastic hangover pancakes for breakfast, so I think it would be a pretty good experience for you. Everyone knows syrup-flavored kisses are the best kisses."

"Wait, the pancakes were actually good?" She pulls back with a ridiculously hopeful expression, her hands clamping down expectantly on his shoulders. "Jiya said they're almost impossible to mess up unless they get burnt, and I - "

"You have nothing to worry about. Damn good pancakes, Preston. A job well done."

Her squeal of delight should have split his head in two, but either he's been cured prematurely or those pancakes really are as miraculous as the woman who made them.

Once again, Lucy doesn't give him the chance to contemplate that mystery any further. She yanks him in for a slow, indulgent, syrup-sweetened kiss, one that actually has him groaning for real this time.

"Possibilities, huh?" he asks with some difficulty once she's released him, sure that the dopiest grin of all time is permeating his whole face.

"There's a possibility that my usual culinary ineptitude makes me highly susceptible to all sorts of flattery and extortion."

"Well in that case, did you brew this coffee too?" He moves in closer until they're nose to nose. "Because wow is it ever - "

She holds him at bay with both hands to his face, laughter dancing in her dark eyes. "Boundaries, Wyatt. Respect them."

If possible, his dopey grin gets even dopier.

"Yes, ma'am."