I AM STILL ALIVE, STILL HERE, STILL WRITING. I'm so sorry for not updating/reading/reviewing in so long. I'm gonna try and catch up on the stories I've missed, but for now, enjoy the first half of the epilogue to Noise. Thank you for reading!

Part of her believed that everything would be solved once they saved Rufus, that that would be the end of everything, but it was a naive assumption on her part. Rufus is alive, their team is back together, but Emma and Jessica are still running rampant, tearing apart the past and the present for their cause, their lives are still dictated by the blaring siren that goes off every time the two women take the Mothership on another joyride, and their immediate response is far too Pavlovian for her comfort.

Every time the alarm rings and she's reaching for her gun, the one she started carrying not too long after they rescued Rufus, she wonders when exactly she became a soldier. Every time it takes her a second too long to remember what happened in any given year, she wonders exactly what real purpose she serves anymore. Every time they return to the present and she's left to return to her room, the one that's now solely hers, alone, she longs for another mission, only to escape the solitude of her own existence, to save her from the nightmares, the ghosts, the way she can feel her heart cracking under the weight of her role in saving the world. Every day, every hour, every minute she has, she wonders where the hell she lost herself in all of this.

It takes 15 months, 3 weeks and 6 days from the day they lost Rufus for her to wake up from another nightmare and remember that there is someone who might know just what she's feeling, who's saved her from herself more times than he claims he saved her. 15 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days for her to walk the distance of her room to his. 15 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days and she's ready to walk the distance of her heart to his if he'll let her, if he still loves her.

"Wyatt," she whispers, knowing it'd be better to wake him from afar than try to sneak up on him. The man's a lethal weapon as he is, but the gun hidden beneath his pillow and the Bowie knife tucked under the mattress become nothing less than deadly extensions of his arms if he's stirred too suddenly, and the fragility of her vulnerable state wouldn't handle well with staring down the barrel of a glock.

"Wyatt."

But there are only so many ways to wake a former Delta Force operative gently, so she does everything to can to keep from bolting from his room like a skittish cat the moment he shoots up from the bed, gun drawn.

"Wyatt." The crack in her voice gives away her fear. "It's just me." The flash of recognition that crosses his eyes is instantly washed out with remorse.

"Lucy, I—" The gun finds its way back under his pillow as quickly as it appeared. "I'm so sorry. I didn't… what's wrong?"

It's a bad idea, she reminds herself. A horrible idea. He has every ability to completely shatter her. He's already done it once, and with Jessica still alive and out there somewhere, he can do it all over again. She wants to have the willpower to turn away from him, to not just lock the feelings away, but banish them once and for all. Walk away. Move on. Maybe it would be for the best.

But, god, she's tired.

She'd said it to Denise before all of this began, before she ever stepped into that damned machine, that she is not a soldier, and for a while she was able to keep herself separate from the harsh world that engulfed her. But now everyday she wakes up and fights, and fights, and fights and all she can think to do is keep fighting because what's left for her if she stops?

She's here, she came to him, because despite everything, there is no one else who could understand what she's feeling.

"Lucy," he calls to her. "Tell me what's wrong."

The tenderness with which he beckons her smashes like a wrecking ball into the dam she'd built around herself. Nothing can hold. But she can't find the resolve to explain how every turn of the dial has left her warped in ways she can't describe. So she echoes the reasoning he'd given her all those months ago, hoping he'll understand.

"I had a nightmare," she chokes out, her eyes suddenly burning from tears.

God, how long has it been since she really cried?

He mumbles something she can't quite hear over the roaring in her ears, but she doesn't need to hear once she begins to feel.

His hands wrap around her arms, pulling her into him, the time for tentative touches and hesitant movements long past. He surrounds her until she can no longer feel anything but him.

"Tell me," he murmurs into her ear. "Tell me everything, babydoll." Her words might be lost in between the crashing waves of sobs, but finally, finally, she feels free to let everything go.

"I'm so tired of fighting, Wyatt. This isn't what I was meant to do," she sobs into her shoulder. "I didn't want to become a soldier; I didn't want to lose who I was, but it happened before I could stop it. I've lost so much in all of this. I've lost Amy, my mom, my dad, but I never thought I could lose myself too. I don't know who I'm supposed to be. I don't know where the end is to all of this, but what's so much worse is that even if we do find the end… even if we come out of this alive, what am I left to do? I'm not who I used to be. I've lost everything I've ever known and I just…" The heaviness of her tears begin to weaken, and her voice dims. "I don't know how to keep going anymore."

And suddenly it's like their back in Germany 1943 or back in the bunker, that first night she came home. She's drowning, floundering in the weight and responsibility of their calling and reaching for a lifeline to pull her to shore.

But what else can he say?

Figure out what you're fighting for.

Amy feels so long lost that it fails to stir her spirits quite like it used to.

You haven't lost me.

Then why does he feel like the furthest thing from her? Even now, tucked into his chest feels like a far cry from the intimacy they once shared. What once tethered them together feels worlds away.

What else can he say to keep her afloat?

"Lucy..." She waits for it, waits for him to pull her from the flame and forge her fears into strength like he's always done, the blacksmith of her courage. "I'm tired, too," he admits. "You're not alone."

And that's all it takes for something to snap back together inside of her.

She thought she had needed a lifeline, a savior to pull her from the brink, and maybe in Germany and after France, that's exactly what she had needed, but… here, now, knowing that he's drowning a little bit, too, that she's not alone, it brings a sense of peace she has never imagined possible. That her tears, her pain, her ache aren't borne out of weakness because the man who's seen and endured more than she can ever imagine is right there with her, and if they're going down… then they're going down together.

"But I've said it once," he continues. "And I'll say it again, and again, and again until you get it through that ginormous brain of yours, that you're Lucy Preston. You're not defined by your past or your pain, and you're damned sure not defined by any job. It's you, your heart, your soul, that makes you who you are. I see it. Every day, in every time period, I see your heart shining through even in the most hopeless of moments. You're not a soldier, Luce. Soldiers can't hold a candle to what you are because you're a goddamn warrior. I know you're so tired of this life. I know you never asked for any of this, but still you amaze me. In all the shit that's been thrown at you since this all started, you've never wavered. You've never given up. And when all of this is ends, and it will end, you're gonna go on and you'll find another way to change the world. I know you feel like you've lost yourself, but there's a resilience in you that's unlike anyone else. You're going to be amazing."

Relief begins to pulse through her blood, knowing she said everything she needed to say, and so she allows herself to sink further into his embrace. For the first time since he ran from the bunker, the air between them isn't filled with tension or anxiety, and they're just them.

Lucy and Wyatt.

And maybe… maybe that's what she's been waiting for… since he first told her he loved her, she's been waiting for a moment where they breakthrough the chains they forged for themselves, nothing left to hold them back.

And then she knows there's one more thing left to say.

"Wyatt?" She whispers once their hearts have both calmed, the tears dried on their cheeks.

"Yeah, Luce?"

"I'm tired of fighting this."

His arms tense around her, and she prays this is still what he wants, that she's still what he wants. Her heart feels suspended in thin air, waiting for the moment he decides to grab onto it or allow it to fall.

He pulls back slightly, and the rough skin of his fingers lifts her face to him. Their eyes link for the first time since she entered his room. The anticipation for him to breach that final barrier builds

"Your move, professor."

But he's leaving it up to her. Even with her cards on the table, even though she's the one who sought him out tonight, he's too aware of the fragility of what they've stitched back together to move before she does.

But even more than that it's like he's daring her, pushing her, no longer allowing her to let others make moves for her, to take what she wants, to demand it.

Your move.

There's no hesitation when she pulls him down to her. The months of rebuilding and reforging have already led them to this, and she won't wait a second longer than she must to finally banish the distance once and for good.

The way he kisses her now feels so much more intimate than it was in Hollywood. Like her heart's been rubbed so raw that the slightest touch would've left her gasping, but then there's this, his hands mapping the skin of her back, his lips passing over hers, his scratch of his scruff on her cheek. It electrifies every one of the nerve endings that she believed could no longer feel, jump starting the heart that's gone too long without the sensation of unfiltered, uninhibited love.

The arm not supporting his position on the bed winds around her waist and draws her across his lap until he has her flat on her back, his body tantalizingly hovering over hers, but she feels him hesitate before he can fully settle against her. The fear of him turning away rips through her veins, but as if sensing her worries, he quiets the words before they can leave her lips with a firm press of his mouth.

"I want this, Lucy," he breathes as he pulls back just slightly, drawing them both up until they're upright, still face to face. "But I don't want to rush it."

"Wyatt—"

"Luce, please, just… hear me out?" He waits for her nod of approval, her nose brushing lightly against his. "It scares the hell out of me to think of what could happen if we dive too deep too fast when things still feel so breakable. You came in here clearly still hurting, Lucy. All those wounds don't magically heal overnight. And it's not like I'm the shining example of a person who has it all together," he laughs, offering some comedic relief amongst the heaviness of his words. A small chuckle escapes her as an unreal amount of affection for the man before her inflates her heart. Her hand finds its way across the scruff of his jaw, and for a moment his eyes flutter close and he leans into her touch. "I want to try this again," he promises, pulling her hand from his face to press a kiss to her palm. "I want this, you, more than anything, but I want to do it right." And for the second time tonight, he says just what she had no idea she needed to hear.

She came in here tonight with every intention of tumbling into bed with him again, hoping it would solidify them, bind them, fix all that's been so badly broken, but his words are the beacon through her haze of hurt and confusion, calling her back to him, reminding her that healing isn't going to be found there, but instead will come from time. It's time they can spend together now, in between the saving the world and the kicking ass, they can talk and listen and grow and eventually they'll find the ghosts that have haunted them for so long are nothing more than shadows of the past.

They'll be healed.

And he's not willing to put that at risk.

"Is that okay?" He asks when she doesn't speak, sweeping delicate fingers across the hair that had fallen in her eyes. "Can we do that?"

There are tears stinging at her eyes, but no longer from the weariness that drove her here in the first place. If there are adequate words to say in response, she can't find them, so she just nods her head furiously and doesn't stop even as he draws her back into his body, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, and it's like coming home.

For a long moment they just remain there, wrapped in each other, breathing the other in. It's true that words are good for healing. Talking, kissing, laughing, sex, even the fighting and arguing they always inevitably find themselves caught up in, they're all pieces that will play their part in time, but, for now, this is all either of them need. Just being, existing, living, breathing together, so wound up in each other that part of her fears letting him go.

"I'm still sleeping here in case you were wondering," she murmurs against his neck, and the feeling of his rumbling laughter against her as her at the point of bursting from joy.

"No one said you had to leave," he chuckles, laying back down against the mattress. "And I know better then to try and boss around a bossy, know-it-all." He tugs gently on her arm until she falls against his chest.

"I'd call you a reckless hot-head," she teases. "But I worry you might be losing that title."

"Not with you," he explains, running a gentle hand through her hair. "I was reckless once when it came to this, and I won't do it again." Lucy rests her chin on his chest and gazes up at him, not knowing how to express the sudden fullness he's created in her, but before she knows what she's doing the giddiness pours out in a series of uncontrollable giggles, and she's pulled herself up the rest of his body until her face is buried in his neck and she's holding onto him like her joy will lift her into the air if she's not tethered down, tethered to him. And as if sensing her need for an anchor, he ropes his arms around her back, holding her so tightly to him that it feels like they'll merge into one.

It's certainly not the worst thought.

"Don't worry though," he chuckles, running a hand along the length of her spine. "I'll still hang on to some of that recklessness just to keep things exciting."

She unwinds herself from him just enough so she can fall right back into the riptide of his gaze.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she whispers, a smile ghosting across her face as her lips descend on his for just another moment before her head burrows back into his neck, the rise and fall of his chest lulling her into a sleep like she hasn't had since 1941.

15 months, 3 weeks and 6 days, and she's right back where she belongs.

There's sunlight pouring through the windows of the dingy bunker for the first time in what feels like weeks, but it's nothing compared to the feeling of warmth that beams through every part of her body. She'd woken up this morning with Wyatt beside her for the first time in so long, and though she'd been left to make her breakfast alone after he insisted on having an urgent errand to run, it seems nothing could disrupt the bliss with which she sat and enjoyed the morning.

That is until a stack of books falls down onto the metal table beside her with a sound only equivalent to a semi automatic, her tea splashing from its mug and her body almost flying up from the chair.

"What the hell, Wyatt?" She gasps, a hand pressed to her racing heart, but he's just looking at her with a smug smirk over the top of the pile. "What is all this?"

"I've been thinking," he sighed with feign disdain, not bothering to follow up on exactly what he'd been thinking about, so she plays along.

"About what exactly?"

"About you," he grins cheekily. "About some things you said last night."

"What thing—"

"And it just got me thinking that this isn't much of a fair deal."

She eyes him skeptically but continues along with his game.

"What isn't?"

"I teach you to fight and what exactly do I get in return?" That catches her a little off guard. She can tell by the stupid cockshire grin on his face that he has an endgame here, and part of her is beginning to understand. She'd come to him last night, searching for the answers she'd lost, searching for herself, and this is him with a ridiculous stack of books, trying to help her find it.

"I see what you're doing, Wyatt," she laughs dryly, taking a sip of her tea.

"What?" He asks, the innocent facade beginning to slip a little as he can't keep the shit-eating grin off his mouth. "I'm just demanding payment for all the services I've rendered you the past year." He grabs the book sitting atop the pile and plops it in front of her.

It's one of hers, the first one she wrote without her mother's assistance, about women in the Civil War. She runs a sentimental hand over the cover before picking it up, the cover glinting in the sunlight.

"Payment through what exactly?" She parlays, glancing up at thim. "Tutoring? I feel like that's a little above both of us."

"Not tutoring, Luce," he offers, dragging the nearest chair closer to her until he's sitting with his knees brushing against hers. "Just some good academic discussion."

"Wyatt, you don't have to—"

"I want to." With that one declaration his facade crumbles completely, leaving his emotions on full display for her to read. It should've occurred to her last night that he would take every one of her concerns on as his own, that he would hear what she said, hold her, let her cry, and then take every step to pull her from her own abyss. "You've seen the whole of my world, so I want to try to give you back a little of yours."

She doesn't realize the tears had been building until his thumbs are swiping the runaways from her cheeks.

"Hey," he whispers, a smile ghosting across his lips. "No more tears. This was supposed to make you happy."

She pulls back slightly as a watery chuckle passes through her lips.

"I am happy, Wyatt," she assures him. "So happy that I don't… I just…" There aren't words for what he's stirred in her. Some ineffable feeling that makes her feel like she's floating. It's a feeling of absolute serenity, of basking in the light of the golden hour and he's her Sun. Everything is aligned and euphoria pulses through her veins.

There's a word for this, she realizes, a word she knows she feels, that's she's felt for a while, yet it's still a word she's been fighting, and she can't say it. Not yet.

"Thank you." It's the best she can say for now. The others will come with time. But by the way he beams at her, guides her face to his, kisses her slowly, assures her that he understands.

"Yes, ma'am," he smiles wistfully as they pull away, but his thumb continues its gentle caress across her cheek. Her forehead bumps across his, craving any and all connection with him, but a sudden voice from down the hall shocks them apart.

"This? Again?" Rufus calls less than discreetly, even less so when his voice echoes off the tin walls, but the way they both burst out laughing at their pilot's comically horrible timing reminds her that despite everything, they're all here. Together. The family she never expected. The one she wouldn't trade for the world. "At least last time you had the courtesy to do all this romantic shenanigans in a private guest room."

"And yet you still managed to interrupt us even then," Wyatt responds with a goofy grin stretched across his face. "Part of me thinks you do it intentionally."

"Trust me. There is no part of me that gets any joy from it," Rufus promises as he passes by them on his way to the kitchen, but the purse of his lips to fight back his laughter says otherwise. "But—" he begins again. "I do prefer this to all the brooding and moping. It's good to see you two happy."

It's true. For the first time in so long her happiness doesn't feel like a small reprieve from the heartache, a moment of light so fleeting it almost seems naive to indulge in the feeling at all. This isn't a trick or a fluke or a momentary break in the clouds; this is a clean slate, a new beginning, no longer lost in a limbo of who she was and who she is, no longer wondering. She has her answer now.

Part 2 of the epilogue to come.