Fixed Points

by SiennaSky

"I'm starting to believe that there are fixed points in history. Certain things that can't be changed. Circumstances can change. Timing can change. But the outcomes will always be the same regardless of the timeline. Like the Hindenburg. It was destined to fail. And Lincoln? He was meant to die. You and me? We're a fixed point." Post-1x16.

Confession: I've had this sitting on my computer since last year's finale. I totally forgot about it, and then I just stumbled upon it a couple of weeks ago. Obviously this universe is moot now since it was written prior to Season 2, and I pondered updating it to jive with canon, but then I figured, eh. I'll just finish it and post it as is. Ironically enough, I was uncertain about a certain time-travel theory I had, but my belief was recently confirmed by one of the writers, so I went ahead and left it as is.

I'll be totally honest. This was a struggle. I'm not very good at this kind of fic. It's more plot-heavy and less introspective than I'm used to, so you're definitely reading something that is way out of my comfort zone. I've been sitting on it because - well, it's not at all what I had planned. But I feel like Lyatt fans could use something to read, so I'm considering this to be sort of like my "deleted scene" contribution to the fandom. ;) The history here is based on the research I did last year, so if I'm totally off, last-year-me apologizes.

This thing is a monster. The more I tinkered, the more it grew. I've done my best to proofread, but my brain is pretty much inside out at this point, so forgive me if I missed something. That being said, here it is. I hope you enjoy it. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Timeless. If I did, I wouldn't be spending an embarrassing amount of time on Twitter tweeting #RenewTimeless at NBC. I'm just borrowing these amazing characters for a little while, but I'll put them back soon.

FIXED POINTS

California-2003

The back roads are dark, and the reflection of the moon is blinding as it chases her small Toyota down the narrow highway. There's a heavy knot in her stomach as she drives, and she catches herself clenching the steering wheel over and over again, her fingers looking especially pale in the moonlight. She has to keep reminding herself to relax her grip.

The radio's been off for the last forty miles. The reception started to go more than an hour ago until there was more static than song crackling through the speakers. It's better this way. She thinks better in silence.

Her mom is going to kill her. Or at least disown her. Thirteen year-old Amy will probably break out her pom-poms and cheer, thrilled that she's no longer the sole black sheep of the family.

Lucy's always been the good and reliable daughter. She's steady. She's obedient. She's bright and independent, but she knows when to fall in line - particularly when her mother is involved. And the plan (The Plan) has always been for her to double-major in History and Anthropology, graduate with honors, be accepted to a prestigious graduate program (ahem...Stanford) and join her mother in the realm of academia. It's been the plan for as long as she can remember. It's been the plan for so long that she's always just assumed it's what she wants for herself. It's why she's one of the top students in her class at UCLA. It's why every professor finds her eyes in the midst of the busy lecture hall after a string of less-than-insightful comments or questions from her peers.

It's why she is who she is: socially shy but academically outspoken, graceful in appearance but clumsy in carriage, dutiful in the day-to-day but harboring a streak of never-acted-upon rebellion. It's what makes her Lucy Preston, the mother hen of her social circle.

But then a rare evening out with friends had led her to an uncharacteristically uninhibited karaoke performance - which had led to a cute guy named Alec inviting her to sing with his band - which had led to an uncharacteristic fling with said cute guy - which had unceremoniously ended when he informed her that she was "strung a little tight" for him. And that's always something you want to hear when one of your greatest insecurities in life is your fear of letting loose and relinquishing control.

But there had been a silver lining to the Alec situation, because his band had just been invited to go on a rinky-dink tour with a few other up-and-coming groups. And they wanted her - not him - to tour with them. Suck it, Alec.

So this is her dilemma: do something crazy for once - something totally out of character - and run off to sing on a shitty tour in a shitty van with a group of smelly guys or stay in school and finish her degree and stick to her plan. The Plan.

Which is why she's here. Driving back home. In the middle of the night. Because if she gives herself a chance to sleep on the decision, she knows she'll lose her nerve. And she thinks maybe this is the first time in her life that she's actually had a nerve to lose, so she needs to act quickly.

She's running through the conversation in her head, anticipating all of her mother's potential protests, preparing to refute all of her likely arguments against the seemingly senseless decision. Carol Preston is a master of persuasion and manipulation. Ever since her father died, Lucy has been little more than a puppet in her mother's hand. Until now.

The road is like a soft wave next to the river, gentle curves from left to right, and Lucy has to concentrate to keep from rushing through the turns. Without any street lights, she depends solely on the wedge of illumination provided by her headlights.

She's not sure if it's the curve in the road or the lack of visibility or her frazzled mindset or a combination of all three, but she takes one of the curves a bit too quickly and jerks the wheel to correct her path. She's braking and over-correcting and there's an oil slick in the road, and then she feels the eerie motion of the car that's not being powered by the pedal beneath her foot. She's sliding and spinning and shrieking as the car careens over the edge of the road and down the steep levee. And she prays to hit a tree, a rock, a telephone pole - anything - because she knows the next thing to stop the car is going to be the river.

There's a crash as the car hits the water and bobs for a moment, but the river is moving swiftly, and she knows she doesn't have much time. She jerks frantically at the door handle, her throat tightening and her limbs numb with terror. She cries out at the first trickle of water seeping into the vehicle's interior, and then it seems like time goes surging forward without her, because she's up to her waist in icy-cold water with no idea of how to escape. She's shivering with cold and with fear, and her teeth are chattering as she slowly accepts her powerless position and watches the water rise around her.

This is it. This is my end. Someone's going to find me trapped in this car at the bottom of this river. Drowned.

There's a yell suddenly, and she can't make out the words, but then an intricate web of hairline cracks appears in the glass of the driver's side window, and she can hear, "Move back!"

She pulls herself away from the window, the task made easier by the water that's now up to her neck, and she watches with detached wonder as the glass suddenly shatters into clear crumbles and a man's face appears. "Quick! Take my hand! The river's moving fast, and I can't fight the current for much longer."

Stunned, Lucy pulls herself through the water and takes the man's hand, gripping it with every last bit of her strength. "Thank you," she gasps. "Thank you!"

"Hold on," he urges her. And then they are both paddling, clawing their way through the swift-moving water, stretching for the first touch of the riverbank. They both collapse when they finally reach the soggy stretch of sand, and the man tells her breathlessly, "I saw your headlights as your car went off the road and down the levee. I called 911 as I was making my way down to you. An ambulance should be here soon." He shakes his head disbelievingly. "It's a lucky thing that I came along. There's no one else on this road for miles."

Lucy is still heaving and shivering, from the shock and from the cold. Her hand wobbles as she reaches up to swipe a wet strand of hair away from her face.

He's still watching her, concern in his eyes, and then, "Can I call your mom for you? Or...someone?"

Still a bit dazed, she gives him an odd look. She can see the patches of silver at his temples, and the lines around his friendly eyes. He reminds her a bit of her father. "What's your name?" she gasps.

"Tom Carson," the man responds with a smile and a nod. "I guess I was in the right place and the right time. It's nice to meet you."

"Thank you, Tom," Lucy responds, her voice wispy and breathless. "Thank you."

---

Texas-2003

The sky is huge in Texas. The blue is overwhelmingly and abundantly blue as he peers out through the windshield mottled with mud-spatters and bug-splats.

Everyone always makes that lame joke about how everything is bigger in Texas, and it makes Wyatt want to punch something. It's just stupid. But the sky is bigger in Texas.

Or so he assumes. He's never really been anywhere of significance beyond the borders of this massive state. His father used to say there was no point. "Nothing out there but a bunch of bleeding-heart libs sucking at the teat of their blue nanny states," his father used to say. Wyatt is fairly certain his father had never traveled beyond the Texas boundaries either.

Damn was his old man an asshole.

He shakes his head at the very thought of the abusive son-of-a-bitch and then snickers. Every time his rage towards his father starts to build and rise - like the mercury on a triple-digit day - he just remembers every sensory bit of the moment he watched his father's precious car slip smoothly beneath the rippled surface of that lake. With a deep breath and a grin, he shrugs the bitterness and the resentment away.

He's been out of high school for almost a year. After a rocky four years littered with detentions and suspensions and threats of expulsion, he had finally (barely) graduated. While his Grandpa Sherwin had been hopeful that graduation would give him a much-needed boost into the world of responsible adulthood, it had really just propelled him into the world of binge-drinking and petty crime. While most of the people he went to school with are currently studying their asses off at the nearest public university, most of the people he actually hung out with are busy drinking their asses off at the nearest lake and running a wide variety of illegal substances across the border.

If not for an argument with his Grandpa Sherwin earlier in the week, he'd still be with them.

Sherwin has always been his biggest ally. He's the one who has always shown up. He guided Wyatt's five-year-old hands over the spongy grip of the short Snoopy fishing pole as he reeled in his first catch. He held Wyatt's hand as he waited in line to ride the ferris wheel for the first time. He stood there, a steadying hand on Wyatt's shoulder, at his mother's funeral as they lowered her casket into the ground. And now he's kept a roof over Wyatt's head even after all of the shit-stunts he's pulled in what can only be described as an aimless effort to self-destruct.

Sherwin had blown a gasket at his most recent error in judgment. His wrinkled face had reddened with anger, and he'd yanked his ancient plastic glasses off his face, the way he always does when he gets upset.

"Drugs, Wyatt?! In Mexico?! I thought you were beyond these idiot stunts! You're going to get yourself killed! And if you don't get yourself killed, you're going to end up in prison. Or is that what you're hoping? Because if you think I spent all these years raising you just to spend my Sundays talking to you through a plexiglass window, you've got another thing comin'."

"We were just messing around," Wyatt argues. "We just wanted to make some extra money. We weren't really in any danger. Besides," he smirks arrogantly. "You know how I drive. Nobody was gonna catch me."

"Yeah, I know how you drive. You drive like a cocky little shit who thinks he's invincible. You drive like the kid who ends up being scraped up off the pavement and loaded into the coroner's van. You're on some sorta suicide mission, Wyatt, and it's gotta stop. You can't keep doin' this. I know your dad was a real bastard, and I know he did a number on you when you were a boy, but you can't let him keep this hold on you. You're not allowin' yourself the chance to succeed. You should be goin' somewhere, doin' somethin'. Not just rottin' around here with those bonehead friends of yours."

"And what do you want me to do, huh? Harvard isn't exactly beating down the door. Hell, there's not a community college in the state of Texas that would be impressed by my grades." Wyatt raises his voice. "Maybe this is just who I am! Did you ever think of that?! Maybe this is who I'm meant to be!"

Sherwin's eyes soften at this, and he lifts his glasses back to his face.

"No. I haven't thought of that, because I know it isn't true. Look, it doesn't have to be college, son. But I'll tell you this much, you'd better find your way. I'll do whatever I can to help you, but there's a path that you're meant to follow. I don't know what it is, and I'm damn sure you don't know what it is based on your recent behavior, but I know that you're not meant to spend the rest of your life drinking your way through cases of beer and then sleeping it off in the drunk tank. And you're sure as hell not meant to spend the rest of your days running drugs and teasing these empty-headed girls. I've taught you better. So, boy, you'd better get your head on straight."

"Or what?" Wyatt challenges.

He's startled when he sees a steely glint in Sherwin's eye. The old man straightens, his posture rigid, his expression fiery, and he tugs his glasses off once again to look even more closely into Wyatt's eyes. "You'd better get your head on straight if you want to stay under my roof." He lowers his voice. "You're a boy, Wyatt. A boy who's pretending to be a man. You have more potential than you even realize - than you even know what to do with. Stop wasting your life. Stop seeing opportunities as traps. Pull your head out of your ass and stop following the path carved out by your father. Make your own way. Do better. Do you understand me?"

The truck lurches suddenly, and the wheel shakes in Wyatt's hands as the entire pick-up rollicks and rattles to an unceremonious halt on the shoulder of the dusty highway.

"Shit!" Wyatt hisses. The dented blue Ford has been on its last leg for awhile. At more than thirty years old, it definitely falls into the category of "beater," but it's been good to Wyatt, so he's tried to be good to it. A quick glance under the hood is enough to tell him that the damage is beyond his scope of expertise - at least while he's stranded on the side of the road. And his cell phone is a no-go. His minutes for the month have long since been used up by his late-night conversations with Jessica, a cute girl he'd dated briefly during his senior year.

A quick inventory of his resources and options leaves him with one choice: hoof it. He's just on the edge of town - there's a small shopping center ahead - and he just has to hope that Sherwin will be in an understanding mood, given their argument from earlier.

His walk is a quick one. His boots crunch against the gravel that litters the asphalt, and the sun burns unseasonably hot in the sky. Cars race by him in both directions, each with a whispered whoosh, and when he finally arrives to the small, vaguely familiar shopping center, he feels a tug in his gut at the sign overhead.

The letters are blue and blocky: US Army Recruiting Center.

---

California-Present Day

She's going to destroy him.

His stomach is still churning after his hallway heart-to-heart with Lucy. The feeling is one he hasn't experienced in many years. It's not entirely unfamiliar to him - he's experienced these feelings before - but with Jessica it had been abrupt. They'd been young and passionate and, well, hormonal. She'd been sweet and pretty, and she'd been attracted to his tough-guy persona. Jessica had been kind and loving, but she had wanted a life much simpler than what Wyatt had been able to provide. He knows that now. It doesn't change his love for her, but it's a fact.

It's different with Lucy.

With Lucy, it's been a slow burn. He hadn't even liked her at the start. She's pretty much the direct opposite of Jess in so many ways, and she's nothing like anyone he's been teamed with before. Where Lucy is sensitive and deliberate, he's used to tough and impulsive. The guys he typically works with are physically strong; they think on their feet and solve problems on the fly. What Lucy lacks in physical strength, she makes up for in cleverness, and while she is getting better at improvisation, she still prefers to carefully consider the bigger picture. She slows him down. It annoyed him at first, but he's starting to see the value in a more calculated approach. And he's never worked with someone as intelligent as Lucy. Never.

He's heard people talk about situations like this. He can't pinpoint a particular moment that caused him to fall for her, but he can trace a series of gradual stair steps: begrudging respect after Lincoln's assassination, her genuine remorse clouding her eyes; a hint of attraction in Vegas because, well, that waitress dress was...something. And then there was a declaration of trust at the Alamo, the fact that she trusted him to keep her safe. Their relationship had blossomed into full-blown friendship by the time they returned from 1754, and by that time he couldn't understand how he could have ever looked at Lucy with anything less than affection and admiration.

Then there was Arkansas.

Arkansas marked the awakening of feelings that had remained dormant since Jessica's death - sort of like seeing color after years of nothing but black and white. And suddenly the accumulation of hugs and touches and traded glances and buckled seat belts were culminating into something great and exciting and terrifying.

Possibilities.

She's going to turn his world upside down, turn his heart inside out, and make him feel things he vowed never to feel again. She's going to destroy him in the best possible way.

He's all in.

---

There's a buzzing sound in her left ear. A rumble and a rattle.

"Rittenhouse would never allow it."

"Rittenhouse would never allow you to take the lifeboat to make me sick…"

"Good, strong Rittenhouse families."

"Almost makes you royalty."

It feels late. It's dark and she feels heavy, like she's in the middle of a deep sleep. She struggles to open her eyes, but with enough effort, she manages to crack them open enough to catch a glowing sliver.

"Just come with me, Lucy. Everyone is waiting for you to join us."

"I'm not going with you, Mom. I'll never go with you."

Her head aches. The lights are fuzzy around the edges, and there's a muffled buzz humming in her ears. Another buzzing. More constant than the first one. She recognizes the familiar exposed beams of the ceiling above and realizes she's on her mother's kitchen floor. She's not sure how she got here, but she is sure that she needs to leave. The conversation of two (three? four?) hours ago feels far away - like she's looking back through a tunnel. It's there and it's threatening, but it's distant enough that she wonders if it all hasn't been just a vivid nightmare.

"Lucy, you don't know what you're saying. You don't know what you're doing."

"I know exactly what I'm saying and what I'm doing. I've seen it, Mom. I've seen what they've done throughout history. So no, I won't be taking my seat at that table of power-hungry lunatics."

"You need to think about this, Lucy. Think long and hard. Everyone handles the news differently, and you're entitled to an adjustment period. But if you're not with us, you're against us, Lucy. And Rittenhouse won't stand for that. Especially from one of their own."

She starts at the sound of her phone buzzing once again, skittering across the floor and she huffs as she checks the screen. Eight missed calls from Mason Industries so far. But this one is different. She pushes herself upright answers the call.

"Wyatt?" She rasps.

"Where the hell are you, Lucy? We were supposed to leave two hours ago! Do you want to get Amy back or what?!" Wyatt's tone is exasperated with a touch of desperate worry.

She stares up at the familiar ceiling - the one that has sheltered her for as long as she can remember - and she thinks that she doesn't know who she is anymore. Her mother isn't her mother, her father isn't her father, and her sister isn't...well...anyone. Does that mean that she isn't who she thinks she is? That Lucy Preston doesn't actually exist?

"Lucy!"

Oh. Right.

"Lucy, are you alright?" He sounds more concerned now.

"I need you to...come and get me," she finally manages to utter. "My mom...Wyatt...she's...I just...need you." She's paralyzed with shock and fear now, and she thinks she's been crying for awhile now, because her cheeks are sticky and her eyes feel dry.

"Stay on the line, Lucy. I'm on my way. I just need you to stay with me."

Lucy can hear the urgency in his voice and the muffled sounds of frantic movements. He's coming for her. But why?

"You don't need me, Wyatt," she responds, her lips wrapping lazily around the words. "You don't want me. Especially now."

"What are you talking about? Look, Lucy. I'm on my way. I'll be there before you know it. Are you safe? Is there anyone with you?"

Lucy focuses on the ceiling once more, letting the criss-crossing beams blur in and out of focus.

"I'm not one of them, Mom. And I never will be."

"Well, then you'll understand why I have to do this. I hope you'll forgive me."

Her head throbs as she remembers the sudden blow and the blinding pain just above her left ear. The spot where her own mother had pistol-whipped her.

"No," she whispers faintly in reply. "I'm all alone."

---

Three Months Later

The raindrops patter loudly against the windshield, and the worn wiper blades honk and squeak as they swipe back and forth against the glass. She's sleepy, her eyes still heavy from her recently interrupted slumber, but she's getting used to these midnight interruptions. She's not far from Mason now, and she knows she'll be seated in the rattling Lifeboat before she knows it, so she stops at a red light and takes a steadying breath to ready herself for tonight's inevitable adventure.

The hem of her raincoat flutters behind her as she walks briskly down the hallway, and her grumpiness fades a bit when she spots Rufus in the conference room. Agent Christopher is speaking quietly into her phone in the corner of the room, and Lucy drops into the open chair next to Rufus, offering a weary smile in greeting.

"Weren't we just here?" she jokes weakly. She smiles as she voices the rhetorical question, but she's crying inside. They were just there. About eight hours prior. And Wyatt had almost been stabbed in a 1939 scuffle with one of Emma's henchmen. It was a trip she could have done without. "God, and we thought Flynn was bad."

Rufus shrugs and gives her a friendly pat on the arm. "At least we know Emma is on the wrong side. All of that who's-the-bigger-bad-guy between Flynn and Rittenhouse was exhausting. I like an obvious villain with malicious intent. Makes everything a lot easier, you know?"

Lucy nods in response when a shadow appears in the doorway.

"Am I late?"

Lucy turns at the sound of Wyatt's hushed but husky tone, and she feels a small rush of warmth as he rushes into the room. She'd been frightened by Wyatt's close call with Emma's goon - particularly because it had all been in her defense. Emma had managed to momentarily separate Lucy from both Rufus and Wyatt, and while she hadn't endured any physical pain, Wyatt had gone ballistic when he and Rufus had finally tracked her down to discover her in a room with Emma's men, and Lucy had been troubled by the satisfied smirk on Emma's face as she watched Wyatt go head-to-head with her team.

Lucy is troubled by the memory once again as she glances up at Wyatt. Tiny droplets cling to the ends of his mussed hair, and she can see the dark smudges of raindrops on his coat. He gives her a quick, reassuring smile as he moves to sit down next to her, but she sees him flinch slightly as he starts to take a seat. She opens her mouth to comment, but Agent Christopher beats her to the punch.

"Wyatt," she acknowledges briefly. "Take a seat. We don't have much time."

He drops into a chair next to her so that she is sandwiched between her two teammates, and he sends her a quick smile before nodding to Rufus. She returns his silent greeting with a smile of her own, but she frowns when Agent Christopher clicks a button on her remote and a large image of a simply drawn map appears on the large projection screen.

"Do you recognize this?"

Both Rufus and Wyatt glance at the map and immediately defer to Lucy upon seeing the simple sketch of a very early United States. Lucy, on the other hand, squints at the image, willing herself to recall its significance within the increasingly snarled web of American (and Rittenhouse) history.

"Sybil Ludington!" Lucy announces triumphantly. "This is a map of her journey." She pauses as she remembers why they are here in the first place. "Why? She inquires suspiciously.

"Well, Mason managed to hack into the phone Wyatt stole from one of Emma's guys when you were in 1939."

"Idiot," Wyatt mutters disgustedly. "Who the hell carries a modern phone to the 1930s?!"

Lucy glances amusedly at him. "This from the guy who refuses to be without his modern firearm?"

Agent Christopher shakes her head disapprovingly at Wyatt. He shrugs as he glances around the room and grumbles, "What? My modern gun works the same in 1939 as it does in 2017. Can't say the same about a damn cell phone."

Lucy nudges him with her elbow and she and Rufus both try to hide their smiles at Wyatt's sheepish display. Agent Christopher continues, apparently missing the humor of the situation.

"Idiot or not, the guy may have inadvertently given us a head start on Emma's next target. The most recent message on the phone was this image. There was no message. Just a year."

"1777," Lucy supplies. She's starting to feel a excitement bubbling up from somewhere deep inside of her, and Rufus and Wyatt seem to pick up on it."

"Uh...why does she suddenly look so excited?" Rufus wonders, confused by Lucy's eager expression. "I sort of thought we were all on the same page about the 1700s. Remember? Smallpox? Slavery?"

"Mercury up the ass?" Wyatt supplies candidly.

Lucy shakes her head at them, trying to hide her amusement. She knows now that she never should have told Wyatt what that French surgeon had been planning to do to him, but he hadn't been willing to let it go. Now he's still bitter about it.

"I got you out of there, didn't I?" she reminds him.

"And I kept the two of you from having your throats slashed," Rufus points out. "But I'm sort of thinking that the chances of us happening upon a Native American Chieftess who sympathizes with my plight are probably pretty slim. So maybe we put the 1700s on the Do Not Fly List. Yeah?"

"Unfortunately," Agent Christopher interjects, "we don't have the luxury of selecting your destinations. This is a government agency, Rufus. It's not a travel agency. Lucy, you can fill these guys in on your way. Now get changed and get moving."

"Okay, so what's Civil Huddington?" Rufus asks irritably. He's still annoyed that they are headed back to his least favorite time period, and Lucy can't really blame him. They've been in exactly one situation where his skin color has given him the upper hand. He climbs into the Lifeboat for most of these missions armed with the knowledge that he's headed to a time when it is...was acceptable for him to be oppressed and abused.

Lucy sends him a sympathetic smile as she corrects him. "Sybil Ludington. She was a sixteen year-old girl. Sort of an unsung hero of the Revolutionary War. She rode through the night to warn villages of an impending British Invasion. She rode for a longer time and further distance than Paul Revere, yet she received almost none of the acclaim."

"Relatable," Rufus mutters under his breath.

Lucy continues, "Honestly, there are a lot of people who don't believe it really happened. That's why I got a little excited during the briefing. I've always loved the story. A sixteen year-old girl as a war hero in 1777? Amazing! And now I'll get to see it for myself!"

Her expression is bright as she starts to convey the tale of Sybil's heroics, but she's interrupted by the deep rumble of Wyatt's chuckle. Frowning, she stops and turns to him. "What?"

He raises his hands in a pantomime of innocence. "Hey, nothing. Just...this Sybil is your version of a superhero. You're fangirling again."

"Fangirling? Again? I do not-"

"Oh, you so do," Rufus insists. He gestures forward and the trio continues walking. "If history had a Comic-Con, you'd be first in line for tickets. In full costume. Dropping thousands on merch."

Scowling at the assessment, Lucy shrugs and starts searching for the appropriate selection of clothes. As they reach the section for 1770s American clothing, they each split off to racks stocked with their respective sizes.

"Awkward knee pants and heavy coats, here I come!" Rufus announces.

"See you on the flip side," Lucy singsongs.

"Maybe without the hoop skirt?" Wyatt requests, tossing her a lopsided grin.

Returning the smile, Lucy gives a quick shrug of her shoulders and disappears behind a rack of absurdly heavy-looking gowns.

Wyatt is still smiling when he turns to see Rufus watching him.

"Could you guys just cut the crap and get together already?" Rufus inquires once Lucy is out of earshot.

Wyatt smirks and shrugs. "We're friends, Rufus. And teammates."

"No, we are friends and teammates. Lucy and I are friends and teammates. No offense, man. I mean you're great and all, but if you ever look at me the way you look at her, things are going to get awkward. And I don't think you'd be super thrilled if Lucy looked at me the way she looks at you."

"You're crazy," Wyatt insists, shaking his head skeptically.

"Well, sure. All three of us are," Rufus retorts. He shrugs. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

---

New York-1777

It turns out the hatred Rufus feels for the 1700s is totally justified in 1777. It's cold and gray and generally miserable. When they finally make their way to the residence of Henry Ludington, they are dismayed to find that Emma has already arrived and is lying in wait just a little ways from the Ludington house.

"What the hell are they doing?" Wyatt asks. "They traveled more than 200 years just to sit in someone's backyard?"

Lucy's eyes narrow as she watches Emma. She has two men with her, and they all seem to be on alert. "They're looking for someone. They must to be trying to try to prevent the message from getting to the Ludington house. If they stop anyone from passing, the British will have more time. They will have an advantage and cause much more damage and destruction, probably take more lives. There could be any number of outcomes Rittenhouse might be aiming for."

Just then, they hear the rhythmic pounding of hoof beats - faint at first but then growing stronger. From a distance, they can see a rider coming up the road, the horse moving at a steady clip, willing but fatigued. That's got to be the man coming to deliver the message," Lucy whispers urgently.

"Follow me," hisses Wyatt. "Let's move."

Weapon in hand, Wyatt leads them out from beneath the cover of the trees and directly towards Emma and her men, but to their surprise, Emma and her men simply watch the rider as he passes them, the horse's hooves kicking up a spray of dirt as he canters by.

Confused, Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus glance at one another, trying to reevaluate the situation.

And then the explosion hits.

The ground seems to rush away from Lucy's feet as she's thrown into the air by the force of the blow, and it seems like an eternity before she feels the bone-crunching impact of her body against the earth. There's a high-pitched whistling sound in her ears, but she thinks she can hear her name being called over and over. No. Not just called. Screamed. Someone is screaming her name, and they sound terrified. He sounds terrified.

Wyatt.

She tries to open her eyes, but even when she thinks she's managed it, she can't see. She panics when she realizes she can't breathe - there's a weight on her chest and she can't find the strength to push against it and gather air. She gasps repeatedly, sucking in short and shallow breaths, and then she feels the pressure begin to subside. She's just had the wind knocked out of her, but she's still too disoriented to even attempt to sit up. There's smoke and yelling, and she feels a cold grip of terror when she realizes she has no idea where Wyatt is. Where Rufus is. She can hear frantic voices, and she can hear muffled yelling, but everything is smoky and buzzing and blurring, and she's still fighting for breath. She tries with all of her might to gather as much air as she can, to take one huge gulp of air so that she can call out for them, but then she feels herself being pulled, dragged, as twigs and grass and pebbles and other bits of debris tug against the fabric of her dress.

She tries once again to yell for Wyatt, but she emits no sound, and she thinks that this is it. Again. Finally. This is how it's going to end. She's going to die more than 200 years before she'll even be born. And as she continues to be dragged through taller weeds, she feels the air start to grow more damp. The ground becomes cooler. Her head becomes heavier, and she feels herself drifting away.

---

The cold shock of water hitting her face jars her from her state of semi-consciousness, and as she pries her sluggish eyes open, she sees Emma standing over her, a small tin cup in her hand, smiling smugly. She's really got to stop finding herself in situations like this.

"Finally," Emma remarks flatly. "I thought we killed you."

"I thought that was the goal," Lucy croaks in response. She's propped up against something rough yet sturdy. A tree, she guesses. She works to focus her vision on the large white blur behind Emma. The Mothership.

"Personal goal, yes," Emma replies. "Unfortunately our leadership has something else in mind for you. And since you were so unwilling to chat in 1939, we're going to take a little trip."

"Death by explosion wasn't violent enough? What - you want to take me and drop me in the middle of a battlefield and let history itself do me in?"

"Kill Rittenhouse's purebred pride and joy?" Emma scoffs. "Ha! Please! Unfortunately, I'm not here to hurt you at all, Princess. I'm actually under strict orders not to kill you. I'm here with a message from Mommy Dearest."

"I don't need to hear a goddamn thing from her," Lucy growls.

"Oh, but you do," Emma coos. "Because if you don't it'll be the end of you."

"You just said you weren't going to kill me."

"Not kill," Emma retorts coyly. "Eliminate. There's a difference. Your mother understands that it's difficult to learn about Rittenhouse for the first time. She feels that everyone deserves an adjustment period. So you have a choice now. You're either fighting with us or you're fighting against us. And I think you can guess how things will end if you choose to fight against us. Your mother has asked us to retrieve you so that she can help you to make the right choice. If you refuse - well, that's a whole different mission. So now that we know you're okay - relatively speaking anyway - let's get a move on." She nods at one of her guys and watches as he lumbers toward Lucy and grabs her by her hair, jerking her violently to her feet. She cries out and wrenches as hard as she can from his pull.

A gunshot rips through the air, and Lucy immediately squeezes her eyes shut, preparing for the the burst of pain she's sure will follow, but her eyes pop open again when she feels nothing. She and Emma are both stunned still for a fraction of a moment before they hear a groan and a dull thud. Emma's guy is flat on his back, a spot of red growing rapidly across his front. A clump of dark hair is still wound around his still fingers.

"Lucy!"

Emma's head jerks suddenly to the right, and Lucy nearly collapses with joy and relief as Wyatt and Rufus emerge from the thick grove of trees. Their clothes are stained and torn, and they each have minor scratches and abrasions dotting their skin, but they're conscious and moving in her direction. They're okay.

In a split-second Wyatt's gun is trained on Emma while Emma's is pointed directly at Lucy's head. Emma's remaining henchman moves to pull his weapon, but she stops him with a quick shake of her head. She gives him a short nod in the direction of the Mothership, and he immediately starts toward the time machine, his eyes on Rufus and Wyatt with every step.

"We've already established pretty firmly that you're not going to kill me," Lucy comments quietly.

"I've never been great at following directions," Emma answers. "And if it's you or me, I'm going with me. I won't lose any sleep at night. Trust me."

"Just step away from her," Wyatt commands. His voice sounds confident, but Lucy recognizes the slight tremor he's trying to iron out of his tone. His eyes keep darting from Emma to Lucy, and Lucy can tell that he's conducting a quick and silent inventory of her injuries. There's a heaviness - a guilt - that seems to collect in his gaze, and she frowns at him, dismayed that he's obviously taking full responsibility for her current predicament. Typical Wyatt.

Emma backs away slowly, keeping her gun pointed at Lucy, and Wyatt slowly approaches without taking his eyes - or his gun - away from Emma. Another thirty paces backwards, and Emma spins and sprints, leaping into the waiting Mothership. Wyatt fires three shots at the vessel, but the hatch closes, and the bullets just ricochet loudly off the metal sides. The Mothership hums and then shudders for a moment before it disappears with a whoosh and pushes a powerful ripple of wind over the surface of the small clearing.

"Lucy," Wyatt whispers, his eyes searching her once again for any sign of injury. His expression is pained, and she wants to reach out and touch the lines of concern on his forehead, but she thinks better of it and stills her hand. Instead, he reaches up and gently touches her forehead, and she flinches away from the pain, surprised that his fingertips are sticky with her blood when he draws back. "We need to get you home," he murmurs anxiously. "You okay to get up?"

She nods hesitantly and then, "Sybil?"

Wyatt nods. "She made it. We saw her leave while we were searching for you."

Lucy smiles for a brief second, relieved.

Wyatt frowns. "They didn't even try to stop her. So why are we here?"

Lucy closes her eyes and grits her teeth as Wyatt and Rufus each take an arm and heft her up onto her feet. "Mind games," she explains. "My mother knows I've always loved Sybil's story. It was like a bedtime story for me as a kid. She sent us here to make sure I'd show up. And, I think, in some weird way...to give me this experience? That sounds crazy, right?"

"That's not even top ten on my list of crazy," Rufus replies dryly. "Can we get out of here? I may have been blown up, but this is still my most successful trip to the 18th century. Let's keep it that way, shall we?"

Wyatt nods and then gestures toward Emma's fallen guy. "Check his pockets. Take anything you find. We can deal with it when we get back to Mason."

"Wade through the puddle of blood and rifle through another man's pants? Awesome." Rufus remarks. "You really want me to hate the 1700s, don't you?"

Wyatt turns to Rufus with an irritated glare, and Rufus mumbles something under his breath before stepping gingerly through the carnage and kneeling to check the dead man's pockets.

Wyatt stands tall, supporting Lucy, when Rufus groans loudly.

"Oh, man!" he exclaims abruptly. Lucy and Wyatt are both startled by the sound. They turn to see him holding up a bloodsoaked scrap of paper. "It's a bloody mess!" He pauses. "I mean that literally - I'm not, like, channeling my inner Connor."

Wyatt nods. "Bring whatever you find," he says, and then he turns to face Lucy. "You sure you're okay?" He studies her closely, his face just inches from hers, and he searches for an honest answer with his eyes. She gives him the slightest of nods and says nothing, but it's enough. He wraps an arm around her waist and grasps her nearest hand in his before guiding her carefully back through the woods.

Rufus watches them for a moment before setting out in their wake. "Friends and teammates," he mutters. "Right."

---

California-Present Day

Emma's words are still ringing in Lucy's ears several hours after they arrive back to Mason Industries. Of course, Rufus and Wyatt had been overly concerned about her wellbeing - they'd each taken an arm over their shoulders and carefully lowered her into the protective care of a Mason-employed medical team. After a careful examination and series of x-rays, she's unable to stop her own affectionate eye roll at the sight of Wyatt - back in his own jeans and tidy flannel shirt - slouched in a chair in the hallway just outside of the medical unit.

"You really didn't have to wait," she remarks with a somewhat satisfied smile.

He starts at the sound of her voice and jumps to his feet. His eyes are clouded with concern and, once again, she resists the serious urge to smooth his furrowed brow with her fingertips.

"I'm good," she assures him with a smile. He's silent, still watching her searchingly, as though she's withholding information. "I'm good," she repeats emphatically. "Wyatt…" she utters softly. And then she trails off, not sure of what she should say, can say in the moment.

He's silent for another moment, and then her eyes are drawn to his hand as it floats toward her - almost like he wants to touch her, to make sure she's real and safe and in one piece. The hand hovers for a fraction of a second, hanging uncertainly in the air between them.

She watches him with what appears to be a longing look, and then she turns away.

His hand snaps to his side, and he shoves it into his pocket before shrugging. "Well, I'm glad you're alright," he murmurs. He gives her a lopsided smile, and she nods in understanding.

"See you later."

"Later," he echoes.

---

Lucy heaves a sigh of relief when she closes her front door behind her and then proceeds to engage the series of deadbolts and chains that line the perimeter. Although it seems like it's been weeks since she left, it's been just sixteen hours in this timeline, and her stomach rumbles to remind her that it's technically time for dinner. Dropping her bag on the table near the front door, she moves into her small kitchen to start a pot of boiling water and to preheat the oven. She starts to pour a glass of wine, but she thinks better of it when she remembers the reason for her raging headache, and she sets the bottle back on the granite countertop with a defeated clank. As the water starts to hum and hiss, she moves quickly into her bedroom to change into her pajamas, thankful that she'd had the foresight to shower before leaving Mason. She's examining her wound and attempting to recreate the tidy bandage when she hears it.

Thump. Creak. Rattle.

She halts her movements, convinced that she's hearing things, and then she hears the creaking again. A louder rattling sound follows this time, and she realizes someone is jiggling the handle to her back door. Someone is on her back porch and trying to get into her house.

She moves swiftly and quietly, thankful that the back door is at the other end of the hallway and out of view of the rest of the townhouse. Rushing into the kitchen, she notices the water has reached a rolling boil, and she reaches for her phone, quickly redialing the most recent number. Her stomach roils and her hands tremble as she waits for him to pick up. And then she hears it.

We didn't start the fire! It was always burning as the world was turning! We-

The song cuts off as quickly as it had started to play, and she slams her phone back onto the counter before striding confidently down the hall. There's only one person who has that song set as a ringtone for her calls in spite of the fact that she has asked him repeatedly to pick something else. ("Why?" he always wonders. "It's perfect for you.") Jerking the the curtains back from the window she sees him standing sheepishly, his phone in his hand.

"Hey, Luce."

Shaking her head, she unlocks the door and stands with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyebrows quirked disapprovingly.

"Delta Force, my ass. I'd expect you to be a little more covert given your extensive experience," she remarks wryly.

Wyatt slides into the room and quickly closes the door behind him before stepping forward to press a soft kiss to the skin just below her jaw. It's her weakness, and he knows it. Taking a breath, she steels herself against the tender show of affection, and remains unmoved, her expression unchanging.

"I forgot my key," he murmurs in explanation. His hands fall naturally to her waist as he leans back to give her an apologetic smile.

"You scared the shit out of me," she replies sharply. "After what Emma said today…" There's a tiny ripple in the smooth timbre of her voice - the very subtlest of clues that she's not quite as "okay" as she had indicated earlier.

It's subtle, but he notices.

His grip tightens on her waist. "Well, then I guess we're even. Losing you in an explosion wasn't exactly a highlight. Tell me what she said," he demands, his tone firm and his expression deeply concerned.

She finally shifts, uncrossing her arms to weave them around his neck. She presses herself against him, appreciating the familiarity of his solid frame against hers. She tucks her nose into the crook of his neck and breathes, taking in the scent of him, the sturdy feel of him, and sighing contentedly as his hands brush soothingly against the soft cotton of her thin tank top. They stand there for some length of time - she's not sure how long - and then she feels him pull back. Her arms fall from his neck to rest against his chest, and his fingertips are suddenly probing gently at her hairline, examining her wound.

"Why is this uncovered?" He shakes his head and lets his fingertips drift softly down the sides of her face.

She scowls, "I was in the process of rebandaging when I was rudely interrupted by - oh! I have water boiling!" She turns abruptly to rush into the kitchen, but he catches her hand and halts her movement.

"I'll handle it. Then I'm going to take care of this….mess," he gestures at her forehead, "and then we're going to talk about what Emma said. I figure we've got at least a few hours before she's back in commission." Wyatt gives her a stern look. "That's plenty of time for me to torture the truth out of you."

She follows him wordlessly down the hallway to the kitchen where he spots the steaming pot and intuitively opens the freezer to pull out a package of frozen tortellini and a loaf of garlic bread. After emptying the package into the pot, He plucks a jar of red sauce from the cupboard and retrieves a saucepan from a lower cabinet. Lucy hops up onto the opposite counter and watches with an odd sense of affection and satisfaction as he effortlessly moves around her kitchen to prepare a meal. This place had been bank-owned when she'd purchased it, and Wyatt had committed to helping her renovate it as she weighed the decision of whether or not to buy.

Over the course of several months, they'd spent countless weekends and evenings together as they had demolished, reinstalled, painted and refinished nearly every surface of the place. Wyatt had grown tremendously comfortable in the space, and she had grown tremendously comfortable with him. It wasn't until they had become a they that they'd truly had a conversation about the potential repercussions of being a public couple. They had decided that it was in the best interest of everyone involved that they (they) keep their increasingly intimate relationship status under wraps.

It doesn't escape her notice that he prepares enough for two.

"You're staying?" She questions softly, somewhat hopefully.

"That was the plan."

"They're all going to find out," she comments. "We were supposed to keep it quiet. You're here more than you're not."

"Are you complaining?" He questions with a smirk. He turns his attention back to the sauce as he heats it up.

She cocks her head and raises her eyebrows. She's unamused.

He turns to face her. "I haven't been here for four days. Besides, I don't care if everyone at Mason knows about us. It's Rittenhouse I'm worried about. But we are rapidly approaching the point where I'm more concerned about you being here alone than I am about Rittenhouse or your mother knowing about us. If they were going to do something to me, they would have done it already." He pauses for a moment, and she can see him eyeing her wound regretfully. "Today just about ripped me apart. I had no idea if they'd taken you. And if they had, I no idea where or when. They're getting bolder. They're working on something big. I don't like you being here by yourself."

"You're right."

He whirls around, an exaggerated look of shock on his face. "I'm sorry. What? I don't think you've ever uttered those words to me before."

Lucy rolls her eyes. "Don't be an ass. Now let's eat."

Wyatt shakes his head and turns down the heat on the stove. "Nope. This'll keep for a few minutes. First you let me take a look at your head. Then we eat."

"And you call me bossy," Lucy retorts as she lets him lead her down the hall and into the bathroom.

She hops onto the counter without a word and then allows him to apply some ointment and then a small bandage to her forehead. She's quiet and watches him searchingly as his eyes flit over her face, neck, and arms, mapping the other various nicks and bruises she procured on the trip.

"What's going on? It's not like this is the worst I've ever had," she points out. "I was way worse off when you came and got me after my mom decided to knock me out."

He winces at the memory and shakes his head. "Don't remind me. You scared the shit out of me that night. You sounded so disoriented over the phone, I thought…"

"Well, I'm here. I'm...mostly fine."

"Right," he says as he puts the bandages and the ointment back into the medicine cabinet. "So tell me what Emma said."

Rolling her eyes, Lucy shrugs. "It's not that big of a deal. It's nothing I haven't heard before - it just sounded more...calculated this time."

"Rittenhouse wants you dead?"

"No," Lucy replies. "They don't. They want me with them - or they want me gone."

"Gone as in…?"

"Gone," Lucy repeats. "Erased, I guess. I think Emma used the word 'eliminated.'"

"Why not just kill you?" Wyatt inquires. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not letting them within a mile of you - especially after today - but why are they being so particular about how to get rid of you?"

"If I had to guess?" Lucy starts.

Wyatt leans back against the counter and takes her hand, giving it a squeeze. He nods.

"My mother," she answers. "She's a horrible human being, but she still has this strange weakness for me. If they kill me, it's going to cause conflict within their organization. But if I never existed…" she trails off.

"Your mother won't even know what she's missing," Wyatt finishes. "And she won't have any reason to question the actions of Rittenhouse."

"I'll be like Amy," Lucy whispers. "Nothing to her. Just a name." She pauses. "Not even that."

She watches Wyatt for a long moment.

He stares at her thoughtfully before nodding in the direction of the hallway. "Let's eat. And then we can strategize."

With a slight nod, she gives him a tentative half-smile. "One problem at a time?"

He responds with an encouraging grin and echoes her words. "One problem at a time."

---

As an experienced soldier - a decorated one at that - Wyatt has developed a sixth sense for danger. It's why he's good at his job. Or so he would like to think. When he's on missions with Lucy and Rufus, and they are debating the logistics of infiltration and historical repercussions, he's always got an eye and an ear on their surroundings. Now, having spent so many years in such a role, he has a hard time turning it off.

It's something Lucy has teased him about repeatedly, especially since Agent Christopher has had agents assigned to protect Lucy ever since her mother's Rittenhouse reveal, but it's something he knows also makes her feel secure. When they're curled up on the couch watching a movie, and there's a sudden break in the moonlight, he's immediately on his feet to make sure someone isn't lurking outside the window. When there's an unexpected knock at Lucy's front door, he has his gun drawn and ready until she can assure him that it's just a neighbor looking for a lost dog. Every noise, every flicker, every unexplained chill sends Wyatt into soldier-mode, and Lucy almost never turns down the chance to give him a gentle ribbing for it.

Tonight is different. Tonight she doesn't tease him for his heightened awareness or his protectiveness. Instead, she seems to want to wrap up in it, like it's a cocoon that can keep her safe.

After he'd finished dressing her wound and placing a small bandage at her hairline, he and Lucy had sat down to eat a quick dinner. He hadn't been surprised to see her nearly melting into her chair from exhaustion, and she hadn't protested when he'd ushered her toward her bedroom before cleaning the kitchen.

Now it's after midnight. She's curled up in his arms, all long limbs and wavy hair. One strap of her tank top has slipped off her shoulder, and he presses a soft kiss to the exposed skin. Her breaths are soft and rhythmic, and he can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest against the arm he has wrapped around her. She likes to tease him about being overprotective, but he knows for a fact that she sleeps better when she knows he's there, so it's incredibly difficult for him to spend his nights away from her. He never thought he would feel this way again after Jessica, and it had certainly crept up on him. He'd just barely opened himself up to possibilities with Lucy when she'd been attacked by her mother. The utter panic he'd felt while racing over to her mother's house to get her had been enough to push him from possibilities to certainties.

He's certain he loves her. He's certain she loves him. He's certain losing her would send him reeling into a self-destructive spiral, and he's not sure he would ever re-emerge.

He also knows she's afraid for him. She feels like Rittenhouse has systematically dismantled every stable aspect of her life - loss of tenure at Stanford, loss of Amy, loss of her dad, loss of her mother. He knows without hearing the words that she's absolutely terrified of losing him on top of everything else. And she's afraid Rittenhouse might use him to get to her if they know how important the two of them are to one another, but he's rapidly moving into the territory of not giving a shit.

He wants her safe. He can only guarantee her safety if he's with her. Not if he's sneaking through yards and playing the emotionally-uninvested teammate on jumps.

He drifts off about an hour after she does, and he sleeps more soundly with her in his arms, with her hair tickling his nose, the scent of her lulling him to slumber.

It seems like mere moments later when a soft chiming sound registers somewhere in his mind, but it's the feel of Lucy sliding out his embrace that causes him to startle and snap to consciousness. The room is still dark except for the light of Lucy's phone illuminating her face with an eerie bluish glow.

She leans over and turns on the bedside lamp, and then, with a heavy sigh, she slides back down beneath the covers and sidles up against him, nuzzling her nose into the crook of his neck. "She jumped again. But I don't want to go. We need a back-up Time Team."

"I don't think that's an option in the next thirty minutes," Wyatt points out. She rolls away from him and comes to a rest on her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. The look of resignation on her face worries him. "You good, Luce?"

She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly before sitting up with a nod. "Yeah. Let's go. Follow me there, okay?"

He nods and watches for a moment as she makes her way over to her closet and starts to get dressed.

He'll follow her anywhere. Anytime.

---

True to his word, Wyatt follows Lucy on the drive to Mason, and they walk into the building together. Exhausted and feeling less than sociable after being torn cruelly from her bed and - unbeknownst to the rest of the group - from Wyatt , her questions are pointed and monosyllabic.

"Where?"

Jiya taps a few keys and zooms in on a map. "It looks like they're right around Capitola?"

"The beach! Finally a vacation destination. Thank you, Emma," Rufus comments. He withers a bit beneath the glares of the team.

"When?" Lucy probes, all business.

"1974."

"Why?" This time the question comes from Rufus.

All eyes are fixed on Lucy.

She rakes a hand through her waves of unruly hair and then rubs tiredly at her forehead. "I have no idea. There's nothing of major significance related to Capitola. Aside from the vacation possibilities," she admits, gesturing to Rufus.

She steps over to one of the computers near Jiya, and does a quick Google search. Skimming the results for anything - names, events, buildings - that might kindle a memory or an idea, she comes up empty. "Nothing."

"So...we're just going to show up and wander the streets?" Wyatt wonders.

"Well," Jiya replies, "you may not have to wander too far. It's not like it's a large town. And it certainly wasn't as populated then as it is now."

"Emma does have a tendency to stand out," Rufus agrees. "Subtlety was never her strong suit."

"Wait," Lucy interjects. "What did you find on the page Rufus pulled from Emma's guy?"

"Bloody hell, I'm guessing," Rufus deadpans.

Agent Christopher shrugs. "The same map we already had. And then a note at the bottom that said 411 Beverly. We assumed it was the Ludington address."

Lucy shakes her head. "That wouldn't have been the Ludington address. And Emma mentioned another mission if I refused to comply. I'm guessing she's not finished." She turns to Jiya. "Can you search that address in Capitola?"

With a few rapidfire keystrokes, Jiya nods. "There is a 411 Beverly Avenue in Capitola."

Agent Christopher turns to the team. "It's worth a shot. Get changed and get moving. Emma's got almost an hour head start."

---

California-1974

The damp air almost immediately causes goosebumps to ripple across Lucy's skin, and the smell of ocean water and kelp grow more pungent the further they walk. As they make their way down the slope of a gently curved street, a line of picturesque storefronts comes into view. 1974 is distant enough for them to feel anachronistic, but near enough that the world is recognizable - things look real. She glances over at Wyatt and Rufus, feeling nervous about the uncertain yet personal nature of their current mission.

They pop into the first open business they pass, figuring Emma would have had to come this way into town, and they are both shocked and pleased when the store owner has not only seen their "friend with the red hair," but he can confirm that she had been headed to the same address as them.

"She was here about twenty minutes ago. Said she lost her map and she'd been wandering to try and find the place. I'm not the best with directions, so I hope she found it alright."

Lucy smiles politely and nods. "I'm sure she did. Do you think you could help us out and give us a push in the right direction as well?"

The older gentleman smiles shyly at Lucy, obviously a bit flustered, before grabbing a pen and a scrap of paper. Wyatt can't help but roll his eyes good-naturedly. After all this time and all these jumps, she still doesn't seem to be aware of the effect she has on the men they meet throughout history.

Armed with a hastily scrawled map, the trio sets off again, this time at a much more hurried pace.

"Tell me again why we do this," Rufus huffs resignedly as they find themselves nearly sprinting down a quiet residential street. "I used to live in my cubicle. Like, I had food delivered directly to my cubicle. Why did I ever leave?"

Lucy gives him a gently scolding glance, and he quiets down quickly. Nobody even has a chance to speak again since, just a few seconds later, Lucy stops suddenly and turns on her heel. "We're here."

The house is impressive. Sprawling and set back from the narrow street on a gentle slope. The yard is lush and beautifully landscaped, and it would appear that there is probably a beautiful ocean view from the backside of the home. There is a dark brown Mercedes sedan parked in the driveway, and Lucy wonders again what Emma could possibly be doing here. Is this the home of a Rittenhouse leader? Is it the home of a future politician or activist? These questions and more are still rolling around in her head as she charges confidently up the sidewalk and directly to the front door.

"And what's our story exactly?" Rufus inquires as he hurries to keep pace with her.

"We make it up as we go," Lucy and Wyatt both reply in unison. They glance at each other in surprise before smiling, and Lucy can feel her nerves settle just a tiny bit. Wyatt raps loudly on the blue front door, and they wait for someone - anyone - to answer.

They're still waiting when they hear a frightened cry come from inside. Within moments, Wyatt has kicked the front door in, and the sharp snap of a gunshot causes them all to jump, cower, and then panic. Following a quick visual check of Lucy and Rufus, he has his gun trained on Emma once again, except this time Emma has hers pointed at a man. No - not a man. A boy. A teenage boy. No more than sixteen or seventeen years old. He's bleeding from a wound in his side, and he looks as bewildered as he does terrified. With wild eyes, he looks from one person to the next, and then he fixes his eyes on Lucy, somehow sensing a savior in her.

"Help me. Please. Please don't hurt me." He groans then and coughs roughly, his pain obviously agonizing, and there's a small trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Lucy feels something maternal kindled within her. With slow and calculated steps, she moves so she is kneeling in front of the boy, effectively placing herself in Emma's line of fire.

"Oh, don't tempt me, Princess," Emma hisses threateningly.

"Lucy!" Wyatt admonishes softly, desperately, his eyes darting back and forth between Lucy's concerned expression and Emma's wild eyes.

She ignores Wyatt's terrified cry and focuses on the suffering boy. "You're going to be okay," she murmurs. "Just hang in there. We'll get you the help you need."

"Who...who are you people? Why do you want to hurt me?" He questions, his brows furrowed as he pushes back against the overwhelming press of pain.

"A boy, Emma?" Lucy hisses in disgust. "You're coming after a boy? You're even more despicable than I could have imagined."

"Oh, he's not just a boy to me...and definitely not to you," Emma replies teasingly, her gun still trained on the teen's prone figure. "If you and your incompetent boy-toys hadn't startled me, this would all be over and he wouldn't be suffering. If you know what's good for you, you'll let me end this now. His parents will be home soon. Rittenhouse Summit in San Francisco."

"He's Rittenhouse?!" Lucy gasps. "Then why…?"

"He's going to cause all kinds of trouble someday. You'd probably like him. He just never quite accepts his place. Never really places the wellbeing of the group over the wellbeing of outsiders. And, well, there's one mission in particular that we're looking to undo." She pauses and looks thoughtfully at Lucy before her smirk returns. "You know, sometimes it's about the bigger picture. Rittenhouse members know that they may be asked to make sacrifices for the sake of the organization. Just ask your mother."

"Amy…" Lucy whispers. Her eyes flit over to Wyatt, whose gun is still trained on Emma, and Rufus, who's standing in shock, gaping at the unfolding of events. "My mother knowingly sacrificed Amy to save herself?"

"For Rittenhouse," Emma confirms. "Because she's a leader. And that's what leaders do."

"That's what cowards do," Lucy grinds out, her rage and her frustration and her devastation over her mother bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

"You so much as move, and I shoot you," Wyatt warns Emma. "No more trips for Rittenhouse. You wanna talk sacrifice? Let's see you live it. You're a pretty valuable asset to put yourself in this much danger. Where's your minion?"

"Oh, this mission was a bit more...personal...for me." Emma answers with a smirk. She glances down at Lucy, her finger pulsing ever-so-slightly against the trigger of her gun. "As soon as Carol gave me the name of the target, I knew I wanted this mission for myself."

Puzzled, Lucy glances back at Wyatt. He looks just as confused as she feels. So she glances down at the boy whose shirt is now soaked with blood. She presses harder against the wound, and he moans slightly. All eyes are drawn to the sound.

"What's your name?" Lucy asks gently, deflecting his attention from his own inquiry.

"Thomas," he grates out. "Tom. Tom Carson."

For a moment, it feels like the earth falls out from under Lucy - like she's in a freefall with no hope of ever finding solid footing again. Her mouth is dry and her palms are sweaty and everything around her is muffled by the high-pitched screeching in her head. She sways slightly, and the pressure of her hand against Tom's wound lessens as she grows faint.

Emma's laughter is cold as she watches realization drain the color from Lucy's face. Her triumph in Lucy's pain is to Wyatt's advantage though. He takes the fraction of a second to pull the trigger, twice in rapid succession, and Emma stumbles.

Lucy starts at the sound of the gunshot and stares with hollow eyes at Emma's prone form. Hearing Emma's soft cry of pain is almost surreal. She's been such an elusive figure - almost mythical in her skill and her ability to go unthwarted - but the plush red blooms rather quickly over her heart, and though she makes a valiant effort to lurch for the exit, Wyatt is quick in firing one last shot.

Lucy is in front of the boy now, and she shields his view of Emma as she staggers and then slumps to the ground, her gun clattering onto the wood floor as she falls and remains still, dark liquid spreading over the polished floorboards, pooling beneath her crumpled form.

The sound of the boy's groan pulls Lucy's attention away from her fallen opponent, and something seems to snap within her. Rufus and Wyatt both watch as her eyes widen, her mouth goes slack, and she nearly falls backward. She crab-walks rather clumsily before scrambling to her feet, and then she's wringing her hands, the color completely gone from her face. "Wyatt, you have to help him. You have to save him."

Her voice is wobbly, and her teeth are chattering in spite of the mild temperature. It's a level of panic he's never seen from her, and considering all that she's been through in recent months, that terrifies him. Grasping her by the shoulders, he bends slightly to look into her troubled eyes. "Lucy -"

"You have to help him, Wyatt!" she cries shrilly. "Now! Help him now! He cannot die."

Her concern for the boy is unsurprising - Lucy is an empathetic person. And none of them is ever nonchalant about taking a life unnecessarily, particularly someone as young as this, but the hysteria, the extreme level of terror he sees in her, is beyond the usual level of guilt or worry they experience on missions. Surging forward, Wyatt takes Lucy's place next to the boy and begins a cursory examination. "You guys call for some help. He's lost a lot of blood, but if we hurry…"

"Uh - is 911 even a thing?" Rufus mutters quietly to Lucy.

Numb, Lucy doesn't respond. She's staring in Tom's direction, but in a vacant manner, like she's staring through him and beyond.

"Lucy?" Rufus waves a hand in front of her face.

"LUCY!" Wyatt yells. "Snap out of it! We need you here!"

Shaken from her state of disorientation, Lucy swipes at the tear tracks on her face and shakes her head to regain her focus. "What? Oh...uh...yeah. 911 - late 1960s, I think."

With a nod, Rufus rushes into the kitchen where he can see a corded rotary phone mounted on the wall. He sighs and mumbles under his breath, "Great, it'll only take me a full five minutes to dial three digits. Thank God it's not a ten-digit number."

Lucy watches as Wyatt makes an effort to deal with the damage that's been done by the gunshot. "He's passed out," Wyatt reports. "He's probably better off. Shit, Luce. He's lost a lot of blood. I just...I don't know." He shakes his head frantically and readjusts his hands as he presses against the persistent flow of blood. "Poor kid. Who the hell is he? How bad is this?"

He looks up at Lucy curiously. She sounds empty. Defeated. Like a wilting flower, she sways and sinks to her knees. She looks up at him, her face starkly white and her eyes glassy.

When she responds, he knows why.

"Tom Carson is the man who's going to pull me out of that car. He's supposed to save my life." She shrugs weakly. "Emma came to eliminate me. And she may have succeeded."

Almost as if in slow-motion, a look of horror appears on Wyatt's face, and then a sense of panic combusts inside of him. "Goddamnit! RUFUS! We need to get this kid some help. NOW!"

Rufus hangs up abruptly and turns to face them. "Help is on the way. Which means, we need to go." He continues hesitantly, aware of the sensitivity of the situation. "We aren't going to be able to dodge questions if we're here when the police arrive. This is suspicious as hell. It's bad enough that they're going to find Emma here..." he trails off.

Lucy looks tearfully between Wyatt, Rufus, and the boy, but she knows Rufus is right. If they don't leave now, they might never get to leave 1974. Wyatt looks at her apologetically, his eyes conveying his sorrow for the guilt and the terror she's feeling.

"We can go to the hospital and wait to hear something," he offers. "As soon as we hear, we'll head back to the Lifeboat."

Lucy nods in agreement, but she knows they're all three wondering what exactly she'll be returning to if and when they make it back home.

---

After quick stop to trade their bloodstained clothes for some interestingly patterned replacements, they wait for three hours at the nearest hospital, making an effort to blend into the crowd of concerned family members and ailing patients-to-be. They're there when a frantic Mr. and Mrs. Carson arrive, Mrs. Carson sobbing loudly while Mr. Carson, his face pale and drawn, attempts to console his wife.

Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus are each more than a little disconcerted by the situation. Normally they don't have to face the emotional aftermath of their jumps. It's certainly not a part of their standard operating procedure to linger and risk being trapped or compromised, but the circumstances of this mission are hardly standard. There's an unspoken agreement that, in this instance, it's worth the risk.

Lucy is a wreck. She's frail and uncertain and trembling. She's already been to the bathroom twice to empty the contents of her stomach, and each time she's emerged to find Wyatt pacing worriedly outside the bathroom door. Wyatt might be even worse off than Lucy. He's afraid to let Lucy out of his sight, almost like he thinks she might disappear at any moment. And while Lucy's fear and anxiety lead her to curl into herself, Wyatt's method of coping is to become more outwardly agitated and impatient. He's tense and snarly and wound so tight that it looks as though he'll snap like a rubber band if anyone so much as coughs near him. For over an hour he's been pacing back and forth in front of them, pivoting every six feet, and Lucy is almost certain the narrow stretch of tile floor beneath his feet will need to be refinished by the time he's done. Every few minutes, she reaches out to let her hand brush against his as he passes. He softens - just for her - just for a moment - and then continues his silent tirade.

Concerned at the unusual sight of Lucy looking so broken, Rufus takes her hand and gives it a comforting squeeze. "It's gonna be okay. We're gonna figure it out. This is what we do."

"But not for ourselves. Not when it's one of us," Lucy whispers. "I don't even...I don't even know what's going to happen. Will I actually disappear? Or will every record of my existence just be erased? How does this work? I don't think Back to the Future rules are necessarily applicable to real-life time travel."

"So...points for a clever pop-culture reference even in a crisis," Rufus praises. "You've obviously been spending too much time around me. And as far as your...situation," Rufus remarks thoughtfully. "As long as we're here, your accident hasn't happened. You're not even born yet. So...I think you're safe."

She ponders his words and then nods at his logic. But then her face falls. "So I can just never go home," Lucy responds drolly. "Great. Well, if I stick around for a couple of years, I guess I can look forward to feathered Farrah hair. So there's that."

"You'll go home. And you'll exist."

They both turn sharply at the confidence rumbling in Wyatt's voice. Neither Rufus or Lucy had noticed the sudden halt in his pacing, but they look hopeful at the certainty in his stance and in his eyes.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carson?"

A doctor is standing at the set of heavy double-doors, and his expression is somber. The trio watches as Mr. Carson gently guides his heartsick wife through the double doors, but the effort to maintain privacy is for naught, because the entire waiting room can hear the wails of devastation and the yells of denial coming from the next room.

Rufus looks stricken as he sits next to Lucy. They've seen horrible things, done horrible things, but there's something especially heinous about this. An innocent boy murdered for deeds that wouldn't even have happened for another 29 years. Without exchanging words, the three of them move quietly to the exit and make their way into the small private courtyard just outside.

Wyatt is silent for a moment, looking pained at the realization of what's just happened. And at the implications of what's just happened. He shakes his head. "There must have been too much damage. If we were in 2018...maybe...but…"

Lucy stands frozen, her face slackened with grief. "All this because of me," she remarks in an empty voice. "Because he was a good man who saved me. He was murdered because of me."

"No," Wyatt counters firmly, taking her hand and giving it a firm squeeze. "All of this because of Rittenhouse. His parents signed his life away. Hell, maybe he signed his own life away by rescuing you in the first place." He glances around and then leans in closer before hissing, "You heard Emma. It wasn't a coincidence that the guy who pulled you out of a river was Rittenhouse. He was sent there. This isn't on you. It's on them."

Lucy chokes back a gasp, and Wyatt is in front of her in an instant. "Hey. Hey! Listen to me." He squeezes both of her upper arms tenderly and then allows his hands to roam up until they rest on each side of her face, his thumbs sweeping soothing strokes over her cheekbones. "You're going to be okay. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I refuse to let anything happen to you. We're going to figure out a way."

"Like what? Wyatt, there was no one else on the road that night. It was a miracle that Tom came along the first time-or I guess it wasn't. Wait - does this mean I...died...in another timeline? Was this my mother's way of fixing things? Am I just another cog in the Rittenhouse machine without even realizing it?!"

"Lucy."

"I mean, I was on those back roads because I was just trying to collect my thoughts and buy some time before I had to speak to my mother, and...I have to have the accident because if I don't then I won't stick with history, which means I won't end up here with you -"

"Luce!" Wyatt says more sharply. "Listen to me. I need you to listen for a minute." Wyatt looks her dead in the face and steadies his own breathing, hoping she will mirror his thin facade of composure. "I need you to tell me everything about that night. Everything. When, where, how...everything. Can you do that?"

He watches as she takes a breath, and he can see the effort she's making to collect herself and to focus on him. Even in such a dire situation, in seemingly impossible circumstances, he can't help but smile at the familiar sight of her. He knows the exact shade of her eyes and every microscopic freckle on her skin. He's memorized the shape of her lips and the arch of her brows. Looking at her is like coming home, and it grounds him - even now.

She nods finally. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know. Then what?"

"And then we're going to save you. Right, Rufus?" Wyatt turns to Rufus for support.

Rufus nods, uncertainly at first, and then with growing confidence, bordering on cheesy. "Yeah. Yeah! This is what we do, right? We're the Time Team!"

Wyatt nods appreciatively and softens his voice a bit as her turns back to Lucy. "This is what we do."

---

They're a sad sight as they walk down yet another quiet street, their clothes mussed and their postures defeated. Lucy's eyes are still red-rimmed, and even Rufus and Wyatt have an extra bit of puffiness around their eyes. It's already been a long, exhausting, and emotional trip, and they haven't even tackled the challenging part yet. Upon leaving the hospital, they had agreed that they should make their way back to the Lifeboat, where they can ponder the most prudent next steps in privacy. The saltwater air that had been so refreshing just hours before now stings their skin in a whiplike breeze. They're walking in solemn silence when Wyatt stops suddenly, gently grasping Lucy's elbow.

"I've got an idea. I mean, it's not a new idea, but I've got an idea."

"What kind of idea?" Rufus inquires with a confused frown.

"Look, I don't have time to get into it, but I need to go. You know Jiya is tracking how long we've been here, and they're going to start to worry soon. We don't need them excavating some multi-millionaire's backyard again. Mason gets so testy about that."

Rufus weighs Wyatt's words and the acquiesces. "Fair point."

Wyatt grins and then looks to Lucy, earnestness brightening the blue of his eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," she replies instantly, with a level of certainty that makes his heart swell.

With a quick glance at Rufus, he pauses and then mutters, "Screw it." Grabbing Lucy and pulling her to his chest, he leans down and presses a kiss to her lips.

"Oh...ah...okay then," Rufus mutters awkwardly, trying desperately to avert his eyes. "It's gonna happen now? I mean...okay. Complete and utter terror can be romantic, I guess."

Shaking his head, Wyatt chuckles. "Yeah, so...we're together. Like it already happened."

"Since when?!" Rufus exclaims disbelievingly. "I mean, I knew you guys were together, like, emotionally. But...since when?!"

"Almost three months ago," Lucy responds hesitantly, with an apologetic shrug.

"And you didn't tell me?" he whines, his voice becoming strangely high-pitched. "I told you guys about me and Jiya."

"Uh, no you didn't," Wyatt argues. "I dragged it out of you in Arkansas."

"Well, I would have told you if you weren't so pushy," Rufus grumbles sulkily.

"We didn't tell anyone, Rufus." Lucy assures him. "I didn't want my mom to have yet another person I love to use against me, so…" She trails off when she sees the surprised looks on both of their faces, so retraces her words until...well, shit.

"Another person you love?" Rufus taunts with a grin.

Lucy squirms uncomfortably and looks to Wyatt for guidance on how to proceed. He's just smiling at her in an obnoxiously charming manner. Grinning, actually. She rolls her eyes huffily, momentarily forgetting about everything that is at stake in her life. Finally, he nods. "I'm not going to let your mom hurt the person I love either."

"So...we're on the same page…" Lucy proceeds slowly, her smiling growing by the millisecond.

"We are," Wyatt concurs. He's looking at her lips in that way that he does, and she can feel herself flushing before she drops her eyes bashfully.

"So what exactly are you going to do?" Rufus questions eagerly, totally unconcerned with his disruption of the moment.

The reminder is a timely one. Wyatt's focus snaps back to the issue at hand, and he turns to Lucy. I need you to tell me everything about the accident that night. The time, the location, the car you were driving...everything."

Lucy frowns, her brow furrowed slightly, but she nods. "I've relived the moment at least a thousand times. I remember every detail. I'll tell you everything."

He can see the uncertainty in her eyes, so he presses a quick kiss to her lips. "Just tell me. And then trust me."

She nods. "Okay, so it was January 21st in 2003, and it was the middle of the night - "

---

The Lifeboat is nestled in a small grove of trees near a rough stretch of quiet beach. The coastal breeze has died down a bit, but the dampness in the air just seems to enhance her tremendous anxiety with its chill. Lucy paces back and forth in front of the Lifeboat, wringing her hands, and swallowing repeatedly in an effort to clear the lump that seems to be lodged permanently in her throat. Rufus sits in the open hatch of the Lifeboat, watching her with concern, aware that he's got nothing to say that will ease any of her fear or worry.

Wyatt says nothing when he emerges from the shadows of the trees, but he's got smug look on his face, and he greets Lucy with a firm kiss before turning to Rufus. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"So I guess you have good news?" she inquires hesitantly. He drops his hands to her waist and starts to boost her toward the hatch where Rufus is waiting with an extended arm, but she shimmies out of his grasp and looks up at him with worried eyes.

She shakes her head. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will, Luce." He reaches for her again and glances up at Rufus who disappears into the Lifeboat. "Come on, you think I'm going to risk you?"

She shakes her head again, and grabs his shoulders, giving them an earnest squeeze. "But what if it doesn't. You know as well as I do that time travel is unpredictable. Even the best plans can fail."

"And by that logic, we could return to 2018 and I could be erased. Rufus could be erased."

"Uh, happy to be here for moral support, but not loving the speculative erasure!" Rufus calls from within the Lifeboat.

Wyatt rolls his eyes at Rufus before turning back to Lucy. "It's going to be okay. Because even if it's not okay when we get back, we'll fix it. We'll do whatever we have to do to fix it. I will do whatever it takes to fix it."

Lucy stares at him for several long moments, takes in the pureness of his expression, the honesty in his tone. He's her ally. He's been her ally. There are two people in the world she trusts with her life, and they're both right here with her. They both have her back. They'll both stop at nothing to keep her safe. And she knows without a doubt in her mind that she would do the same for them.

"Let's go home," she says softly.

"Let's go home," Wyatt agrees.

---

California-Present Day

The Lifeboat shudders to a shaky halt when they finally arrive back at Mason Industries, and as Wyatt swallows back his usual wave of nausea, he sees Lucy looking pale and shaken. She's nearly paralyzed with fear, and he knows that all he can do in this moment is hold her hand. Once she steps out onto that platform, she's either going to be back home or she's going to be a stranger in a familiar world, and while he's fairly confident in his effort to repair the situation, he knows he has to be ready to help her through it if he's failed her.

Her eyes are vacant and unfocused as he reaches over to unbuckle her seat belt, and she looks up at him in surprise when he grasps both of her hands to pull her to her feet. Rufus has turned in his seat to watch them both, but he's quiet, aware of the gravity of the situation.

Wyatt raises one hand to her cheek and lets the other fall to her waist, and she expels a ragged sigh at his touch. "Let me go first, Luce," Wyatt murmurs behind her.

"Wyatt," she murmurs, tugging at his hand. "What if I don't exist? They're going to-"

He turns to her and addresses her firmly, his eyes fixed steadily on hers. "You exist. You're here. I love you. You are the most constant thing in my life. You exist."

Agent Christopher is waiting as he climbs through the hatch and down onto the docking. Nothing appears to be awry at Mason. He can see Jiya and Connor behind their usual monitors, and there are dozens of other engineers and technicians buzzing around the busy atrium. He turns and reaches for Lucy's hand, supporting her weight as she climbs out to join him, and they both turn to face Agent Christopher expectantly.

"Well, how did it go? The Mothership never made it back to 2017. We were starting to worry about you. What the hell happened back there?"

Wyatt feels Lucy sag against him, her knees buckling beneath her slight frame, and he grabs her, holding her supportively against his side. She lets out a joyful laugh, the sound of which is soon joined by laughter from Wyatt and then from Rufus as he exits the Lifeboat. Rufus approaches to support Lucy on her other side, and with her arms around both of their necks, she pulls them into a hug, her gratitude for their friendship and loyalty and protectiveness emanating from her embrace as they laugh joyously over their victory.

"You did it!" she exclaims to Wyatt, releasing Rufus and pulling Wyatt's lips to hers.

Rufus takes a step backward and scratches awkwardly at his neck, nodding a greeting at Jiya while studiously avoiding the sight of the smitten couple currently blocking his path away from the Lifeboat.

"So...that happened," he remarks to the room at-large, gesturing to Lucy and Wyatt. "And some other stuff happened, too."

"Why do I feel like I missed something massive?" Agent Christopher inquires suspiciously as Lucy and Wyatt finally break apart.

Wyatt cocks his head, hemming and hawing for a moment. "Maybe there are a few things we should discuss," he admits.

"Get changed and then we're going to debrief," she commands. "I don't like being left in the dark on these matters."

"Yes, ma'am," the trio replies in unison.

---

After showers and quick changes into jeans and t-shirts and sneakers, Lucy, Wyatt, and Rufus make their way to their usual debriefing session. Agent Christopher hasn't even opened her mouth when Wyatt drills her with his first question.

"How did we meet?"

Christopher is confused. "How did who meet?"

"How did I meet Lucy?" he repeats.

Agent Christopher looks at him, puzzled. "What exactly happened in 74? You're all acting very odd. Did the timeline change?"

"Maybe," Wyatt answers. "Just humor me."

"Well, as far as I know, Master Sergeant, you met Lucy almost fifteen years ago when she was in an accident. Her car went into a river, and you pulled her out. You've been together pretty much ever since. I think there was something about a high school girlfriend in there somewhere, but it sounds like you ended things pretty quickly with her once you met Lucy."

Shocked, Lucy turns to Wyatt. Then she turns back to Agent Christopher. "I've known Wyatt since I was in college?"

Agent Christopher nods. "He was one of the conditions when we recruited you. You refused to work with another soldier. Said there was nobody else you could trust with your life, which we weren't thrilled about, by the way. Husband-wife teams aren't necessarily a recipe for success. Now why exactly am I rehashing your own history to you? Do you want to tell me what's going on here?"

Both Wyatt and Lucy are frozen in place, stunned looks on their faces. Rufus is sitting silently, his mouth gaping in shock.

"We're...married?"

"Well, you normally aren't as...obvious about it as you were when you returned today, but yes. I'm gathering that this is all different from your last timeline. So why don't you all tell me exactly what happened, and we can go from there."

---

"So," Lucy starts awkwardly as they leave the conference room. "Married. Didn't see that one coming."

Wyatt glances over with a teasing grin. "Really, Luce? You didn't? I thought you were more perceptive than that."

"What do you-" she trails off when she sees the hopeful look on his face. "No…" she murmurs.

"I mean, not yet," he admits. "I wanted to wait until things were at least a little more stable. You know, so I wouldn't have to sneak in and out of our house to keep it from Rittenhouse. But yeah. It was part of my long game."

She stops and turns to face him in the middle of the hallway, a radiant smile on her face. She's in jeans and a sweater, and her hair is wild and her face is scrubbed clean, and he just loves her. After a moment, she reaches up to wrap her arms around his neck. He pulls her into his chest and breathes her in, and he can feel her doing the same. He shivers a bit at the puff of her breath against his neck, and then he hears her voice in his ear, silky and soft. "I would have said yes."

He smiles at that and then they separate, keeping their hands linked.

"Hey," Lucy says suddenly, giving his hand a tug. "What did you do while we were in 1974?"

"I sent a telegram."

Her eyes narrow and one of her eyebrows kinks as she eyes him, confused and a little skeptical. "A telegram? Really? For who? And why? It didn't exactly work the first time you tried it. Why were you so confident it would work this time?"

"I did some research after the last time. Western Union stopped delivering telegrams in 2006 - six years prior to the date Jessica should have received hers. This telegram went to 2003. Plus..." he pauses for a moment, as though he's readying himself to admit something difficult.

"What?" Lucy prompts gently.

"I'm starting to believe that there are fixed points in history. Certain things that can't be changed. Circumstances can change. Timing can change. But the outcomes will always be the same regardless of the timeline. Like the Hindenburg. It was destined to fail. And Lincoln? He was meant to die."

"And what does that have to do with us?" Lucy wonders.

"You and me? We're a fixed point. You're meant to be here. With me." There's a hint of pain in his voice as he continues. "Jessica's not. I miss her, and I'll always love her, and I hope she's somewhere out there - in this timeline - with a husband and the baby boy she always wanted. But there's a reason that I was never able to get her back." He shrugs. "If there's anything I've learned from all of the timelines we've seen, it's that you and I are meant to be here, Lucy. Together. In all of the changes to all of the timelines, none of them have taken us away from each other. Every single one was leading us right back here. Some a little sooner than others, but we always end up fighting side-by-side. That's how I knew this would work. And if it hadn't been this, it would have been something else. We're meant to be together."

"What did it say? The telegram, I mean," Lucy inquires curiously.

"I'll tell you someday," he replies with a grin. "Hell, I'll probably be able to show it to you. I can't imagine I would have thrown away a mysterious telegram from the past."

"Why would you have paid attention to it?" she questions, fascinated. "I mean, why wouldn't you have just assumed it was some sort of mistake or prank? I just would have assumed it was a joke and tossed it."

"Oh, I made sure it was a message I couldn't ignore. And it was delivered at a time in my life when I really needed a mission. A purpose. And when I had someone there to steer me in the right direction. All that matters now is that it reached its destination."

He smiles down at her, his heartbeat quickening at the at the sight of her looking up at him, her expression open and radiating complete love and trust. She nudges him with an elbow and tosses her head playfully.

"You know we've probably got a house and a minivan and a dog waiting for us. We should probably start figuring our lives out. And did I take your name? Because I can't imagine that I would have changed my name. I mean, who knows if -"

He silences her by pressing a gentle fingertip to her lips.

"One problem at a time, Luce," he reminds her. He leans in to press a kiss to her forehead. "One problem at a time."

---

Texas-2003

The sky really is huge in Texas.

He still hates when people make jokes about the size of things in Texas, but his view of his home state seems softer, more forgiving somehow, now that he's on his way out.

He wonders how the sky will look in California.

Just 26 hours and 1700 miles to go.

And he has absolutely no clue about why he's going or what awaits him.

"There's a telegram for you," Sherwin remarks as Wyatt walks through the front door. He's been out driving the backroads again, pondering his future. It's something he's been doing a lot for the past few days.

"A telegram? Who the hell would send me a telegram? What the hell IS a telegram?" He responds, baffled. There's one person in the world that cares enough about him to send him a letter of any kind, and he's sitting in the recliner less than ten feet away.

"Why don't you do something crazy like, say, open it and find out?" Sherwin suggests.

He reads the note four times before he glances up, Sherwin looking on with genuine curiosity.

"Is this from you?" Wyatt asks. "Some sort of weird push in the right direction? Because this has you written all over it."

Frowning, Sherwin shakes his head. "It's not from me. I would have sent you a damn telegram years ago if I thought it'd have any impact on that peanut brain of yours. What's it say?"

Baffled, Wyatt hands the page over to his grandfather, who quickly trades his regular glasses for his smaller reading glasses. He pauses when he finishes, a thoughtful look on his face, and then he hands the page back to Wyatt. "Well?" he asks.

"Well, what?"

"When do you leave?"

"What are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere. This is some sort of a prank. Probably one of the guys messing with me."

"Wyatt, I don't believe a single one of your friends is clever enough to come up with such an elaborate prank. That's part of your problem. You need to surround yourself with better people. People like you. You've gotta stop spending your time with the people you think you deserve. Start spending time with the people you want to be worthy of. You hear me?"

"So I'm supposed to pack up and leave because of a mysterious note from the past."

"Nope," Sherwin disagrees. "You're supposed to pack up and leave because if you don't, you're going to live bitter and angry until the day you die. The note is just fuel for a fire that's already kindling. You've already been thinking about enlisting, about traveling. You said you thought it was some kind of a sign when you broke down in front of that recruitment center. Maybe this is the next step. Go, son. If there's anything I've learned in my years on Earth, it's that opportunities don't come with a bright and shiny label that says, "I'm an opportunity. Take me." You have to take risks. Go. See what this is about. And if it's nothing, well, you'll still have a hell of a story to tell."

It had only taken three days for him to agree to leave.

He doesn't know where the telegram came from. Truth be told, he doesn't care. He does know that he's going to end up just like his old man if he doesn't make major change. And he knows that the writer of the telegram seemed to know him a hell of a lot better than he knows himself. So why the hell not?

Jessica had been pissed when he'd told her he was leaving, but he thinks it's for the best. She's actually a nice girl. Not like most of the girls he's dated. He knows she wants to stay in Texas. He knows she's talked about community college or even cosmetology school. He knows that she wants to start a family and watch her little boy play peewee football while her little girl cheers on the sidelines. She wants the life she's always known.

It's the small-town fairytale, and it's not for him.

He drives for nearly eight hours-across five hundred miles of dirty asphalt and yellow dashes-before he crosses the state line, officially leaving Texas and entering New Mexico.

The scenery doesn't change much, but the weight on his shoulders is lifted.

Finally, he's going somewhere.

He smiles.

---

California-2003

The back roads are dark and the reflection of the moon is blinding as it chases her small Toyota down the narrow highway. There's a heavy knot in her stomach as she drives, and she catches herself clenching the steering wheel over and over again - she has to keep reminding herself to relax her grip.

The radio's been off for the last forty miles. She thinks better in silence.

Her mom is going to kill her. Or at least disown her.

Lucy Preston, college drop-out? Lucy Preston, singer? This will not end well.

She's never been the rebellious type. She's always prided herself on doing the right thing and following the right path. She's had a plan for her life for as long as she can remember, and she's never missed a beat in that cadenced set of accomplishments and expectations.

Until now.

Singing just sort of...fell into her lap. Well, a cute guy in a band actually fell into her lap, but the singing had come with him, and it had stayed long after he'd told her she was wound too tightly for his tastes. Asshole. So now she's faced with the ultimate dilemma: follow her heart and do something reckless like joining a no-name band on some no-name tour - or continue to excel in her studies at UCLA. She knows which is the safer path; she just doesn't know whether safe is what she wants anymore.

She doesn't know if she'll actually do it. If she'll actually defy her mother's expectations. Especially once she's faced with the infamous Carol Preston stare of disapproval. It's one she's seen a handful of times in her life. It's a look of resignation and frustration - it's a look that implies disbelief that Lucy can possibly be her daughter when she's such a disappointment. It's the look that has kept Lucy on the straight and narrow for the past two decades.

It happens quickly.

She's not sure if it's the sudden S-curve in the road or the pitch-blackness or her haggard state or all of the above, but she's too bold in her approach to the gentle turn, veering sharply toward the opposite side of the road. A pair of headlights appear suddenly in her windshield- the only car she's seen for the past hour - and she quickly jerks the wheel to correct her path. She's braking and over-correcting and sliding, and then she feels the frightening motion of a car that's not responding to the pedals beneath her foot. She's sliding and spinning and shrieking as her car tumbles over the edge of the road and down the steep levee. And then she's rolling, the powerful movements causing her to wrench and fold and slam in a dozen different directions. She prays to hit a tree, a rock, a telephone pole - anything - because she knows the next thing to stop the car is going to be the river.

There's a thunderous sound when the car hits the water and bobs for a moment, but the river is moving swiftly, and she knows she doesn't have much time. She's stunned for several moments, disbelieving of the situation, and then she's pulling frantically at the door handle, her stomach clenching and her fingers shaking with terror. She gasps loudly when the first trickle of cold water nudges her foot, and then it seems like time goes surging forward without her, because she's up to her waist in icy-cold water with no idea of how to escape. She's shivering with cold and with fear, and her teeth are chattering as she watches the water rise around, slowly submitting to the fate that seems to be hers.

This is it. This is my end. Someone's going to find me at the bottom of this river. Drowned.

But then she remembers the other set of headlights - the ones that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. So she yells. "Help! Please! Someone help me!"

Another voice joins hers, a deeper cry, and she can't make out the words, but then she hears a thump against the driver's side window, and an intricate web of cracks appears in the glass, and she can hear, "Look out!"

She pulls herself away from the window, the task made easier by the water that's now up to her neck, and she watches with detached wonder as the glass suddenly shatters into glittery crumbs and a young man's face appears. "I'm going to get you out of here! Just take my hand! I promise you - I won't let go!"

Stunned, Lucy pulls herself through the water and takes the man's hand, gripping it with every last bit of her strength. "Thank you," she gasps. "Thank you!"

"Just hang on to me," he urges her. "Whatever you do, don't let go." And then they are both swimming, pulling and grasping their way through the swift-moving water, reaching for the first touch of the riverbank. They both collapse when they finally reach the soggy stretch of sand, and the man tells her breathlessly. "I called 911. They should be here soon. Are you okay?"

She nods breathlessly, trying valiantly to find her voice. "What's your name?" she gasps finally.

He grins at her, his blue eyes bright in the soft moonlight. "Wyatt Logan. Nice to meet you."

---

He's been waiting for over an hour in the stark hospital waiting room. He knows there's no reason for him to be here, but he can't seem to make himself leave. He needs to make sure she's okay. He's pretty sure she's the one, the one he's supposed to have found, and now he can't get her out of his head, all dark hair and dark eyes and long, slender limbs. She's nothing like the girls he usually falls for. She seems bookish and a little awkward and...cute.

He stands when she appears through the heavy double doors. And there's an elegant looking woman guiding her forward. Her hair is dry now, a mess of thick, tangled waves, and she's wearing an oversized UCLA sweatshirt with a pair of jeans. So she is smart.

Her eyes widen in surprise when he rises from his seat to meet her. "Wyatt. You stayed?" she asks, flushing slightly at the possibility.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm...good," she nods. She gestures to the serious-looking woman standing beside her. "This is my mom. Carol Preston."

"Ma'am," he nods politely. "I'm Wyatt Logan."

"Wyatt," Carol nods. She smiles and reaches out to shake Wyatt's hand with a level of formality Wyatt isn't used to. "Thank you. Thank you for saving my daughter. I can't tell you how grateful I am...and...well, we'd be so thrilled if you would join us for dinner sometime soon. It's the least we can do to repay you."

He nods in agreement before he even knows what he's doing, and within moments, he has Lucy's cell phone number scrawled across the back one of her mother's business cards.

He watches them turn to leave and goes to push the card into the pocket of his still-damp jeans when his fingers bump into a spongy crumple of paper. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a crumpled and waterlogged piece of paper and glances down.

Western Union Telegram

July 25, 1974

Wyatt,

This message is going to take you by surprise. You're not going to believe it's real. You're going to think it's Cole or Ty just messing with your head. Don't make that mistake. You don't know me yet, but you will someday. I know what you're going through. Your life has been a disaster so far: your dad's affair, the late-night rides in the trunk of his car, the stint in the group home, and the shoplifting incident. You're on the fast track to being just like your old man. This is your chance to change things. You're thinking of joining the Army. Do it. You need it. It will save you and you will save others. You're thinking of moving to California. Do it. A change of scenery will be good for you. But the most important thing is this: you need to be at the Old River Bridge in Discovery Bay, CA at 11: 20 pm on January 21, 2003. This won't make any sense now, but it will all make sense when the time comes. You need this, Wyatt. It will change you and it will change your life. You need her. She will change your life. If you save her, she can save you.

Glancing up from the smudged and crinkled page, he watches as Lucy walks away, her mother's hand resting protectively on her shoulder. She looks back once, her dark eyes dipping shyly when she sees he is still watching her, but he holds her gaze for a long moment, unabashed, unashamed.

If you save her, she can save you.

He has a feeling the writer of the telegram is right.

END

And that's all, folks. I hope you got some enjoyment out of this beast. Thanks for reading! :)