A/N: Set in an alternate Season Two, where Jessica never came back, but the team never went to Hollywood.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas.

"This is bad, isn't it?"

Surprisingly, she sounds calm as she eyes her arm, with little more than distant curiosity. (Maybe he shouldn't be surprised. Shock is an effective drug, after all.) Her face is still tear-stained from the moments right after it happened, and it's a stark contrast to her expression.

"It's not great," he admits, struggling to keep his voice even. "Let me see."

He'd only looked away for a minute. They'd tracked a Rittenhouse leader to a safe house in 1914, and he'd insisted on going ahead of her, to clear the house. Of course the leader had come from behind. How they'd missed him in the first place, Wyatt isn't sure, but his money is on a hidden room somewhere in the house.

Not that it matters. What matters is the consequence.

She pushes her sleeve back to give him a better view, and he winces at the already swollen shoulder. Dislocated, he's sure. All things considered, she could have been hurt a lot worse, and probably would have been if Flynn hadn't followed them into the house. (He was supposed to be keeping watch outside, but Wyatt can't bring himself to complain.) He should be grateful Lucy is alive at all, and he is, but he knows what comes next, and his stomach churns at the thought.

Pushing down the sickening feeling, he smiles reassuringly, and keeps his voice as gentle as possible. "I'm going to have to reset it, okay?"

Her eyes, puffy and red, flicker in acknowledgement. "That's going to hurt, right?"

Oh, what he wouldn't give for a hospital right now. Heck, even some pain medicine would be nice, or something to knock her out with. But instead, they have a dusty floor, on Rittenhouse property. The owner won't interfere-thanks to Flynn's aim, he's currently assuming room temperature-but they have to assume someone else will come soon. So they have to get this over with.

He can't lie to her, though. "It's going to suck. It's going to feel unnatural and wrong and painful in ways you can't even imagine. But then it'll be over, and everything will feel right again. It'll still ache, but you'll know everything will be okay."

It's meant to be reassuring, but by the way she blanches, it clearly isn't. On impulse, he adds, "Kind of reminds me of our first kiss."

That gets her attention, at least. While she's distracted, he strikes, catching her arm and rotating it back into place. Her scream tears through him, and he tugs her to his chest, stroking her hair. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he whispers against her head. "It's over now. Shhh. The worst of it is over." She trembles in his arms, and he remembers, not for the first time, that this isn't her life. It was never supposed to be, at least. She's a history professor, not a soldier. Her life shouldn't be on the line like this.

Without thinking, he turns his head, pressing a kiss to her hair, and she goes absolutely still. He doesn't falter, though, just continues to hold her close, and after a long pause, she relaxes, nuzzling into his shoulder. They should leave, before Rittenhouse shows up, but her tears are wetting his neck, and he doesn't want to let go.

He exhales, meeting Flynn's eyes over Lucy's head, and receives a sharp nod of comprehension in return.

They can wait another minute to leave. Flynn has them covered.

It's only much later, when they're back in the bunker and her arm has been properly set in a sling, that she brings it up again. She's sitting on the edge of his bed, running her fingertips across the faded sheet, and it seems almost like she's stalling.

"What did you mean," she asks finally, refusing to meet his eyes. "When you said that before, about our kiss?"

He swallows hard, stomach dropping. Of course she would question it.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she adds, when he's been quiet for too long. "I was just.. Wondering."

"No, it's... It's okay." He takes a seat beside her, leaning back against the wall, and she shifts to face him. Words stick on his tongue-she's always been better at talking, he's a man of action to his bones-but she deserves this, so he presses on.

Her expression is patient, unguarded. Giving him time to work through every doubt. It's both calming and terrifying, the trust she places in him.

"When we... When I..." Where does he even start? "I hadn't kissed anyone since Jessica."

She draws in a sharp breath, and he drops his gaze. There's a tension in the room that is new, one he can barely push through to speak.

"Clyde didn't trust us. I could tell. I've seen that look before, always right before things get bad. So I knew what I had to do, but..."

"It hurt," she guesses, impossibly gentle. He nods. For a long moment, he considers the best way to say the next part, debates glazing over it altogether, but Lucy deserves the truth. (He and Jessica had too many words unspoken between them, and he regrets it even now. He promises himself: Not this time.)

"It wasn't like kissing Jessica." He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the wall across from him, refusing to meet her eyes. "That's all I could think. Mouth wasn't quite right, taste wasn't quite right, smell-" The words catch in his throat, a bundle of emotion he forces down almost violently. "Yeah. It hurt."

They're silent, each lost in their own thoughts. The memories burn his mind, as vivid as if they were yesterday. He doesn't realize what's going through her mind until she speaks, voice broken and mournful. "I'm sorry," she breathes, and his eyes are immediately on hers.

"Oh, Lucy, Lucy, no. No, listen-" Tears are slipping down her cheeks, and his heart twists, cursing his honesty. He reaches for her, tugging her toward him. She hesitates, but when he persists, she slips into his arms. Her tiny form trembles, and his mind flickers back to the safehouse. This time, the kiss to her forehead is calculated, an attempt to calm her.

It works, if only briefly, and he stumbles over the rest of his poorly thought-out explanation. "Yeah, it hurt in the moment. But when I pulled away... You were looking at me," he tells her, not bothering to hide the awe he felt in that moment, "like... Like you were worried. Like you wanted to make sure I was okay. And I-I felt something click into place. My heart, I guess, I don't know..." He rolls his eyes on reflex at the cheesy sentiment, but the trembling stops, so he can't regret it too much.

"All I know is, all of a sudden, it didn't hurt so bad. Felt... Right. And for the first time since Jess died, I felt like everything was gonna be okay." He chuckles in spite of himself. "Scared me half to death, to be honest. But I knew the worst was over. And I knew..." He hesitates, but he promised himself he'd be honest with her, and if he can tell her the painful parts, he can tell her this. "I knew that the next time I kissed you, it wouldn't be like that. Wouldn't be thinking of Jessica, wouldn't be thinking of anything except... Except you."

Her eyes widen, and her gaze flickers to his lips, then away. Quickly. Guilty. "Oh?" She sounds breathless, shaky, hopeful but hardly daring to hope, and he swallows hard.

"Yeah." He intentionally drops his gaze, lingers on her mouth, then meets her eyes again. Waits. He won't do this without her permission. And after what he's just told her, he understands if she never gives it.

Tension crackles in the air. Everything he's feeling-wariness, hesitation, hope-is reflected on her face. She's waiting for him. He's waiting for her. And if one of them stops waiting, everything will change.

Maybe it already has.

Slowly, cautiously, he reaches up to cup her cheek. Scans her eyes for any sign, any at all, that this isn't what she wants. Nothing, so he leans in, a breath at a time. She copies the motion, about to meet him halfway, when-"Wait." Her voice shakes, but she is firm as she pulls back. Immediately, he follows suit, heart dropping as he lowers his hand.

Is he misreading everything? Did he mess everything up? Was talking about Jessica, about the kiss, a mistake? His mind races through a thousand possibilities in the seconds it takes her to center herself.

("You... Me... Anyone... I think we need to be open to the possibilities." But not these possibilities. Please, not these possibilities. Don't let him have ruined the best thing in his life.)

"Lucy?"

She closes her eyes. Takes a breath. Opens them. "Are you sure?" Before he can answer, reassure her, she adds, "I mean, really sure? I don't want to hurt you again."

Oh, sweet Lucy. He doesn't deserve her. He knows this. But she's here, right in front of him, with tears in her eyes, and she's worried about hurting him. He takes her hand, and she grabs it like a lifeline, clinging so tightly it almost hurts.

"I'm sure," he says simply.

A pause.

She tilts her head, watching him closely, scanning for any hint of insincerity. Then, suddenly, she springs, tugging him closer, pressing her lips to his. Desperate. Urgent. Pleading. He falls into her easily, releasing her hand to cup the back of her head, pressing reassurances against her lips. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. I love you.

I love you.

He can't say it, not yet, but he can kiss her until they're both breathless, holding her as close as he can.

Finally, she pulls away. He chases her lips for a moment, and she giggles, giving him a final peck. Then, she pushes him away gently, searching his eyes. Terror and hope war there, and he wants to pull her close again, to kiss her until the fear is gone, but she keeps him in place, watching him. Waiting.

"Well?" She whispers breathlessly.

He smiles. Can't help himself. There's something warm and light blooming in him, and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop smiling. "Perfect."

She meets him halfway, capturing his lips once more.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!