Tried to keep you close to me,
But life got in between
Tried to square not being there
But it's there that I should've been

-James Bay, "Hold Back the River"

Her mind had been made up – knew exactly what she had to do – as soon as he'd said it, honestly. Or, more accurately, her heart had been.

Her mind? Yeah, that had still been in shock, slogging along in slow motion and unable to process exactly what it was that he was admitting to, especially in the face of Rufus' death. Not to mention their future selves crashing the party just a few minutes later.

But he loves her? Love? He loves her? Now? And has, obviously enough, for long enough, that Rufus had been pushing him to tell her?

Her heart had known what to do, but the words wouldn't come, not then, mostly because she was just so flabbergasted to be hearing them from him in the first place. It had been all that her heart had ached to hear, but that she'd thought would forever be reserved only for Jessica.

Between being struck dumb in the first place by his words and the chaos of their future selves appearing, and the quest to rescue Rufus… It had all induced such a frenzied rush of activity in the bunker that she was never afforded anything even close to what she figured would be the 'right' way to revisit that conversation with him.

But already knowing just how precarious and fragile any existence is – Amy, Carol, Flynn's family, Rufus, even something like Denise's choice to not go through with her arranged marriage…

Well, suffice it to say that witnessing Jiya's emotional reunion with Rufus – amidst flying bullets that could still take out any of them at any time – was the final straw.

By that point, she'd been more convinced than ever of what she felt, and even more convinced that they couldn't waste any more time. No situation was going to be perfect; it had hardly been perfect, sitting there, slumped together against the damp concrete with an ice pack held to her face, but he'd taken the leap.

Sure, Hollywood had been damn near perfect, but she doesn't need perfect again. She needs him.

So as soon as they're back, with Rufus and Jiya making up for lost time and never leaving each other's sides, and with their future selves having just departed for… wherever – and whenever – they'd come from, other than a quick detour to the shower when it's her turn, she's not wasting any more time. There's simply no reason to wait. Not when she feels like this.

It's early afternoon; Denise has gone home, Rufus and Jiya are curled up together on one of the rickety cots in their room watching Netflix, Flynn's in his room reading, and Connor's in the Lifeboat futzing with some software.

When she finds him, spying him across the common room, he's by himself on one of those horrible vinyl couches – his home since he steadfastly refused to return to the room he'd shared with Jessica other than to hurriedly retrieve his things as soon as they'd returned from 1888 – half staring at some bland movie on TV, or maybe just zoned out and staring through the TV.

Between his guilt-ridden, broken, dejected demeanor when he'd first let those oh-so-meaningful words tumble from his mouth and his quiet reticence after that, when forced to work with her and their future selves to save Rufus, she knows that he's given up. On her, on himself, on pretty much everything. Even saving Rufus hasn't really done anything to lift any of the weight he seems to bear.

But none of that matters. It just doesn't. She's spent too long holding back, both before his admission and since, and she's not going to do it anymore, whatever the outcome may be.

She creeps closer to where he sits watching the TV, at some point making enough of a soft, shuffling noise in her socked feet that he notices her coming.

He looks up at the sound reflexively, and it hurts her heart a little to see his initially neutral expression quickly fade into a sad, reserved frown as soon as he sees that it's her. "Hey," he mumbles, averting his eyes and facing the TV again.

In spite of his less than enthusiastic welcome, she eases herself cautiously down next to him. Wordless at first, she doesn't take her eyes off him, tucking one leg up under her and angling herself to face his end of the couch.

She studies him for a moment first, then swallows hard. It's time.

"I love you," she manages to say, surprising herself when she's able to keep her voice steady and even.

She has to wonder if she was more shocked when he'd said it, or if he is now. Because he looks up in wonder, clearly caught off guard, and the first flash of emotion on his face is surprised, but hopeful.

Unfortunately, the ache in her chest is back as she sees his expression harden. He snorts, looking away once more, and scoffs, "Don't."

As if she has any say in that.

A wry laugh slips out at such an absurd suggestion, and with a tug in her chest, she makes it a point to remind him of his own words from not so long ago. "Can't make it disappear, right? Believe me," she snorts, "I tried."

And, oh, did she try. She's not sure she's ever failed quite so spectacularly at anything else in her life. Maybe playing basketball on the girls' team in fifth grade…

He steals a remorseful, knowing glance in her direction.

"Same as you did," she adds, her voice soft as she looks down, absently fiddling with her fingernails.

That earns her a defeated chuckle from his direction as he looks away once more, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Lucy…" he breathes, his voice tight and strained while his head shakes weakly, "I didn't try to. To make it disappear. Not with you."

Her breath catches in her throat. He must have tried. He must have. He'd said it wasn't easy for him, to have feelings for her when with Jessica. He had to have tried to make his feelings for her go away, if only to make things easier.

But if he hadn't… If not with her, then…

Well, there's only one other option for who he was trying to not love.

She'd so wanted to hold herself together for this conversation, but in retrospect, she has no idea how she'd ever thought that would be possible. Not when he ends up saying things like that.

He needs to know that she's not trying to not love him. Not anymore.

"If-" she tries, but she's even more choked up that she realized. With a sniffle, she clears her throat and starts again. "If you meant- If you meant it… that day, then-"

He cuts her off, still not looking at her, his voice anguished and broken, but insistent. "I meant it."

Her heart skids to that same little fluttering halt that it did when he'd first said it, even in the absence of the words themselves.

But she has more to get out, so she takes a deep breath, closing her eyes and forcing herself to re-gain a little composure. She swallows once more, then opens her eyes and continues haltingly. "And if- If Jessica is-"

"-done," he finishes for her, his voice cold and empty. "For good."

And while on one hand, she's paradoxically heartbroken for the sense of finality with which he's closing that chapter of his life that he'd held so dear for so long, on the other hand, she's taking a deep, relieved breath, thankful to hear confirmation that he's truly committed to moving on from his past.

She still has more to say though; there's more she needs him to know. So she says it, spitting it out with less eloquence than he deserves, but really, she's just completely done wasting time. "Look, I- I can't force you into anything – obviously," she hedges, but then levels with him, even as he's still refusing to look at her. "Just know that I'm not going to be the one who holds back. I'm not going to keep you at arm's length for no reason," she vows frankly. "I'm here. And I love you, Wyatt."

Turns out that's what gets him to finally look her in the eye again. "No reason?" he scoffs, self-deprecation and self-loathing more than evident in both his tone and his mournful gaze. "You have a million reasons, Lucy. I-" his voice catches and she's pretty sure she can see his eyes growing shiny, filling with tears. "I'm an asshole. I was awful to you," he chokes out. "I hurt you. I can't even look at myself; I don't know how you can do that, never mind want to be-"

Now it's her turn to cut him off. She's gently insistent as she lays it out for him as plainly and simply as she can. "Because not being together now hurts more than anything else that happened between us."

And it's the truth. It was one thing to have him walk away from her when it was walking back into the arms of the long-lost wife he'd been so in love with. That hurt. But that was pain in the name of his happiness.

This? This is just being without him when he's right there. And she's miserable. And he's miserable. And it's awful.

His eyes are closed, his face pinched and tight at hearing her words, and when he doesn't say anything in response, she doesn't know what else to do but quietly admit to another little hushed kernel of truth. "…I miss you."

Yes, he's there; he never physically went anywhere, other than that initial dash away from her upon receiving that fateful text.

But like this? No, he's not really there.

And he seems determined to stay that way, judging by what falls from his lips next, along with a dejected shake of his head. "I don't deserve to be with you after-"

"Don't I though?" she protests, tears finally slipping from the corners of her eyes. Even if he thinks he's done something wrong and that he deserves only to be punished, which he hasn't, and doesn't, what about what she wants? "I've lost a lot," she reminds him, her voice shaking. "Rufus," she starts, despite him now being just down the hall; she'll never get the image of him dying against a barrel in 1888 out of her mind. "My sister, my mother, my job, my home," she rattles off. "My father, since he isn't my father. And you, I thought," she adds, tentatively reaching for his hand. And, giving it a squeeze, she pleads, "Don't I deserve a chance to not lose someone?"

Something in there seems to hit home, because his expression softens, and he looks up, tugging his hand away from hers. "Lucy…" he manages, choking up as he tries to force a self-deprecating half-smile. "You deserve so much more than me."

She's always hated that about him – really, the only thing that she can possibly hate about him – that tendency to write himself off as not good enough. Not good enough for the job, when they wanted to fire him before the Alamo. Not good enough for his own family, ashamed of his past with his father, thinking those terrible things were his fault. Somehow intimidated by and feeling not good enough for her in Hollywood, when really, it's probably more the other way around.

And now, still believing that he's not enough for her simply because her own mother purposely ensnared him in an impossible tangle of relationships.

She shakes her head vehemently and grabs for his hand again. "I think we both deserve to try and be happy. Look, you saw… us," she spits out, nodding in the vague direction of where the future lifeboat had sat. "What, five years from now? We're still at least working together." She shrugs helplessly, looking down at their clasped hands as tears fill her eyes again. "Wyatt… I can't-" Her voice catches and she drops his hand in favor of pressing her palm to her breastbone, the heartache visceral and real. She swallows hard before managing shakily, "I can't spend the next five years feeling like this without even trying. Maybe they did; maybe it didn't work. But maybe it did work. Maybe we will," she urges, pleading, hating that she's let it get to the point of practically begging. She never wanted to be that woman. But he's worth it. "Can't we at least try?"

His face falls even further than it already had, and he begins to say something, but his voice cracks and he looks away instead. He hunches over, shoulders slumped forward, when he finally manages to get words out. "I never should have walked away from you in the first place."

And while she can appreciate the sentiment at face value, the tug in her heart is now accompanied by a twinge of confusion. Because that sentiment? It neither answers her question nor reflects how things could have happened in reality, if she's being honest with herself. "You had to," she counters softly. "She was your whole life for so long. If you hadn't, you would have always wondered if you should have gone back to her." She looks upward with a sniffle, willing this next onslaught of tears she can already feel building from actually slipping from the corners of her eyes. "I would have always wondered," she admits.

Because for all the heartbroken fantasizing she'd done about him staying with her, leaving Jessica and picking her, that's the crux of it. Even before Jessica had come back – all those moments and looks and brushes and near-kisses laced with the tantalizing promise of maybe, of possibilities, and even when feelings and emotions had come to a head in Hollywood, suddenly real and happening – deep down there had still been that nagging question of whether or not she was still forever going to be taking a back seat to a ghost. Had he chosen to be with her, having turned down a resurrected Jessica outright? Honestly, it probably would have doomed them regardless, because she's never been one to score any major victories over her own insecurities. She sniffles again, shaking her head and wiping a stray tear. "And to have that hanging over-"

She's cut off once more, this time with a snort of tortured disbelief. "Like you were when I was with her," he spits out before turning to look over at her ruefully. "I know."

That tugging at her heart turns into a vice grip, and she presses her hand to her chest again, absolutely hating that, even involuntarily, she had caused him pain and had had any sort of effect on the demise of his marriage. Yes, ultimately, Jessica turned out to be Rittenhouse anyway, but to know that for all she had tried to do to do right by him, and her, she'd still ended up haunting their marriage as much as Jessica had haunted their barely-there relationship. Which, even though it should probably reassure her about the depth of his feelings, feels terrible. "I- I'm sorry… I didn't want to be that for you," she manages, a shakily whispered apology.

"I know," he sighs heavily. "You didn't-" he starts, then rephrases, anguished, "I just-" And then, "Fuck," he hisses, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "I screwed everything up. How can you possibly still want this?" he wonders aloud, sounding utterly incredulous. "Me?"

She shrugs, letting out tiny bubble of a hysterical laugh even as another tear runs down her cheek. Because her heart sees no other option than to still want him.

By rights, she probably shouldn't. And she wouldn't, were he just any old guy she'd dated who up and ran off down the hall, breaking out of a bunker to be with his wife.

But he's not any old random guy, and the situation was so much more than just him leaving her behind. There was no way for things to not get screwed up; it was hardly his fault how everything had gone down. Nothing that happened matters.

She wants to be with him – she loves him – regardless.

And all she can do is cling to the hope that he'll be able to see it that way too, and allow himself to want this. Them. Wish another half shrug, she asks exactly that. "Do you?"

It steals her breath when, for the first time in so long – probably since Hollywood itself – he meets her gaze head on, eyes red-rimmed and shiny, looking at her like she's the most important thing in the world. "More than anything," he breathes, his voice husky.

But then he doesn't do anything. She's left frozen, her heart racing, unable to breathe, and her brain not quite believing what she'd just heard, even as overwhelmed tears stream down her cheeks.

She's crying, he's crying, she wants him, and she's pretty sure he just admitted he wants her, but they're still both just sitting there. Digging deep to find her voice, she prompts unsteadily, "Then…?"

That's all it takes.

Like a switch was flipped, he's hauling her into his arms across the couch. A muffled hiccup of surprise escapes from her, but then she's on his lap and they're wrapped around each other with her cheek pressed to his shoulder.

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to ward off further tears as she relishes the feel of him, the smell that's so intrinsically him, the sound of him sniffling just as much as she is. It's been far too long since she had this luxury. She missed him. And now, back in his arms, she can't help but think that it feels so right. Like coming home.

The tiniest wisp of terror flits through her when he loosens his hold on her, but he leans back only enough to reveal his watery smile to her. He runs his hands over her hair, then cradles her face and swipes at her tears with his thumbs. And then, he just gives a helpless shrug and shakes his head, as if he doesn't believe what's actually happening. "I love you so much."

Of course, she doesn't quite believe it either – not after all they've been through. But she's done being without him, so as long as it feels like it's happening, she's going to choose to believe that it is. Through now-giddy tears, she sniffles out her echo of, "I love you too."

It's only fitting that his lips find hers now, this first time they've actually said those weighty words to each other. But for as much as she's missed the feel of his mouth on hers, she needs the whole, solid comfort of his embrace even more. She pulls back from the kiss, leaning into him, tightening her arms around him, and tucking her head against his shoulder once more.

She's never been one to be clingy, but she's hanging on to him as if her life depends on this hug.

Maybe it does.

Because there will be time for the heated passion and deeper kisses and physical chemistry; there will be time for the sex. The quick, frisky fucks in the shower and the making love all night. There will be time for the joking and the flirting and the teasing and the touching and the casual affection.

But this isn't that time.

Right now, she just needs to hold him. To have him hold her. To just bury her face in the crook of his neck and inhale him and feel him and just have him there, wanting her.

Choosing her.

Loving her.

Of course, in spite of all that, she's still Lucy Preston. Still never 100% comfortable with herself, and most definitely not 100% used to being so demonstrative about her feelings, especially when it comes to him. They'd had all of a day and a half to get used to being together thus far. Before…

So for as deep as her feelings run, it's not as if being with him – this suddenly being a couple– is normal or even close to being second nature.

Clinging to him while draped across his lap? Definitely new territory when it comes to him. They may well be on the same page when it comes to big picture feelings, but she honestly has no idea what being in a relationship will look like, and in spite of how relieved and happy she is, she's also suddenly feeling rather self-conscious about her current location and the death grip she still has on him.

So, not altogether unlike she'd reluctantly pulled away from his embrace that day back at Mason Industries, when possibilities floated in the air and they'd naively thought they'd put Rittenhouse behind them, she loosens her hold and self-consciously slides from his lap to the sliver of couch on the side of him opposite to where she'd started a few minutes ago. She rubs the dampness from her tear-streaked cheeks and steals a bashful glance up at his face.

He's damn near beaming, gazing at her in disbelief, and yes, it makes her stomach flutter with happiness, but it still brings a hot flush to her face. She tucks a wayward lock of her hair shyly behind her ear; they're finally back to exactly where they were before Jessica had sent that fateful text, so she can't help but echo her question from that conversation of weeks ago. "What now?"

But his face darkens, and, sobered, he sighs, "Now I think I wake up and realize I'm still on the couch alone."

Her eyes close as she drops her chin with a crestfallen sigh. She hates that he still feels that way. "Wyatt…"

But he pays her weak protest no mind; his breath hitches, and, dipping down to touch his forehead to hers, he chokes out a whisper of, "I'm so sorry, Lucy…"

She'd already known he carried, for years, the guilt of leaving his first Jessica on the side of the road. The guilt of winning that coin toss and leaving Zach and the rest of them to die.

It's hardly a surprise that he blames himself for leaving her behind to be with Jessica. But she doesn't have to like that he does.

"I know," she murmurs, leaning back as she reaches to squeeze his hand again. "And I know you had to… be with her. I know," she stresses. "I'm not… angry." And with a deep breath she coaxes him into meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry too, you know," she admits. "I… I don't know. If I ever made you think I didn't care…" Her voice catches and, with the telltale prickle of tears threatening once more, she chews at the inside of her lip for a second before reiterating, "I'm sorry. I just… didn't know how else to… be."

Which is true. The tiny shred of self-preservation tactics she'd been able to muster? Well, it had pretty much dictated that she try to seem as distant and unaffected as possible, as much as possible.

Knowing that she might have hurt him by doing that? Pushed him further away? Willfully ignored the tiny signs he might have been telegraphing of his own unhappiness?

Just one of many things she wishes could have gone differently for them.

She's pulled from that line of thinking when he loops his arm around her shoulders to bring her tight against his side. He presses a kiss to her temple, breathing a hushed assurance against her, "You are the last person who needs to apologize for anything."

That earns a weakly admonishing headshake from her as she leans back from him with a watery grin. "You don't either."

His arm slips the rest of the way from around her and his head hangs as he protests, "Yeah, but-"

"I'm serious," she insists, willing him to look back up at her. He has to know – she can't listen to him apologize forever. "I know you feel bad about… everything," she acknowledges, adding, "So do I. But," she rationalizes when his shiny blue gaze once again meets hers, "I don't think there's any other way it could have happened. I don't want you feeling guilty forever over something that was a no-win. It's not your fault, Wyatt," she implores. "It's not." She gives a helpless shrug. "I just want to forget it all. Just be together," she reiterates, her voice growing ever so slightly stronger and assertive. "Move forward."

She's thrilled to see a little smirk surface on his face at that, even as he's shaking his head, one lone tear sneaking out from the corner of his eye. "'Stop living in the past'?" he asks, his tone cheeky.

Leave it to him to poke fun at that little verbal slip of hers yet again, even in the midst of a conversation like this. A grin creeping across her face, she realizes that though the little teasing jab might be at her expense, she can take heart in the fact that it just confirms that, in spite of when that conversation had taken place, and who he'd still been with, he may well have clung to those fraught few minutes of emotional interaction as much as she had.

Much like then, she sends him a look somewhere between an annoyed eye-roll and a sheepish shrug, but she's pretty sure it doesn't have quite the same effect given the smile she's wearing as she nods.

At first, his smile nearly matches hers, but his expression grows serious and he shakes his head. "I can't promise I can forget how horrible I was to you."

She feels her face fall; as much as she wants this, it's not going to be easy if he's stuck in this apologetic, not-worthy mode forever.

But she's more than pleasantly surprised when he turns that pessimistic outlook of hers on its head a split second later.

"…but I'm sure as hell going to try to get past it," he continues, his voice firm and unwavering as he nods, his gaze locked into hers. "Because I'm not going to let myself lose you again," he vows solemnly. Solemn, at least until a hint of a smirk resurfaces and he adds, "…ma'am."

A laugh bubbles up and slips out of her; he echoes it with a chuckle of his own.

And she knows. It'll work. They will work.

If they can come full circle, right back to the lilting tease of ma'am, after everything they've been through… and with the added foundation of now being so in love with each other? They'll be fine. They'll get to the flirting and the affection and the sex and the simply being together, in love.

And, for the first time in months – since that snoozy, dreamy car ride along the coast – somewhere in the back of her mind, she allows herself to entertain the slightest of fanciful notions that they could even get to more than that someday.

For now though, she's ma'am again. And they're on the same page and they're moving forward together.

Which is more than fine with her.

So with another grateful smile up at him, she curls up against his side as he slips his arm over her shoulders.

And instead of leaving the TV set to whatever was on when she found him, he snags the remote with his other hand, scrolls through 'On Demand' listings, and selects 'Real Housewives of New York City'.

She squeezes her eyes shut, almost overwhelmed by the small gesture.

Maybe they should be doing something else, something that's not watching trashy reality TV, given the momentous shift they'd just had in their relationship. A fancy date, champagne, something. Something that seems more worthy of actively choosing to overcome your relationship's demons and finally just be with the person you're in love with.

But Lucy doesn't want those things. She wants Wyatt.

And now she finally has him again.

The kisses that I live for, the love that lights my way
The happiness that livin' with you brings me
It's the sweetest thing I know of, just spending time with you…
Hey, it's good to be back home again

-John Denver, "Back Home Again"

~FIN~

This exists because I can't see Lucy holding anything from S2 against Wyatt. Not when she loves him too. And not when she knows just how quickly you can lose someone and your chance to be with them.

Thanks to qwertygal for looking this over for me :)