A/N: Here's part two! Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews! If you feel so inclined I would love to hear what you think in the little review box at the bottom. Especially since this fic is gonna be lost to FFN's default search filters due to the rating. :)

The story continues! This part covers the first couple of days with the girls! Enjoy!

HAPPY READING!

angellwings

PS - Here's where it earns that M rating I promised -wink-


PART TWO: Scars


"Look at this heart shaped wreckage,
What have we done?
We've got scars from battles nobody won.
We can start over, better,
Both of us know,

If we just let the broken pieces,
Let the broken pieces go."

-"Heart Shaped Wreckage", SMASH


He meant to make it to the guest bedroom before he fell asleep. But he didn't. After his shower he went back downstairs. He wanted to know more about this family and this house.

He found tidy boxes of photos, labeled by year. Each box was sorted by month. He started with 2018, which shared a box with 2019. Right where he left his alternate self. The last common memory he and this Wyatt had was sitting next to Lucy in the Bunker, wallowing in their shared grief. He meant to look through a few photos. Maybe a month or two.

But once he started he couldn't stop. There was overwhelming happiness in every photo, beginning on Christmas in 2018. There was a picture of he and Lucy in front of the tree in the Bunker, kissing. It wasn't a posed shot, but a candid. A private moment that someone captured for them. New Years Eve that year gave him a picture of them laughing and toasting. January had pictures of an empty apartment he didn't recognize and then pictures of that same apartment filled with things he did recognize, including himself and Lucy as they took a selfie in the living room. He was beaming at the camera and she was kissing his cheek. Milestone moments that he would never remember. Joy he never felt.

And it kept going. Stashed between photos in May was a black and white sonogram, labeled "Babies Preston-Logan 8 weeks" and from then on there was at least one photo of a pregnant Lucy every month like clockwork. She was beautiful, glowing and gorgeous. He has never seen himself look more besotted with anyone as he looked with Lucy in those photos.

Finally, in November, was a picture of a tired but ecstatic Lucy holding two babies in pink blankets. But it came after several scary photos of the girls in the NICU. They were tiny, and a month early. There were no pictures of himself or Lucy during that time and no indication of how long they were there. He knew the girls were upstairs asleep, but emotionally he felt that powerless fear he must have felt then. That Christmas, they had their friends over to their apartment. Everyone had photos with the girls. Jiya and Rufus. Denise and Michelle. Mark and Olivia. Even Connor Mason, who looked justifiably amazed and terrified by the tiny bundles in his arms.

He must have fallen asleep on the couch before he could switch to the next box, though, because now he feels soreness in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle and hears little soft voices from the direction of the stairs.

"That's daddy."

"No, its not! His face is furry! Daddy's face isn't furry."

"It's a little furry."

"Not like that. That's icky."

The girls. The girls are awake. And they do not like his beard. Their voices are higher than he imagined. One of the girls has a slight lisp. His heart clenches at the sound.

"We should find mommy. She would know if that's daddy."

"Mommy's sleeping. Daddy doesn't like us to wake her."

"But...there's a stranger on our couch!"

"Shh! You'll wake him up!"

They are attempting to whisper, but they aren't very good at it. He keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to startle them. Though, they already sound startled just by his mere presence. They think he's a stranger. They don't know how right they actually are. But he knows it's just the damn beard making him unrecognizable to them. He can't blame them for that. Their father didn't have one yesterday.

"We need to get mommy."

He hears an annoyed huff and then an answer with an exaggerated pout. "Okay." A beat and then. "But when we find daddy I'm telling him you made me do it."

He fights off a grin as he listens to their footfalls fade in the opposite direction.

Several minutes later, he hears them again, accompanied by slightly heavier feet that he knows well.

There's a sigh of relief that he recognizes as Lucy's and then she speaks. "Girls, that's not a stranger."

"Then who is it?"

"That's your dad," Lucy says confidently.

Those words cause yet another clench in his heart, especially from Lucy. He doesn't want to think too much on why. Not right then.

"I told you so!"

"But he has hair on his face."

Face comes out "faith" and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from chucking.

"He just looks a little different," Lucy explains patiently. "You know, like mommy and her new haircut?"

He hears a lengthy mournful sigh before a little voice replies softly. "Your hair was so pretty, mommy."

"I know, baby, I'm sorry. It'll grow out," Lucy says with restrained amusement in her tone.

"You promise?"

"I promise."

Try as he might, that does it. He can't hold back a grin anymore. The whole scene is too adorable and innocent to ignore any longer. He should have known Lucy would notice, though.

"Wyatt?" She asks skeptically. "Are you asleep?"

The words pull a memory out of him that's long buried and his reply leaves his lips before he can stop it. "No, ma'am."

He opens one eye as a crooked smirk forms on his face. He doesn't miss the nostalgic look that passes over Lucy's expression at his words. One of the girls gasps in recognition and smacks the smaller one's arm.

"See?! I told you!"

"So he called her ma'am, that doesn't mean he's daddy!"

"Daddy's the only person allowed to call her that! Yes, it does!"

"It does not!"

"Does so!"

"Does not!"

"Does. So."

Oh good God. Lucy sighs helplessly and gives him a pleading look as the girls continue to yell back and forth. He's had enough too but he can't bring himself to raise his voice. None of this is their fault. It's natural for them to be unsure. Really, he should just shave the damn beard. He only grew it because he stopped caring about his reflection. Stopped looking in mirrors at all really. There was nothing worth seeing there anymore.

He remembers the razor and shaving cream he saw by his sink in the master bath the night before and gets an idea. He stands suddenly, scoops up both girls — one in each arm — and carries them into his and Lucy's bedroom. They stop shouting as soon as he moves from the couch and he can feel them staring at him warily. He doesn't stop till he reaches the bathroom. He deposits them both on the empty counter between the his and hers sinks and then meets one tiny gaze before switching to the other.

"I know how to settle this," he tells them with a decisive nod. "Once and for all."

"How?" The smaller one asks as she narrows her eyes on him.

It's a look that resembles Lucy so strongly that he has to stop for a moment to process it. There will never be any doubt as to who their mother is. They are obviously Preston women.

"Just watch," he says as he moves to his sink and reaches for his razor.


It takes Lucy a moment to catch up with the flurry of movement. By the time she does, Wyatt's face is covered in shaving cream and the razor is poised for its first swipe. She leans against the door frame and settles in to watch.

With every stroke he makes and the more hair he removes, the girls seem that much more at ease. He playfully wipes two foamy globs of shaving cream across their cheeks and both girls squeal in laughing delight. Once he's done, he washes his face and then cleans the shaving cream off of them with a damp washcloth. His hands move carefully and tenderly across their cheeks. She remembers when he used to be that careful with her. The memories are distant at best, but she can still feel his touch. She wishes she couldn't. It might hurt less.

He sets the rag aside and then braces one hand on either side of them. Ensuring they won't slip off the counter and allowing him to be at their eye level. Ever the protector.

"Wyatt Logan," he says as he removes one hand from the counter and holds it out to Flynn for a shake.

She giggles and takes his hand for a solid shake. "Flynn Preston-Logan."

"Nice to meet you," Wyatt replies with a wink before he turns a teasing glare on Amy. "And you my tiny Doubting Thomas. Who are you?"

Amy's neck and shoulders straighten with pride before she answers loudly. "Amy Preston-Logan."

"Good to meet you," he tells her as he holds out his hand to her as well. "I'm your dad."

Amy's eyes squint as she studies him. She ignores his outstretched hand and reaches out to place her much smaller hands on his freshly shaven cheeks. Her hands tug at the corners of his mouth until his lips form a smile that's pulled unnaturally tight across his face. She laughs brightly and then nods.

"Found you!" She yells excitedly. She turns to Flynn with her hands still on Wyatt's cheeks. "Look, sis! I found daddy!"

"He was always daddy, silly!" Flynn replies with a roll of her eyes.

"Nuh uh! Not until he smiled! We couldn't see his smile through all the fur!" Amy disagrees. "Now we can! See?"

Amy turns back to Wyatt and pulls his cheek to her lips for a loud smacking kiss. Wyatt looks stunned. His expression is soft and warm and his eyes are the brightest shade of blue she's ever seen. It's a joltingly sweet exchange that leaves her—and him too it seems—a bit weak. Once Amy's done, Flynn follows her lead and wraps her arms around Wyatt's neck to kiss his other cheek.

"I knew you were daddy," Flynn whispers loudly. "But Amy is right about the fur."

Lucy laughs softly and subconsciously places a hand over her heart to accompany the pangs of fond affection taking root there. These girls are everything good and beautiful in the world. They are kind hearted adventurous souls and Lucy wants nothing more than to love them for the rest of her life. Tears gather in her eyes, but for once they aren't sad. This time she feels joy and...hope. She will conquer any obstacle placed in front of her and she'll do it for them. Her girls.

Wyatt's eyes find hers and he looks as taken with their twins as she is. Her fears that he might leave evaporate in an instant. This life may be new to them, but she knows neither of them would give it up. Not now. Not ever.

Amy then holds out her arms to Wyatt expectantly and demands, "Take me to my breakfast!"

"Oh! Me too! Me too!" Flynn echoes.

It becomes immediately clear that Amy is the leader, despite being smaller.

"I don't think we heard a please anywhere in there," Lucy says from the doorway.

The chorus of a sickeningly saccharine "please" is entirely expected, but music to her ears nonetheless.

Breakfast is calm and orderly. Wyatt makes pancakes and bacon. Lucy does the dishes because five years in a different timeline still hasn't changed the fact that she can't cook. But breakfast is the only thing that's calm and orderly. The rest of the day is chaotic and not just because of the girls. They're scrambling to find their bearings and hoping the girls don't notice. Plus keeping up with two four year olds is exhausting. They play, they get to know them better, they put them in a time out or two, and then it's bedtime.

The girls are tucked in, Wyatt read from I Am Amelia Earhart, they kissed Amy's stuffed animals goodnight, and they both assumed that was it. But as they kiss the girls' foreheads and try to leave the room, it's clear that is not it. There is more to this bedtime ritual than they first thought.

"Wait! What about the song! You can't leave without the song!" Amy cries urgently.

Flynn nods and waves them both back into room. "Yes! Sing daddy's song, mommy!"

"Daddy's song?" Lucy asks with a furrowed brow. "Refresh my memory. What song is that?"

"Silly! His favoritist song ever," Amy tells her with wild flailing limbs. "You know."

Amy pauses and then hums a bit of the song. For a child she has more ability than Lucy expects, but even if she didn't that song would be easily recognizable. It's burned into her memory so much so that she hasn't been able listen to it, even for a moment, since that night.

"You Made Me Love You?" Lucy asks reluctantly. She's desperately hoping she's wrong.

"Yes! That's it!" Amy says excitedly. "Sing it for us, mommy! Please?"

Imploring faces and wide eyes focus on her eagerly and she's not sure how she can say no. It seems highly unlikely. She's about to confront memories she's been trying to hide from for five long years. It feels like a test of what she's willing to do to make her daughters happy and she's determined to pass.

Even if it hurts like fucking hell.


Wyatt knows the minute they say "daddy's favorite" exactly which song they mean. It takes Lucy a moment to understand or maybe she's hoping they'll say something else. But no, they say exactly the song he's thinking about. The song he's tried to forget exists but can't. The song he still hears in his dreams sometimes.

"It has to be that song?" Lucy asks as she chews the inside of her cheek.

"It's what you sing to us every night," Flynn says with a pout.

Lucy sighs and nods and then takes a seat in the chair between the twin beds. Wyatt hovers in the doorway to watch. He feels like it's only fair that he stay and listen if Lucy has to sing, but he can't bring himself to step all the way into the room again. That song was part of an important moment for both of them. It was hurtful to both of them. It holds good memories that they aren't sure they will ever be able to recapture, and precedes bad ones that they can't seem to forget.

"You...made me love you,

I didn't want to do it
I didn't want to do it
You made me want you
And all the time you knew it
I guess you always knew it."

Her voice is shaky and raw with emotion, but still beautiful. He knows it's been a long time since she's used it. If the girls notice a difference they don't show it. They settle back in their pillows and close their eyes with contented smiles on their faces. Amy hugs her stuffed horse to her chest and Flynn turns on her side to face Lucy with her hands tucked under her chin. It's a domestic picture that Wyatt honestly never thought he would be lucky enough to see.

It must be effecting Lucy too because her voice cracks over the next line. He wants to reach for her, but the way she stepped away from him the last time he did that comes to mind and he keeps his hands to himself.

"You made me happy sometimes
You made me glad
But there were times
You made me feel so bad
You made me cry for
I didn't want to tell you
I didn't want to tell you…"

The song trails off as the girls eyes flutter and their breathing deepens. He can't see Lucy's face but she stops singing as soon as the girls are asleep and he thinks that's telling enough. She stands and brushes past him through the doorway briskly. She doesn't even pause to look back at the girls. Wyatt closes the door behind him, careful to leave it cracked. Amy and Flynn had been sure to tell him they liked to be able to see light from the hallway. He descends the stairs and finds Lucy in the kitchen, furiously doing dishes.

He clears his throat to alert her to his presence and then leans against the counter next to the sink. "If you scrub those dishes any harder you'll scrub the pattern right off of them."

"Good," she mutters. "Who buys dishes with a gingham and apple print anyway?"

"Probably you," he answers with a grin. "But that's besides the point." His expression sobers before he continues, carefully. "Are you angry or are you sad? I know you have to be one of those because that couldn't have been easy for you—"

She stops him and drops the dishes back into the soapy water. "I'm both, Wyatt. Both. What about you? You didn't have to stay and listen."

"I know," he admits. "I stayed because it didn't seem fair to leave you."

She grabs the dish again. Her scrubbing slows down and becomes less frantic as her expression softens. "Thank you."

"Anytime," he replies with a face just as soft as hers.

"Have you found the laundry room?" She asks as she not so subtly changes the subject. "Eventually we will have to do laundry and I feel like we should know where the washer and dryer are."

"I haven't found much of anything," he admits. "Just the things that the girls absolutely needed. We seem to have made those things the easiest to access."

She sighs and nods. "Same here. We need time by ourselves in the house to really explore. I don't know enough. I haven't even found any photo albums. I have no idea what those two adorable monsters looked like before I first laid eyes on them last night. If I'm going to be their mother, shouldn't I know that?"

"We don't have photo albums," Wyatt offers with a guilty sigh. He probably should have waited for her to look through the photos.

"We have to," Lucy says thoughtfully, not understanding his meaning. "I love pictures. Never really been a fan of scrapbooks but I love pictures. We have to have some."

"We do," he tries again. "Just not in an album."

"You found them?" She asks excitedly.

"Last night," he tells her. "We keep them in boxes labelled by year and then organized by month. I fell asleep looking through them."

"Oh, I want to look through them too!" She exclaims with a jealous pout. She looks annoyed and yet all he feels is amusement as she goes on. "But I am so tired. I don't think I can make it much longer tonight. We're probably going to have a lot more days like this, aren't we? We're never going to have time to really figure out this house or try and learn about the girls over the last four years, or even what we're supposed to know about us." She holds up her left hand and then huffs irritably. "Like our rings. How are we supposed to play house without them? Do we even have them? Are they with the other us? How long have we been married? We need to address these things before we go back into the real world."

"As long as the munchkins keep us busy, we'll probably never know," Wyatt tells her with a furrowed brow.

"What if we got someone to watch them just for a night?" Lucy asks. "Maybe Denise? She did offer to help."

He nods. It's a good idea. "I'll call her. Can't hurt to ask."

Denise agrees without a moment's hesitation. She tells them they absolutely needed to learn as much as they can about their new timeline as quickly as possible. They will bring the girls to her and Michelle after breakfast in the morning.

"Besides with a thirteen year old and college kid in my house, Michelle and I would love to spend a whole day with those monkeys," Denise told him with a genuine smile in her voice. "What's family for, hm?"

Family. He and Lucy have family. Sure, not biological family, but that didn't matter. What mattered is how they took care of each other. Neither his nor Lucy's biological families had done a decent job of that. Their friends are infinitely more deserving of the family title than anyone else.

Lucy is thrilled. Her mood caused by reliving "their" song is brightened and he's able to put away with the dishes with their patterns all still perfectly in place.

Wyatt decides the best way to avoid awkward questions from the girls about why he's sleeping in the guest room is to not let them know he's sleeping in the guest room. Which means he's up at five in the morning to make sure they don't wake up before him. He's unsure of this Wyatt's workout regimen. Is he a runner? Does he use the gym at work? Does he have a space somewhere in the house with work out equipment? He doesn't know so he doesn't even try. He makes coffee, grabs the paper, and tries to play catch up on current affairs in a timeline that isn't his own.

Before long the girls are scrambling down the stairs and climbing all over him. Amy is in his lap and Flynn has jumped up and is clinging around his neck over the back of his chair. Amy is blinking sleepily and leaning back into his chest while Flynn chats a mile a minute. It's obvious who takes after who when it comes to sleeping habits. Even more so, when Lucy stumbles into the kitchen in a familiar floral robe that she completely did away with in their timeline. He missed that robe. There is something so essentially Lucy about it.

Her eyes are half lidded, like Amy's, as she reaches blindly for the cabinet where they've hidden the coffee cups. He bites back a chuckle as she misses several times and hands her his empty mug instead. He's done with it anyway.

She mumbles a thank you before pouring herself a cup. Lucy sits down across from him and tries to shake away the sleep from her eyes. A moment later, Amy does the exact same gesture.

"What's for breakfast?" Flynn asks excitedly as her arms tighten around his neck and nearly choke him. "Can I help you cook?"

So, this is what a morning surrounded by Preston women is like. He has to admit, he doesn't hate it.

He passes Amy to Lucy, who immediately rests her chin on the top of Amy's head and then steals his paper.

"Mommy," Amy says through a yawn. "Can we look at the cartoons? I like Marmaduke."

"Sure, baby," Lucy replies as she kisses the top of Amy's head and flips through the pages.

Before he even starts a single dish, Flynn has found a step stool and pushed it up against the counter. In the split second he stopped to sentimentally observe Amy and Lucy, she's somehow found an apron and rolled up her sleeves.

"Ready!" She announces. "What are we making?"

Flynn gives him the impression that she's done this with him plenty of previous mornings. He no longer remembers those mornings but he tries not to let that show. She's excited to help him, but he's nervous. He's never cooked with a kid before. He's not sure what's too much for her or what's too risky. He tries to use his best common sense to figure it out. He walks her through cracking the eggs, and unlike her mother Flynn doesn't accidentally drop the egg shells. She catches him off guard by already knowing how to beat the eggs and he watches, while he cooks the bacon, with an impressed glance as she manages to keep most of the eggs in the bowl. Once that's done he keeps an eye on her as she sticks bread in the toaster. She seems startlingly adept at that too.

She turns a hopeful face to Lucy as she presses the bread down. "Can Amy and I have a Pop Tart with breakfast? Please?"

Amy's sleepy eyes brighten as she nods emphatically and brings folded hands up to her chin. "Please, mommy?"

Lucy quirks a brow at them and the trades a questioning look with Wyatt. He shrugs. As long as they eat eggs too he doesn't see any reason why not.

"Sure," Lucy agrees after he shrugs. "But you split a pack. One each."

"Yes!" Flynn yells excitedly as she opens the cabinet above the toaster. She knows exactly where to find them. "Amy, do you want cherry or blueberry?"

"Cherry!" Amy calls back in a voice that's more alert and chipper than she's been all morning.

Flynn switches the bread for Pop Tarts once it pops up and then turns to watch him cook. He finishes the bacon and then scrambles the eggs. By the time he's done Flynn has prepared four plates. Two with toast and bacon and two with a Pop Tart and bacon so that all Wyatt has to do is dish out the eggs. Efficient is an understatement when it comes to his little Sous Chef.

"Good job, kid," he tells her with a proud smile as he kisses the top of her head. "Take your plate to the table, okay?"

There are two chairs with booster seats at the kitchen table that Amy and Flynn get settled into. Lucy leaves the table to get more coffee and Wyatt grins as he passes her with Amy's plate.

"You know, it was nice having an assistant and not having to do everything myself," he tells her teasingly.

"You don't want my help and you know it. I'm a disaster in front of a stove," she replies with a smirk.

"That's true. I guess we know where Flynn got her cooking talent then, huh?" He asks with a chuckle.

She rolls her eyes at him but laughs lightly, nearly negating the eye roll completely. They eat together at the table and tell the girls that they're spending the day with Denise and Michelle. That news is greeted with an ecstatic simultaneous cheer before they're scarfing down their breakfast and getting up from the table to "pack". Pack appears to mean narrowing down which toys to take with them. Amy stops at the threshold of the kitchen, though, and pulls Flynn back with her.

"Wait! We wanted to ask something."

Recognition flashes across Flynn's face and she nods for Amy to continue.

"It's two days till Christmas," Amy says worriedly. "When are we putting up decorations?"

"We don't even have the tree up yet!" Flynn adds in an outraged tone.

Lucy and Wyatt exchange unsure glances. They hadn't even thought about Christmas. They were too wrapped up in making things seem as normal as possible for them. Lucy gives the girls a thoughtful look before she speaks.

"We'll get the decorations out today and we'll decorate when you guys get home tomorrow," she answers hesitantly. She leans over to Wyatt as the girls run away with excited faces. "You know, if we can even find the decorations."

It's their first time packing up the girls to leave the house and Wyatt thinks Lucy over packed them out of sheer panic but he refuses to say anything. He and Lucy have been getting along pretty well. This is the longest they've gone without sniping at each other in ages. It's nice. He will not be the one to ruin it.

His thoughts are confirmed when Denise laughs at them as they drop off the girls. The girls hug and kiss them and then charge through the open door as if they know Denise's house as well as their own. For all Wyatt knows they actually might.

"Did you pack the whole house?" She asks as she takes the girls' backpacks and the two large totes Lucy packed.

"I've never done this before," Lucy whispers apologetically. "I figured better safe than sorry. You know?"

"Trust me," Denise says kindly as she squeezes Lucy's hand. "Michelle and I have been there. Our first outing with Mark had us looking more like pack mules than mothers."

"You sure you're okay watching them until tomorrow?" Wyatt asks. Honestly, he might be asking more for himself. He was just starting to get used to the whole dad thing and even taking a 24 hour break from it felt like wasted time.

"Trust me, Michelle has been looking forward to it all day," she assures him with a chuckle. "She has all kinds of fun things planned. We'll be fine. Get comfortable in that house and your new lives. Don't worry about us."

She hugs them both, something Wyatt didn't expect, and then shoos them back to their car.

"Go, go. We've got this," Denise tells them insistently.

A moment later they're back in the car and alone. Just like the last time they were alone, silence engulfs them. Without the girls as a buffer they're not entirely sure how to act around each other. Lucy goes stiff and indifferent and turns herself completely away from him to stare out the passenger side window.

He bites back a sigh and wishes things could be different. That they could be different and that this domestic fantasy they're living could be real in every sense of the word. He wants it. He wants it more than he will ever let her know. He wants to be loving husband to Professor Lucy Preston of Stanford University and doting father to Amy and Flynn Preston-Logan, four year old wonders. But as it stands he can only be one of those things. Not only that, but as much as he wants it, he's not sure he's worthy of it or that his presence is the best thing for Lucy. He seems to hurt her more often than he helps her. The vacant silence between them drives home the reminder of who they actually are. He hates it. He hates what he's let them become. He feels frustration building in his chest as his hands tighten on the steering wheel. An irritated huff escapes him as he starts the car and puts it in reverse.

Lucy winces and somehow retreats further inward. He mentally curses himself for finding a way to make things worse. How does he always manage that? She's quiet and he expects her to be until long after they've gotten home. So, it's even more surprising when she breaks the silence before he's even made it to the street.

"It's two days till Christmas," Lucy says suddenly as they're pulling out of Denise's driveway.

"Yeah so?" They hadn't actually celebrated Christmas since Rufus died but it was hard to forget Amy and Flynn's less than discreet reminder. He's keenly aware how close they are to Christmas just as she is.

"Well, do we…I mean did they have Christmas presents for the girls?" Lucy asks with a downturn set of her lips.

"They seem like ordinary responsible parents," Wyatt says with a shrug. "I'm sure they do."

"You're right. You're probably right."

She hasn't stopped frowning and biting the inside of her cheek, however, so there's still something wrong. He sighs tiredly and turns his eyes back to the road. His irritation from earlier continues to sizzle under his skin so his next words come out more forceful than he intends.

"What, Lucy?"

She stares at him thoughtfully for a moment before she finally speaks up. "If they did buy presents, do we know where they would hide them?"

Oh. Good point. And also a problem.

One side of his mouth dares to quirk upward as he squints at the road and tries to think of the house they've barely been in. Nothing immediately jumps out at him.

"Nope," he answers with a matter of fact shake of his head. "No idea."

"We're going to be tearing the house apart looking for them when we get there, aren't we?" She asks as he sees her frown ease out of the corner of his eye.

"I'd say that's accurate, yes."

She goes quiet again and he starts to feel the pull of worry, something he's never been able to rid himself of when it comes to her. So he turns his head. Her head is in her hands and her shoulders are shaking. She can't be crying. Not in front of him at least. She hasn't let herself do that in years. He's this close to pulling the car over to the side of the road when her hands fall away and he realizes she's not crying.

She's laughing. Shaking with silent laughter like he's never seen before. Not even in happier times.

He feels her laughter tugging at him, at heartstrings he'd long since forgotten, as he asks, "You gonna clue me in on the joke, Preston?"

She wipes at the corners of her eyes, where mirthful tears have gathered, and tries to straighten her face. She fails miserably and ends up speaking through the remnants of her laughter. "It's just that a few days ago we were searching satellite images for Rittenhouse's new base of operations and today...today we're searching for our daughters' Christmas presents that alternate versions of us have hidden somewhere in their own house."

It really is absurd and something that could only happen to the two of them, and then amazingly...he's laughing with her. Hard and loud. His vision blurs with tears and now he really does have to pull off the road. He parks in a small lot that he happens to pass outside of Denise and Michelle's development. And let's himself feel the full force of his disbelieving amusement.

"We really just went from one extreme to the other, didn't we?" He asks around booming laughs as he runs a hand over his clean shaven chin. Another reminder of how much has changed in less than 48 hours that does nothing to calm his laughter.

"Completely opposite lives and I have no goddamn idea what I'm doing," Lucy admits as another round of laughter hits her. "This is ridiculous. What are we even doing? I sat at our kitchen table and read Marmaduke to a sleepy four year old this morning. I mean is this some sort of shared delusion we're experiencing or something?"

The image abruptly comes to mind. He accidentally memorized the details of that particular scene. He liked it too much. He wanted to keep it. To keep them.

"It's so insanely perfect that it might have to be," he tells her with a chuckle. "This can't be our actual life now." He pauses and then meets her eyes with a small hopeful smile. "Can it?"

She takes a deep breath and meets his eyes in return with a smile that mirrors his. "I think it can. As impossible as it seems, I really think it can."

The laughter has subsided leaving them both with a strange feeling of wonder as Wyatt pulls back onto the road. They're quiet again, but this time it's not oppressive. It's contemplative. Comfortable. Comfortable is rare for them these days. They're never comfortable. Settled? Sure. Comfortable? Not really.

They pull in the garage and as they step over the threshold into the house Lucy throws a question over her shoulder.

"I'll search upstairs and you search downstairs?" She asks.

He nods and then they both immediately get to work ripping through room after room. An hour of searching passes too quickly but between the two of them they've located what they think are all the Christmas presents. However, they've found no decorations. Not even a single scrap of wrapping paper. Nothing.

It's then that Wyatt spots a door in the kitchen that he's somehow never noticed before. It has a deadbolt, but it locks from the other side. He flips through every key on his key ring until finally it budges. The door opens to reveal a basement. They have a basement? They spend another hour searching the basement before they find an unbelievable amount of boxes labeled "Christmas". It seems excessive given how sparse their holidays have been for the last five years. They also answer Lucy's question from the night before and find the Washer and Dryer tucked in the far corner with a ridiculous array of cleaning products.

They leave most of the outdoor decorations but bring up everything else, including the wrapping supplies. The girls' presents and the wrapping paper get stashed in the walk in closet in the master bedroom, and everything else gets stacked up in the living room until the girls are home the next day.

It's three hours later and they're just now collapsing on the sofa for the first time since walking through the door.

"We thought fighting Rittenhouse was exhausting," Lucy says with a smirk. "But treading water in this timeline is worse. We still don't know if there are traditions they'll be expecting. Christmas is a big deal." Her smirk falters as she continues. "Or it used to be anyway."

"Alright," Wyatt declares as he stands and then heads over to the bookshelf where he found the photo boxes. "Let's find out."

He grabs the boxes for 2022, 2021, and 2020 and then rejoins her on the couch. They look through the photos in silence but Wyatt can sense Lucy becoming agitated over something. He can't tell what exactly, but with every picture a wall between them grows. Where these pictures had brought him a kind of wishful longing the other night, they seem to be doing the opposite for her.

"Okay," he says when she, yet again, scoots further away from him on the couch. "What's wrong?"

His tone is annoyed and he knows he should try to moderate his mood, but she's inadvertently reminding him of how little they talk and he can feel the guilt crawling all over him. Her hesitance feels like his fault. He may lash out at Lucy but he's really angry at himself. He just doesn't know how to express that to her.

"It's just...we got all of this and we couldn't save Amy or Flynn or at least his family? I don't know, I guess...I'm just feeling guilty. Guilty that we're here and they're not," she admits as she bites her bottom lip.

He knows it shouldn't but the mention of Flynn irks him. She mentioned Amy too but his brain is choosing not to hear it. The familiar burning friction of a flint sparking a flame hits his chest and words escape him like smoke. He couldn't catch them if he tried.

"Right, cause seeing how happy we are without Flynn must be impossible for you."

She tenses and then turns a glare on him. "More like seeing how happy we are because of Flynn seems unfair to him. God, you know I can't believe we're sitting here in a timeline where he's dead and you're—"

"What? Still alive? Would you rather him be sitting here than me?" He asks angrily before she can finish her statement.

It's how she should feel. He knows she felt something for Flynn. He knows he fucked up and Flynn stepped in where he failed, both with Lucy and with Jessica. Flynn was a hero, Wyatt is a coward. On some level, he agrees. Flynn deserves to be there more than him. He deserves his family, the house, the happy memories. Wyatt doesn't. His tone was biting so he expects Lucy to take offense, even if it's all true. She was already pissed so he's sure when he manages to find her eyes he'll see a furious fire burning.

If possible though, Lucy looks angrier than he ever expected and he expected a lot.

"What? No! Fuck you, Wyatt. What kind of horrible person do you think I am?" She asks as her voice raises. She looks livid. "I was going to say that I can't believe he's dead and you still have a problem with him. But now I get it. It's not him you have a problem with. It's me. Isn't it?"

He doesn't. Not really. He has a problem with himself for letting her get away to begin with. He hates that Flynn was smarter than he was and managed to keep Lucy close even after they hit self destruct on their relationship. He hates that he can't hate Flynn. Because Flynn kept Lucy sane in her darkest hours, Flynn restored their timeline, Flynn gave Wyatt the opening to even have this house and the twins and even Lucy. He owes everything to Flynn and that guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders. But instead of admitting that to anyone, he lets it fester and then explodes at Lucy. It isn't right. He knows it isn't right. But he can't seem to stop doing it.

"I don't have a problem with you, Lucy. I don't have anything with you," he tells her with a frustrated huff and a flippant eye roll.

"And that's my fault?" She asks as she stands from the couch with her hands on her hips and a heated stare pointed down at him. "It's my fault that you chose to focus on saving Jessica after you told me you loved me? What did you expect me to do, Wyatt? Did you expect me to wait around for you on the off chance you decided you actually did want me after all?"

Her reply feels like a list of his mistakes — of all the ways he took her for granted. With the regret he feels comes the resentment. The resentment that she didn't fight him on it. She didn't tell him what she really wanted. He didn't expect her to wait or even say the words to him but he expected something. He thought he'd get some sort of reaction — any reaction—but he never did. Instead she ran to Flynn.

He scoffs and shakes his head, finally standing with her. "No, but I maybe expected you to wait a little longer than a week. Don't worry though, I got your message loud and clear even way back then. Seeing you with Flynn was much more effective than never hearing those words repeated back to me."

"Is that what this all boils down to? How was I supposed to admit that to you when just hours earlier you were adamant that your wife, who you loved for longer than I knew you, could be saved? You thought she was pregnant with your child, Wyatt. Did you really expect me to dive right in to something with you after that? You told me I didn't have to say it back. Forgive me for assuming you mean what to you say!" She scowls at him as she yells and shakes her head angrily. "You broke my heart! I had to watch you play happy husband with her up close and personal because you brought her into our goddamn home! How was I supposed to trust your love would be enough? God, what if Jessica had come back? What if she decided she made a mistake and had come back to you? Can you honestly tell me that loving me would have been enough back then? That you wouldn't have broken my heart a second time?"

He tries to breathe through those questions because he despises all of them. Not just how difficult they are to answer but what it means for how she sees her importance in his life. It's clear she thinks she's second best and always will be. The thing is, she never gave him a moment to assure her otherwise. Yes, he could have yelled over her insistence that he was happy and made her see that he wasn't, but at the time he wasn't sure their potential meant as much to her as it did to him. Could he fight for her if she didn't want him to? Was 1941 not as poignant to her as it was to him? She had insecurities back then and so did he. Should he have pushed through them and been honest with himself about what he wanted? No doubt. Should he have pursued his happiness instead of what he thought was the right thing? Absolutely.

But if he had, would she have listened? Would she have believed him? Given the way she so readily shut him down back then, the odds aren't in her favor.

"So, we're breaking out the hypotheticals now?" He asks with a glare and a yell of his own. "Because I have a few of those I'd like to ask about myself."

They are standing much closer than he initially realizes so when she releases a chagrined huff he feels her hot breath prickle across his chin and neck and, as if he's been struck by lightning, he wants her. Craves her like a shot of hard liquor. Much like his predisposed genetic habit to retreat into a bottle, he knows it's ill advised but right then she feels like the only thing that will dull the rage.

It's not the first time this has happened. Not the first time an argument has brought him here, ready to toss back a glass and gulp her down. Her eyes darken and he can tell she's been struck by the very same lightning as him. He's not stupid. He knows why this happens. They argue when the emotions are too complicated to talk about and they want each other like this when the argument doesn't give them the release they need. Or sometimes when the grief and loss are too big to handle alone. It's never tender. They never talk after. They walk away as soon as it's over.

They don't nurse the bottle. They don't take their time.

It's not 1941. It will likely never be 1941 ever again.

Her hands dart up and yank him down for a bruising kiss. Harsh and forceful. His hands grip her waist so tight that he's afraid he might leave permanent indentations behind. She makes quick work of his belt after taking a moment to trail her touch over his chest. The belt is ripped from the loops of his pants and tossed onto the floor. He moves his hands from her waist to unbutton her jeans. The drag of her zipper sounds between them and it's as deafening as a scream. He hears the repetitive pops of his button fly and then feels her pushing the waist down. She holds tight to his belt loops and pulls him backward to the nearest wall. Her hand delves into his boxers to grip him and he knows there's no stopping this now. Even if he wanted to. Fuck.

A low growl is released from his throat as he spins her around to face the wall. His turn. He slides his hands over her waist, across her stomach, under the top hem of her cotton underwear, and down to the slick nerve center between her legs. She gasps and then braces herself against the wall with her flat palms. They shouldn't be doing this and they both know it. But they don't want to talk and they don't want to fight. This is the only option they have left. It's not romance. It's need. Raw and hungry.

He wants her and he wants her now. He shoves her underwear aside and pushes into her, hard. She lets out a deep moan and he sees her hands fist against the wall. He thrusts aggressively, repeatedly, until they're both breathing though grunts and wanton pants. This isn't sex. This is a fuck. There's no emotion behind it. Just mutual give and take. There's no loving eye contact or slow kisses.

Shit, he can't even see her face.

It's better that way.

They broke each other once. This way they make sure they can't do that again.

Lucy cries out as she comes and then sags against the wall. He joins her a split second later, chest heaving and his heart pounding as she continues to spasm around him. He severs their connection and is preparing to leave her as he normally would, but a creamy patch of ivory skin catches his attention and holds him in place.

He can't explain what he does next, except to say that the image of Lucy at breakfast that morning randomly resurfaces. Sleepy face, chin resting on top of their daughter's head, floral robe hanging off of one shoulder. It's that image that has his lips seeking out the curve between her neck and her shoulder, where her shirt collar has been pulled away, for a gentle lingering kiss. Lucy sucks in a breath and goes rigid against him, but relaxes once again when his lips move up her neck to just below where her chopped off hair stops. That kiss is open mouthed and near reverent. He doesn't know what's come over him but he can't seem to shake it.

He hears her sigh in satisfaction as she turns in his arms. Her half lidded gaze meets his and then as if enchanted by the moment their lips are drawn together. Her arms wrap around his middle and gather him closer. This kiss is not like the one they shared earlier. It's soft and warm. It's full of care, concern, and, for his part, remorse.

The unbearable taste of their emotions seems to trigger something in Lucy. She makes a startled muffled sound into his mouth and then rears back quickly. So quickly that even his reflexes nearly aren't fast enough to keep her from slamming her head into the wall. His hand cushions the blow a split second before it happens.

She untangles herself and ducks out of his arms with wide frightened eyes, like a deer caught in the headlights. A hand presses against her lips for a moment before she finally breaks the stark silence that overtakes them.

"I—I'm gonna go, uh, shower," she stutters out as she nearly trips backwards up the stairs in her desperate dash to get away from him.

He stands there, too shocked to move, until the sound of the bedroom door slamming filters down the steps.

"What the fuck was that?" He asks the empty room.

He expects no answer, not even from himself.


They retreat to separate corners of the house. Lucy doesn't know what to say or how to act. Were they still in the bunker she could hide in the war and bloodshed and comfort herself by saying the fate of the world was far more important than whatever she felt for Wyatt. But they're not in the bunker any longer and aside from the girls there is nothing more important than her relationship with Wyatt. Whether they're friends or enemies, their relationship effects more than just the two of them now. It involves two precious little girls that she adores with every fiber of her being.

She and Wyatt cannot go on as they always have. Not if they want to raise happy well adjusted daughters, at least.

She finds a stash of bath products under the sinks in the master bathroom and readily takes advantage. She slips into a hot bath and groans in pleasure. She hasn't had a bath in ages. She's got more scars than the last time she took a bath. It's hard not to notice. There's the faint scar from the knife wound in Salem. The round raised scar from a bullet to the shoulder, a reminder of Jessica even in a reset timeline. It was her gun that put the bullet in Lucy's shoulder, after all. The scar on her knee from Emma's attempt to push her off of a literal cliff. She'd won a large gash on her knee as she fell. Luckily the cliff wasn't as steep as Emma thought and Lucy had been stopped by a small ledge.

There were smaller scars from various fights, most she hardly remembers now, and then there were the emotional scars. The ones that weren't so easy to spot. The ones from battles no one ever seemed to win. From her mother's betrayal. From Wyatt breaking her heart. From Rufus dying. From Emma killing her mother. Those were all emotional scars that she shared with the Lucy who inhabited this timeline before her. That Lucy was fortunate to never gain the rest of her scars.

Wyatt's face the first time he realized she was seeing Flynn, Jiya's distance as she retreated into her quiet desperation, coming home from a jump to find Mason and Christopher slaughtered at the hands of Jessica Logan and Emma Whitmore, watching Wyatt spiral into his anger and self hatred after learning Jessica lied about the baby, realizing all she'd done by jumping into bed with Flynn was hurt all three of them all over again…

All moments that are erased from time but not erased from her heart. She'd give anything to have stayed behind on that last jump. Her memories and her heart could have been reset with it and instead of pretending to be a Lucy who is content with her life she would actually be a Lucy who is content with her life.

As it is, she's little more than a mess of marred skin and broken aspirations.

What had Wyatt been thinking? Everything else about that...escapade was familiar. It was their current status quo. When they wanted to get lost they let themselves get lost in each other. It seemed a healthier habit than letting herself fall into a bottle of vodka. They kept it simple. Sex and nothing else. A good fuck to work out the stress, anger and grief and then they went on with their lives.

But the ending…

He should have just let her go. Why couldn't he let her go?

Now she has the memory of his soft lips on her neck, kissing her as if she were delicate and rare. And then there's the matter of the kiss to her lips. It felt almost apologetic, but they don't do that. They don't talk let alone apologize. The past is ignored unless it's used as a pointed barb to win a fight. But there is no mistaking the regret she felt in that kiss. Or the overwhelmingly caring warmth. The need to protect her. To keep her safe.

The feelings nearly bring tears to her eyes because it takes her back to a time before they lost each other. To a time when he held her close in an artillery tent in 1918 or kept her claustrophobia at bay in the smugglers hold of Wendell's Scots trunk or even as far back as a desperate hug in the middle of a Murder Castle. It reminded her of a Wyatt whose arms were her refuge, who held her while she sobbed, and kissed her with everything he had in the golden light of a fireplace.

Despite knowing better, it threatens to rekindle her hope. Her hope that the Wyatt who was her safe space isn't gone forever.

She cannot let that happen. She will not weaken. Adjusting to life without him once was hard enough. She won't make it though if she has to do it again.

She steps out of the bath once she's wrinkled and pruny and changes into the softest sweater she's worn in far too long and a pair of sweats that are cozier than the blankets she's slept under for the last five years. It's heavenly and, for a moment, distracting from the man she knows is wandering around downstairs like a ghost in an unfamiliar haunting. She lays down on the king sized bed that she's slept in all alone for the last two nights and picks up her phone.

It's full of photos she didn't take and contacts she barely knows. She opens her photo album and flips through, beginning with a few days ago. She recognizes Stanford's campus as the setting, but the photo has nothing to do with Stanford. There is a picture, taken very quickly, of Wyatt playing with the girls. They are climbing all over him while he kneels on the ground, appearing to have been bested by two tiny four year olds. She keeps going. She finds photos of the girls at Rufus's birthday party, where they had given him four motion activated lightsabers.

Then she finds photos and videos of a lengthy battle between Rufus, Jiya, Amy, and Flynn. Wyatt is always hovering nearby in case it gets out of hand. Which of course it does. Flynn accidentally hits Amy in the eye with a wild swing. Wyatt is there, quick as a blink. Just as the video cuts off, he scoops Amy up and sits her in his lap to inspect her eye. His gentle voice and equally gentle hands soothe her tears.

She knows the Wyatt in that video isn't her Wyatt, but her Wyatt has the capacity to be that man. Every interaction he's had with Flynn and Amy has been heartwarming beyond any of her wildest expectations. Whatever he feels about Lucy is a mystery but she knows he loves the twins. She sees it every time he looks at them.

It brings her back to their kiss. The gentle touches from the other Wyatt were so similar to the way her Wyatt kissed her. He isn't as ornery as he wants her to believe. A part of her always knew that, but she refused to acknowledge it for the safety of her heart.

Now she has no choice. She's been confronted with his tenderness and there's no way to forget it. Even if she wishes she could. She takes a deep breath and puts the phone in her pocket. It's not even lunchtime yet. She cannot hide in her room for the rest of the day. Besides, they still need to learn this house and their Christmas traditions. She needs to start actively living this life she's been dropped into.

And that starts with facing Wyatt.

She walks out of the bedroom and down the stairs. She finds him wearing a path behind the couch. He doesn't hear her socked feet coming amidst his distracted worry. He has showered and changed, probably in the kids' bathroom. He shares her need for comfort and is dressed to match her in sweats and a sweater. They aren't a couple and yet against the odds they still resemble one. She clears her throat and he swivels to face her.

"Lucy, about earlier—"

She holds up a hand to stop him and then waves him off. "Let's not, okay? We've never talked about it before. I don't want to start now. It happened and it's over. Let's just...move on."

Judging by the firm line of his mouth, he doesn't seem happy about that, but he nods anyway. "If that's what you want."

"That's what I want," she insists.

She knows he's not okay with that. She can see the eagerness in his eyes, but he mercifully drops the subject and she wonders why. Is he trying to avoid another fight? Or is he using her answers as an excuse for avoidance?

"I, um, I found the Christmas photos and pulled them out," he tells her quietly. "Thought we could look over them together."

She nods and then crosses the room. She takes her former spot on the couch and picks up a pile of photos, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred between them. She can do this. She can ignore the kiss. She can ignore his obvious wish to talk about it. She can ignore it like it never happened.

She can pretend. She can pretend.