A/N: Sarah: thank you. I'm really glad you're looking forward to the rest of this. So much of it is already written now that it should be much easier to keep up with the two chapters a week routine: one around Thursday or Friday, the other on Sunday. It's mostly Leonard's side of things that needs writing now, so it might slow down when he jumps to a new era while I up my research and get my head there, but for the next era at least that won't be too much of a problem: it's one of my favourites, with one of my favourite historical personages!

Chapter 26: A Time to Feel

It was two nights later when Leonard began to discern the first signs of a change in the soil he was eruditely extracting each evening. He had felt the difference before he had seen it: the almost clay-like resistance of packed and hardened mud instead of the time-pressed layers of dust. One night more made all the difference. Then the tough shell cracked and gave way below his efforts with the rapidity of a sandcastle crumbling below the waters of the changing tide. The crash of metal against metal interrupted his progress, jolting the shovel out of his hands. He let it lie, rubbing life back into numbed fingers, and reached for the dark lantern, easing open its shutters to throw light on his discovery.

A slab of metal lay before him, a thin line of silver grey shining though the age-old patina of caked mud and time when his shovel had broken through. There seemed to be raised mouldings and mud-filled engravings, but too little was visible to spot any pattern. The mud was breaking now, though, and he cleared the rest of the slab by hand with time to spare. It was a hatch of some kind, its identity made clear by the hinges in one long edge. There was also something that, to Leonard's agile mind, resembled some kind of lock. Not any kind of lock he had ever seen before, but definitely a lock. There was something familiar about it too, and he thought he had an inkling what.

The centre of the hatch was covered in deeply graven lettering. The inscription was recognisably Hebrew, or something very similar, but beyond his comprehension. Unlike the hieratic that had brought him here, there had been no pressing need for Leonard to learn any new forms of writing here. The vast majority of writing he had come across was French or Latin: all easily enough translated when read aloud. He was still working on remembering why that might be the case. He had been here a mere matter of months, however: his co-conspirator in this little enterprise had been here a matter of decades. Leonard shook off the dust of his evening's adventures and climbed out of his excavation. Tomorrow night he would return, and with him he would bring his writing materials.

It had been long enough since Brother Antoine entrusted him with the story of his friend's disappearance and the two fragile scrolls Fulcher had left with the monk. Leonard had returned twice since then to report his progress in translating the scrolls, and lack thereof in finding Fulcher, and once simply to avail himself of the good Brother's medical acumen. On the most recent of those, Antoine had warned him to be wary and only come at need. The Knights of St John may differ in the precise rule of their order from the Knights of the Temple, but they had more than just their faith in common and Leonard was not the only go-between to traverse the dusty distance from city to citadel.

XXXX

"You really love all this stuff, don't you," murmured Sara, wandering around the comforting warm glow of the office, trailing a delicate hand through the air above the artefacts, tracing their outlines and almost, but not quite, brushing their surfaces. "It's like a museum in here. I don't think I've ever seen a record player this old. I barely remember the one Mom and Dad had!"

"It's a gramophone, in point of fact," replied Rip languidly, watching her leaf through the collection of records. He was slumped back in his chair, legs outstretched, ankles crossed, elbows resting bent on the cushioned arms, a still untouched whisky tumbler dangling between the fingers of both hands. "Much older than anything your parents would have owned. Even predates electricity. Well, electricity for common household appliances, anyway. You see the handle?"

Sara put her glass of Scotch down on a nearby table, next to an art deco bronze, and returned her attention to the gramophone. She pointed to the handle, looking over at him with a quizzical smile.

"Turn it," he said, putting down his glass and standing up. He joined her at the record collection and filed through, selecting one timeworn sleeve, the third of a set of four, and removing the fragile disc inside. He handed it to Sara. "Go on."

"Okay," she smiled, still unsure. Taking the record by its edges she placed it on the turntable.

Rip moved the needle into place and pressed a button. The raindrop notes of Clair de Lune echoed out through the fluted horn by their side. He held out his hand and raised his eyebrows at her.

"Oh, we have had this conversation," she retorted, holding up her hands. "There's no surveillance or subterfuge to use as an excuse today, either."

"Well, you weren't too bad then and you're not likely to get any better standing around here just listening," he shrugged, still offering his hand.

"Fine," she sighed, rolling her eyes and ignoring the triumphant smile that flashed across his face when she took the proffered hand. "You could have picked a waltz or something easy at least."

"It'll pick up, trust me," he told her, "and I thought something with the name 'moonlight' might be appropriate for the late hour."

"There must be more than one record with the word 'moonlight' in the title," Sara scoffed, half-heartedly though. "Moonlight serenade? Moonlight sonata? I'm sure I've heard of those at least, and that's just for starters."

"I think I have the serenade somewhere," Rip mused, glancing back at the record collection thoughtfully. "Personally signed, if I recall. We can try that next time."

"You're lucky there's a this time," she remarked dryly.

He smirked back at her. "Yes, I rather think I am."

She smiled back despite herself, catching the teasing glint in his eyes. His eyes held hers in place, daring her not to look down. A lull in the music slowed them almost to a stop then began again, its tempo rising and falling as notes rose in short crescendos. With a jolt, Sara realised she had lost herself for a moment. In the music. In the movement. That was all. Just the music. She looked away, suddenly conscious of a gaze that had never bothered her before. Except once.

"Did you dance a lot before?" Sara asked, covering her sudden disquiet with questions. "With Miranda?"

"No, Miranda wasn't one for dancing," he sighed, looking away at the memory, a lingering sadness dulling his eyes and turning his smile bittersweet. "Two left feet. She even had to stand on mine during the first dance at our wedding just to avoid tripping over her dress."

"Leonard didn't like dancing either," she laughed with a sad smile of her own, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, I have no right to compare..."

"Yes, you do," he reminded her gently. "It's what we do here, isn't it? Sit up half the night while the rest of the crew are asleep, drinking my alcohol and talking about the people we've loved and lost. Remembering them."

"That's just it, I don't know if I did," she sighed, still not looking back up to him. "I cared about him. We were friends. We were nearly more than that. But did I love him? I don't know. I never really got the chance to find out."

"That doesn't take away your right to grieve for him," he murmured in her ear as the notes quietened once more. "We all mourn in different ways, Sara. Some of us fall back into old bad habits, like Mister Rory. Some of us take the chance to make new ones, like Doctor Palmer. Some of us risk destroying the entirety of time leading a band of misfits on the mother of all manhunts, but you know: each to their own."

"Hmmm, I wonder which one you are?" Sara laughed, and looked back round to him. He was watching her again, and his smile brightened a little at her own.

The music had returned to its initial refrain, slowing the dance and drawing them in. Then it rippled up again and they turned on the spot, speeding up and slowing down with the tempo. As the last notes died away, they swayed to a stop, eyes still locked on each other and much closer than they had begun. Somewhere along the way, Sara found that her hand had slid up from his shoulder to his neck, angling his head down towards her own. She could swear the arm that was wrapped around her waist had begun as a hand on her back. And there was no denying the hand she had placed in his was now sandwiched between their shoulders, fingers treacherously intertwining. Her heart was racing. Her breathing was shallow. She would love to blame it on the dance, but she knew she'd be lying. And this time there was no Mick to interrupt them.

Sara searched his eyes for something. Anything. All she found were more questions. Questions his eyes seemed to be asking her. And something, maybe, akin to hope? There was a flutter in his eyelashes and it seemed that the hope there started to fade. Perhaps that was what changed her mind, or made it up for her. Perhaps it was the thought that she didn't want to miss another chance. Perhaps it was just because she hadn't felt this way in... How long? Perhaps it was all of the above. She untangled her fingers from his and reached up, letting them tangle this time in his hair, pulling him down to capture his lips with hers. His free arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her body up at the same instant. Time seemed to slow until they hung motionless, breathless lips a hair's breadth apart. Suddenly it was like a dam had burst. They moved as one, Sara's back colliding with the clear wall, devouring each other in hungry, open-mouthed kisses that roamed wildly over necks and shoulders and anywhere they could reach. How much time passed, neither knew. How much longer might have passed, they never found out. A shock wave rocked the Waverider, hurtling them sideways to land in a collapsed and tangled mess on the floor. Sparks flew overhead and alarms rang out throughout the ship, calling the rest of the crew to arms. They were under attack.