Parallel Lines

by Andrea Christoph

Parallel universes once kept separate begin to collide as people stumble around in the dark playing god. It's in one such lonely universe that Amy Preston lives on, longing for a sister who disappeared in 2016 without a trace, until one day a man shows up and she finds out just how deep the rabbit hole goes. What if you could change fate? And should you? (Garcy & Riya)

11. Chapter 11

San Francisco - 2021

Need to resched - work - will connect later.

Satisfied with that short text message, she hits send on the burner phone Rufus provided her with, then powers it off and removes the battery. She hadn't intended to bring the phone to work with her - she kept it locked in a safe at home, whenever possible - but the call from her boss's secretary had been unexpected, coming in shortly before she was to meet with Rufus that day, and it was made clear that she didn't have the option to refuse or reschedule if she particularly felt like remaining employed. With a family at home to care for, she had to do what would be best for them, even if it meant coming in on what was meant to be her day off for god-knew-what reason.

And it's the lack of knowing that frightens her most.

Footsteps near the door to her office leave her panicking over where to stow the phone that would be secure in her absence before she gives up and shoves it in the inside pocket of her blazer, just seconds before Sylvia, Special Agent Jake Neville's secretary, reaches the doorway.

"They're ready for you."

"Thanks, Sylvia." The woman she's addressing doesn't budge from where she's standing, but at least has the decency to look apologetic. "Thank you," she repeats, firmer now.

"I was told to bring you with me." Sylvia hugs the folders in her arms tighter against her body, deeply uncomfortable. "I'm really sorry," she adds in a whisper, "I don't know why he's being like this."

Sighing, she nods and collects her briefcase before following Sylvia down the hall, the burner phone in her pocket practically searing a hole through her chest. She's been taking measured breaths for the past hour to keep herself calm, but anxiety flares as they reach Agent Neville's office and she spots two figures through the glass instead of the expected one.

"Ah, Flynn, good," Agent Neville calls as he spots her through the open door. He beckons her in with a sharp wave and seats himself once more behind his desk. "Have a seat."

Before she can do so, the other individual in the room stands, a woman a few inches shorter than her but no less imposing, and steps forward to extend her hand, clearly not giving Neville the chance to skip introductions and usher her quickly back out the door. "Special Agent Denise Christopher."

Her blood runs cold as she shakes the other woman's hand. "Lorena Flynn...sorry, which agency did you say you were with?"

"FBI," is apparently the only answer she's going to get, as the other woman barrels forward with her intended line of questioning. "Agent Neville was telling me a little bit of your background just as you walked in." Christopher seats herself in one of the two chairs facing the desk, which Lorena takes as her cue to sit as well. "Very impressive work you've done, I have to say. Ten years as a crypto linguist with the CIA before the NSA headhunters came knocking, then head of your own team to help get the PRISM program off the ground. I think anyone with knowledge of the intelligence community knows how groundbreaking your work has been."

"Thank you," Lorena says softly. The ample praise is a patently obvious attempt to lower her guard. The other woman had done her homework, which meant she was no stranger to interrogation.

"Though I have to say, your abrupt switch from director to data analysis in 2014 was a surprise. That's a huge step down."

Lorena clenches her teeth. There it was, the implied question poorly disguised as innocent curiosity.

"I won't do you the disservice, Agent Christopher, of assuming you didn't do a full background check on me prior to coming here, so you're aware that my husband passed away in 2014."

"Of course. However, the ample paycheck you were earning-"

"It wasn't a question of finances. My children deserved to have their only living parent invested and present in their life."

Christopher smiles, which does manage to take Lorena slightly off guard. "I have a few at home myself, I can sympathize with having to choose between your bank account or your family. It's always been a no-brainer for me."

Lorena glances at Agent Neville, whose face is dripping with condescension watching the two women discuss their families. It's a small grace that she's well aware the man is a lifelong bachelor, excelling here and there in his career but with only an aging cat to come home to (likely because it was the only creature with a pulse that could stand to be around him, and even that was probably thanks to the free food).

"Sir, is there a reason I was called in on my day off?" She has to bite her tongue before she can add a comment about her difficulty finding childcare, knowing it would be wasted on deaf ears.

Agent Neville nods to Christopher. "I'll let our friend from the FBI here explain."

Christopher gives him the telltale smile of an intelligent woman humoring someone she knows is an idiot before focusing all of her attention on Lorena. "I'm not sure how much you've been following the news recently, but we've had some concerning leaks showing up in various levels of the intelligence community-"

"I'm aware."

"Then you'll also have heard that one of the most recent leaks was information from the NSA's private servers. I believe your boss-" A short nod to Neville. "-has been doing damage control this week because of it." She continues before Neville can chip in his two cents. "Seeing as you were part of the original team that got PRISM up and running, I was hoping I could pick your brain for an hour or two, discuss some possible routes that hackers may have taken to access the system."

Lorena's shoulders relax. She wasn't suspected to be the leak, as she'd been assuming this entire time. "That's not my department anymore, Agent Christopher."

"I know, but you're one of the foremost experts on the system, and you already have high-level clearance to discuss classified information, which makes my job much easier. I'm hoping that your boss will be able to spare you for a few days in the interest of inter-agency cooperation." A business card is extended to her, which Lorena takes and tucks into the inside pocket of her blazer. Her fingers graze the cheap plastic of the burner phone and she quickly withdraws her hand. Neither Neville nor Christopher notice her distress, as the latter is reluctantly handing a card to the former at his request.

Lorena stands as Agent Christopher does and accepts the departing handshake offered to her. "I look forward to hearing from you, Flynn," Christopher says pointedly to her, giving Neville only a brief nod as she leaves.

Lorena is about to follow her out the door, but halts as Agent Neville barks, "Flynn, you stay."

She eases slowly back into her seat. It takes every ounce of self-control not to let the panic show on her face as Neville closes the door firmly behind Agent Christopher. This time, rather than seating himself behind the desk, he leans against the front edge of it with his arms crossed, staring her down over the top edge of his glasses.

They sit that way for a time, neither willing to be the first to speak.

Then, after a solid minute passes, Neville removes his glasses and busies himself cleaning them with his pocket square. "Could you remind me, Flynn, what your job entails?"

This is a game she's played with any number of men throughout the years, pompous jackasses who felt she was overstepping, no matter her role or rank, and that she needed to be put in her place. It was especially bad when it came to Neville, and always had been. He'd never fully recovered from being passed over initially for the associate director role that Lorena ultimately walked away from, and since snatching the abandoned post he took every opportunity possible to give her a dressing down and remind her that he was now her boss.

"I review data for-"

"The question was rhetorical, Flynn." He slips the glasses back on and glares at her with cold eyes. "But, since it seems you've forgotten, what your job description does not entail is FBI consultation. Not anymore."

"I am well aware of that, sir."

"Are you?" he sneers, and Lorena wisely remains silent. "Turn in your laptop."

Her heart pounds. "What?"

He nods to the briefcase still leaning against the leg of her chair. "Your laptop, please. Business phone as well, if you have it on you."

She feels numb as everything takes a sudden turn for the worst and replies in a hollow voice, "I left it at home."

"That's fine, you can hand it in when your escort drops you off. You're on administrative leave until further notice, Flynn."

"On what grounds?"

"The beauty of my job, Lorena, is that I no longer owe you an explanation. Leave your security pass on my desk before you go."

"You pompous-" she starts, managing to cut herself off before she can say something to land herself in even hotter water than she's already in, but even the small bit she gets out is enough to wipe the smile from Neville's face. He turns and presses a finger to his landline intercom, and two suits enter the office and stand just behind her - Caleb Sulivan and Adrian Singer, men she'd attended office barbecues with for close to a decade who were now glaring at her like she was an enemy of the state.

"You're to remain at home until further notice while we finish conducting an internal review," Neville continues, watching her badge sail by as she chucks it bitterly at his desk. " If you clear it-" His word choice is not lost on her. "-then we can discuss your return to work."

Lorena stands, swatting away Agent Singer's hand as he reaches for her elbow. "You don't need to drag me out, Adrian, I'm not a prisoner." Singer steps back to give her space and Lorena rounds on Neville again. "This is bullshit, Jake, and you know it."

"There's a lot on your plate already, Lorena. Sure you want to add gross insubordination to the list of charges?"

Knowing he's right, Lorena shoves her briefcase into his arms so rough that it takes the wind out of him. She turns away before he can see the smirk on her face and nods to the two men standing guard behind her. "Let's get this over with."

---

"I was just heading to make myself a subpar coffee. Would you like a subpar coffee as well, my love?"

Rufus looks up from the monitor just as Jiya's arms snake around his shoulders, her cheek resting against his temple for a gentle yet firm hug, what he had taken to calling a Jiya Special (mainly to request it at any given moment, which she was always eager to hand out). He places a hand over her crossed wrists and squeezes them to return the gesture. "Subpar, huh?"

"Well, we're out of everything but the almond milk, so I have few hopes this will be a satisfying coffee break."

"Almond milk isn't so bad if you like bog water."

"We drink coffee so on some level we must."

He laughs, and she places a firm kiss on the spot where her cheek had rested before disappearing into the makeshift kitchen they'd set up in the warehouse to rummage up whatever supplies might be required. Rufus returns to his decryption program, swapping out USBs so it can continue on to the next batch of information. He jumps when Jiya's arm reappears in front of him to set a mug of questionable coffee on the desk, and he takes a sip as she slides her chair closer and curls up in it.

"Uh, Jiya, this coffee is heinous."

"Truly, truly heinous," she agrees, taking another sip from her mug and grimacing. "We need to go shopping."

"I know. I'll put together a list for Anthony-"

"Can we not go ourselves?" She glances up at the warehouse skylights, where daylight is just barely managing to filter in through the dirt-smudged windows. "I think breathing in this stale air 24 hours a day is shortening my lifespan."

Rufus sighs. "You know we can't."

"I know," she concedes, "it's just that...New Years is the last night off we had, and 2018 has been kind of shit so far- ...never mind, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up." Her face is a stoic mask that he knows is hiding her disappointment; this discussion isn't anything new. Recently it felt like they had it every other week, and he knows she doesn't expect a yes at this point, but the daydream of living a normal life gives them a tiny illusion now and then that they're just a normal young couple building a life together and not government fugitives in hiding with their very stolen, very broken time machine.

Rufus examines her face as she leans against his shoulder. She's staring at the lines of code on the screen but not reading any of it and god does she look beautiful, but she also looks profoundly sad and it wrenches on his heart.

"Do you ever wish you'd said yes to that job offer from CERN?" he asks, playing idly with a strand of her hair.

"Every day," Jiya answers a bit too quickly, and as always her brutal honesty makes him laugh. Her smile also tells him she's only half-serious. "Do I wish I was part of insane discoveries in particle physics? Absolutely. What scientist worth their salt wouldn't? But would I pass on getting to crawl into bed next to you every night after a long day of saving the world?" In answer, she leans in and kisses him, one hand cupping his cheek tenderly, and whispers as she draws back, "Hell no, flyboy."

"I love you," he whispers as they part, which earns him an adorable giggle from his adorable girlfriend.

"I love you more." She nuzzles the tip of her nose against his, her eyes closed as she relishes the touch of his skin. "Rufus, I am exactly where I was meant to be, so you can quit it with the what-ifs and hypotheticals. I have no regrets, now or ever."

He sighs and grins as he watches her pad back over to the kitchen in her sock feet with the two empty mugs in hand. Their partnership had started out messy at first - Jiya found it so hard to believe Mason Industries could be bankrolled by a corrupt shadow government that he'd half-expected her to turn him in to Connor rather than help. Thankfully he won her over well before the explosion at the lab that conveniently killed off half their team right as the Mothership project was wrapping up, and they'd used the cover provided by the explosion to fade into the background, their names now just part of a long list of casualties.

Sure, it still left Rittenhouse with the arguably superior machine in the form of the Mothership, but at least they didn't have both machines and at least they only had one pilot. Not that it slowed them down. Not that it made them any less wildly successful at absolutely obliterating everything he held near and dear.

The sound of ceramic shattering on concrete echoes from the kitchen, and Rufus is out of his chair in seconds. He finds Jiya lying on the kitchen floor surrounded by the shards of the coffee mugs she was carrying when she went down and she now has a wicked red gash on her temple from hitting the edge of the counter on her way down. He uses his foot to sweep the worst of the mess out of the way and drops to his knees so he can drag Jiya into his lap.

"Sweetheart, hey, wake up." He tugs a nearby towel off the counter to dab at her bleeding forehead. "Jiya, please-"

Her eyes flutter open and he sighs in relief. She looks around, disoriented, before focusing on his face above her and smiling. "Hey handsome. Why are we on the floor?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." He helps her sit up. "I heard the cups break and found you like this."

She looks at the broken mugs with a knit brow, confused. "Weird. I remember coming into the kitchen...that's it." Her forehead gash has stopped bleeding by now, a goose egg taking its place instead and complete with a wicked purple bruise spreading down the length of her cheek. She touches the wound and hisses. "Ouch. That one is gonna smart."

Rufus doesn't wait for permission before hoisting her into his arms. "You, my love, are on bed rest for the remainder of today."

"Rufus, I'm fine-"

"Humor me." He carries her over to the bed they share and lowers her onto it, then fluffs her pillows one by one. "There. I want you to park it for at least an hour."

"But-"

He cuts her off with a kiss. "No buts."

A mischievous glint in her eye, Jiya scoots over on the bed and pats the mattress next to her. "Will you at least cuddle for a bit?"

She already knows he can't say no to an offer of snuggling so he doesn't even try to fight her. "Well, I suppose we have a few minutes while this decryption finishes."

"Exactly." The moment he lays down on the bed she scoots up against him, one arm snaking over his midsection while she nuzzles her face into his shoulder. "There, perfect."

He looks down at her peaceful sleeping face on his shoulder and smiles. "Agreed."

---

Christ, it hurts.

Rufus wakes up from his dream slowly, his whole chest aching as he clings to the memory of the smell of her hair (tea tree and argan oil), the taste of her kiss (tinged with godawful cheap coffee that did nothing to detract from the experience), the weight of her on his chest as she snored and occasionally whispered in her sleep.

He sits up, wiping his eyes with both hands to clear away the mixture of sleep and tears, and throws off the blanket that feels like it's smothering him. The warehouse is freezing, signaling that he likely has a blustery day to look forward to outside. Fantastic. Always on the days when he has somewhere to be, never on the ones where he's inside for a stretch. Far be it from the universe to make his life easier.

A quick shower later and he starts to feel almost human, or at least awake. He bundles into a warm hoodie and woolen socks before going to hunt down his usual breakfast of a hash brown patty or two in the toaster and a-

"Subpar coffee," he says softly to no one in particular, smiling as he places a mug under the dispenser and plops a cheap plastic pod into the machine to brew. Last one in the box. Damn, he'd need to ask Anthony for supplies soon.

He hears a distant ping from his bedside and goes to retrieve the phone he's currently using for encrypted communication with the outside world. Not that it's much of a world - Anthony, his NSA contact, and an assortment of fellow whistleblowers online that he'd never met and wouldn't call friends even if he had are the only contacts programmed into it.

His circle had once been larger. They almost could have called themselves a team. Maybe in another life they were. Maybe he'd just pulled the existential short straw.

Then again, if he was dead in every other timeline like his dream Jiya said, perhaps this was his optimal life path, and oh god, what a depressing thought.

The text is short, just one line to cancel their meeting, but...work? It's Saturday, she'd never worked on a weekend before.

Something must have changed.

Rufus slides into his desk chair and pulls up the latest data from the tracker he'd hidden in her burner phone. Early on Rufus decided that he didn't trust the NSA agent as far as he could throw her, no matter the scope of the information she was willing to provide him with, though over the years that distrust had cooled to a more reasonable and respectful level of mutual suspicion. She'd come to him, after all, and put both her career and freedom as a US citizen on the line to do the right thing, just like him. It was hard to be suspicious of someone you admired so damn much.

Thankfully the tracker is still running, though the phone is powered off; always thinking three steps ahead, which included having the ability to trace her independent of whether the phone was in use thanks to a small internal battery that would ensure the tracker would function at least until the hardware gave up, was exactly the kind of thorough planning that had kept him alive this long.

It takes some time for the connection to establish, but finally a small dot appears on the map onscreen that moves steadily away from the downtown NSA field office and back out toward the suburbs in a start-stop pattern that tells him she's in a vehicle. He watches the dot as it navigates weekend traffic painfully slow for the next half hour before speeding off down the freeway in the direction of Oakland. For all intents and purposes, it just looked like she was returning home after a quick stop off at the office, but something still didn't feel right, and trusting his gut was the other thing that had kept him alive this long.

Retrieving a hoodie and scarf from the wardrobe, Rufus wraps the scarf so only his eyes are visible and lifts the hood to cover the rest of his head before he darts out the door to do some of his own reconnaissance.

---

The entire drive to Oakland is silent. Lorena isn't sure what she'd even say, considering she doesn't have the moral high ground of being framed. If anything, it's a wonder she'd managed to get by this long without being caught, an ironic testament to the competence of her training. They never expected it to be used against them, of course.

She looks down at her hands and the dark green nail polish flecked over her cuticles that Iris had painted for her the night before. God, she has no idea what she's going to tell her. Hi sweetheart. Mommy is going to be home a lot more often because the government is charging her with treason and will want to make an example of her, so get in some quality time while you can before they ship you off to the orphanage.

She blinks the thought away. She'd never been one for fatalism and she wasn't about to start now. Despite what Agent Neville might privately believe about her, they still hadn't pinned anything on her officially, not yet, and as part of standard practice she kept her work laptop scrubbed clean for any activity that could incriminate her. The dead-end they were currently pursuing would buy her some time.

Time for what, though. That was the part she hadn't yet figured out.

Lorena unlocks the front door with steady hands, and the two agents escorting her home are about to step in behind her when she turns and halts them. "I will get the phone and bring it back here, but neither of you sets foot in my home without a warrant signed by a judge."

Agent Sullivan opens his mouth to argue, but his partner's hand on his shoulder makes him back down. "Fine. Be quick."

Iris is still sitting in the living room where Lorena left her a few hours ago, watching Spongebob while Asher naps peacefully with half his body stretched over her lap. She looks up from the TV in confusion as she hears the door slam and sees her mother rush in to draw the drapes closed.

"Mom? What's wrong?"

"Iris, take your brother and go to your room please."

Her tone doesn't leave any room for questions, but Iris is her father's child.

"Is something happening?"

"Iris Maria Flynn, room, now!"

Her brown eyes are now wide with fear, something Lorena hasn't seen since the day eight years ago when they'd kissed Garcia goodbye and gone back into the house so Iris could crawl back into bed to sleep off a fever, only to hear an explosion a short time later, closely followed by the fists of the neighbors banging on their front door.

Lorena takes a steadying breath. She was scaring her daughter and it was doing nothing to help the situation. She forces a reassuring smile. "Yes, something is happening, and I will tell you right after I deal with it, but right now I need you to take Asher and keep him safe with you in your bedroom."

That gets through the girl's fear. Iris nods and shakes Asher awake. He lifts his head and looks around, groggy, but gives a gap-toothed grin as he sees his mother. Lorena places a quick peck on his cheek and nods for Iris to take him upstairs.

Once they're gone, Lorena tracks down her work phone, again no true loss, and opens the front door long enough to shove the cell into Agent Sullivan's waiting hand. "When will I hear more?" Neither man speaks. "Really? That's how you're going to play this? Caleb, your wife cooked for me for weeks after Asher was born, our kids have played together for years."

"I'm following orders, Lorena, you know this isn't personal."

"It feels pretty goddamn personal from where I'm standing."

Lorena slams the door in their faces and turns the deadbolt loud enough to make a point. She doesn't actually leave the door until she hears the car pull away, at which point she allows herself a minute to crumble. Angry tears well in her eyes as she sinks into a sitting position against the door. She can see herself in the mirror on the opposite wall, can see how shrunken and afraid and pathetic she looks, and she rips off her heel with a frustrated growl and throws it at her reflection. A crack spiders out from the point of impact, distorting her face and only serving to make her feel worse.

With her allotted one minute of self-pity now up, Lorena hauls herself back to her feet and straightens her clothes before making her way upstairs. She finds the kids sitting calmly on the floor of Iris's room, playing a board game that neither is paying attention to. Lorena sits down on the floor next to them and hugs her knees. "Hey, guys."

"What's going on?" Iris whispers. Shit, she'd heard the mirror break.

"We're safe for now," Lorena is fast to assure Iris, hoping to relax her, "I just...made a mistake at work."

Asher stops his turn to pay attention to the conversation, only starting to catch on that something might be wrong. She wonders briefly whether she should lie to keep them calm, but decides against it. Since Garcia died, she'd made a habit of radical honesty with her kids, perhaps because she knew her personal life was the one place she could be honest.

None of the parenting books had covered a conversation on treason with a 7 and 15 year old, though.

"Can't you just apologize?" Iris asks, brow furrowed.

"I wish that were enough, sweetheart." Lorena pulls Iris against her for a one-armed hug she's in desperate need of, and her daughter is quick to pick up on her mother's silent distress. Asher still seems confused but understands hugs well enough, and he clambers across the floor so he can squeeze her opposite side. Sandwiched between the two, she feels her nervous energy settling into determination instead. There was no other option on the table but to fight back. "I'll get it figured out," Lorena says, both as a promise to them and to herself. "We've come this far. Don't worry."

"We're not worried. Are we, Ash?"

Asher shakes his head and gives his mother a beaming smile. She can see so much of Garcia in him, from the grey-green eyes hidden behind his thick lensed glasses to the dark unruly mop he was born with. The more he grew, the more he resembled his father - same dimples, same cowlick, same laugh (albeit a few octaves higher for now).

It made it all the more painful that he'd never met his father. Garcia died and two weeks later she pissed on a stick and was horrified to see a plus sign. Out of nowhere she was both a widow and pregnant single mother, and nine months later she gave birth to a screaming little boy with no one there to grip her hand, yelling curses at her husband who should have been there but wasn't and the cruel God who'd stolen him from her. Having to go through postpartum depression and a crisis of faith at the same time had nearly wrecked her, but she made it through much stronger.

Then again, nowadays she isn't sure whether to call it strength that she'd learned to compartmentalize all of her grief and worry into one minute of falling apart per day, so long as during all the other minutes she had the strength to stand. She once would have poured out her soul and eased her burdens at the end of a long day in prayer, but she'd not spoken to God in close to seven years, her trust in His guidance now shattered in a way she had no will or true desire to heal.

Lorena kisses both of her children on the forehead and gives them one final tight squeeze, tight enough to elicit giggles. "I don't know how I got so lucky to have such good kids." Releasing them, she nods her head toward the door. "Iris, why don't you and Asher go wash up and set the table while I make dinner?"

Iris nods and tugs on her brother's arm to follow her to the bathroom. "C'mon, Ash."

Lorena waits until both of them have left before she retrieves the dismantled burner phone and business card from her pocket. She replaces the battery in the back and turns it on, then drafts a quick message for Rufus and hits send before heading to track down a box of chicken nuggets.

---

Need deep dive on Denise Christopher ASAP. FBI agent. - L

FBI is involved? - R

I don't know yet. - L

DC looks clean. Spotless record, commendations galore - what's going on? - R

FBI investigating leaks. Not a suspect but boss took my hardware for internal investigation - might be a target on my back. We need to meet asap. - L

---

Rufus's heart beats faster as he stares at Lorena's response. Oh shit, this was not good on so, so many levels. They still had no idea how many in the NSA were reporting back to Rittenhouse, though they were at least positive someone was, if not several someones. If the FBI was now getting involved then they were finally starting to take the leaks seriously, but the evidence he had on hand at this point was only for a fraction of the double agents planted in each branch of the US government. It was, at best, enough to take out a few significant players, but wouldn't be the deathblow to Rittenhouse that he was hoping for. Everything was happening too fast, too soon.

I'll wait to hear from you. What are you going to do now? - R

A full minute goes by before the one word response appears.

Pray.

---

April 11, 1912
Queenstown, Ireland

3 days to impact

The blast of a ship's foghorn as it departs port wakes Lucy abruptly from the first restful sleep she's had in what feels like weeks. Disoriented for a moment, she glances around the room, trying to puzzle out from the fixtures where she is. It's only once she sees Flynn lying facedown in the bed opposite, snoring softly beneath a tufted blue quilt, that she remembers where she is.

She takes a few more minutes to simply lay in bed and look around the room as the midday sun casts light through the windows. The striped blue wallpaper was at once dated in style but applied recently, the scent of the glue still faintly noticeable if one leaned close enough to it. Everything in the room was gleaming and new, a perspective of the Titanic that she wasn't used to seeing outside of dramatic reenactments or elaborately built movie sets.

Lucy stretches once more, groaning softly as her stiff muscles protest, and then turns and lets her legs dangle off the edge of the bed. She's clothed in an awful nightdress, the first sign of pajamas she'd found in the crates, but after the previous night's tossing and turning, she'd be hunting down men's pajamas for the rest of their journey.

Thankfully, she'd also managed to find a dressing gown, and tugs it off the hook next to the bed so she can slip it over the baggy cotton nightdress - not that Flynn was even awake to see her in it, but she's unwilling to take the risk - before she pads across the carpet to the restroom that is tucked into the corner, desperately needing to pee and silently thanking Flynn for choosing one of the few rooms with a private toilet. At this point it feels like a luxury to have access to running water, not to mention the bathtub she spots as she washes her hands. God, she hadn't had a bath in ages - months, at least, thanks to her military accommodations. She'd be availing herself of that amenity later, if she got the chance.

For now, she simply steps into the tub and turns the knobs for the shower. The water is cold initially, then unbearably hot, before settling to a reasonable temperature just shy of scalding. The ship-provided soap feels grainy against her skin, but it gets the job done, and she emerges from the bathroom several minutes later clothed only in her dressing gown with her hair twisted up into a towel on top of her head. Flynn appears to be still asleep, lying with his back to her now, and she tiptoes across the room in an attempt not to wake him. They all deserved to catch up on sleep, perhaps their still-injured bodyguard most of all.

The sun is once again streaming through the windows of their private promenade, and Lucy wraps her dressing gown tighter around herself before stepping out of the warmth of the salon. The fresh air isn't as cold as expected, and she abandons hugging herself for warmth to instead tug the towel from her head so she can squeeze her hair dry while staring out over the waves, lost in thought.

Flynn had returned to their room sometime in the night, and though his return hadn't woken her, his touch as he drew the hair out of her face and tucked it behind her ear certainly did. She'd watched him shed his suit as he returned to his bed, her eyes drawn first to the multitude of scars across his back, then to...other locations once he shed his trousers as well. That particular view only lasted seconds before he slipped into the lower half of the pajamas she'd laid at the foot of his bed, then crawled beneath the quilt and drifted off almost instantly. His mere presence there was enough to chase away the nightmares that were plaguing her, and she'd had her first honest-to-god restorative sleep in a long, long time, which she hoped was the case for Flynn as well.

Once her hair is as dry as she's going to get it, she sets to loosely braiding it from the nape of her neck down. Upon finishing that task, she gathers the braid up onto her head, and with a few deftly applied pins she's left with a reasonably Edwardian crown braid. Normally she'd ask Jiya for help, but she hadn't seen the other woman since she'd stormed off the night before.

A glance in the mirror above the parlor fireplace confirms that her hair will pass cursory inspection, and she nods at her reflection before turning to head back to the bedroom.

And shrieks as she immediately bumps into another person standing just behind her, taken off guard. She quiets fast as she feels Flynn's hands on her shoulders, steadying her.

"Woah, hey." Once her footing is fully recovered, he lets go. "Didn't intend to frighten you."

"You didn't," Lucy says quickly, her eyes semi-involuntarily drifting down to his still bare chest before she forces herself to focus on his face. "Just startled."

Flynn shrugs and heads back to the bedroom, scratching the patchy stubble on his chin. Lucy follows him wordlessly, their paths diverging as he disappears into the washroom for a shower while she looks through the multitude of dresses hanging in the wardrobe opposite her bed. She eventually decides on a pale green day dress that she hangs from the wardrobe door. It's beautiful, a testament to fashion made by hand with loving care, each piece unique to the buyer.

Unfortunately, it also comes with one definite downside; she glares at the corset she'd tossed over a chair the night before. Lacing it had been hard enough even with Jiya's help, let alone trying to lace it on her own. She tugs on the various base pieces she'd need prior to attempting the corset - bloomers, chemise, petticoat, dear god this was already too much fabric for a hot spring day - then sighs and lays the stiff garment against her chest.

Flynn chooses that moment to emerge from the bathroom, freshly showered and shaved and once again wearing his pajama bottoms so he can track down clothes. He spots Lucy across the room struggling with the laces behind her back and is quick to come to her aid, his deft fingers taking over for her. Within seconds he has the entire thing laced bust to bum, and by the end of it Lucy's entire face is burning.

The corsets of the time, contrary to their earlier predecessors, were long and stiff, making it unnecessarily difficult for her to get around. But once she slips the green dress on (again with Flynn's help to button it up the back) she forgets about the uncomfortable undergarment and stares at her reflection in awe. It was everything out of her daydreams of being a passenger on the ship - daydreams she'd had since seeing the film in her youth and falling in love with the fashion of the time - and she smiles as she wonders briefly how many dresses the Lifeboat could safely hold for the ride home.

"Beautiful," Flynn says, peering over her shoulder at her reflection. "You're just missing the final touch."

She doesn't get a chance to ask what that is before he lifts a necklace over her head, a chain of silver embedded with tiny white stones that, if she had to guess, were diamonds. "Do you think that's a good idea?" she asks, touching the necklace gently as Flynn finishes clasping it behind her neck.

"All of these people are wealthy enough to buy a country, Lucy. Not only do I think you're perfectly safe, I think you'd look out of place without it."

Flynn reaches into the wardrobe and produces a brown tweed day suit that looks roughly like it will fit him. He drapes it over the end of the bed, then tracks down a dress shirt and suspenders. Lucy faces the wall to give him some privacy, peeking over her shoulder after a few minutes to check if he's finished. He's donned most of the outfit with surprising speed and is dragging his thumbs beneath the suspenders to ensure they lay flat against his chest.

Watching as he puts the final touches on his outfit, Lucy can't quite pull her eyes away, and the burning in her cheeks only gets worse as Flynn then slips his shoulder holster on and turns to retrieve the jacket, giving Lucy an excellent view of the array of tight straps criss crossing his broad shoulders. She's still staring when he turns back, slipping the jacket on as he does so, and flourishes his arms to present her with the final look.

"Period appropriate this time?"

"Yes." She lets her eyes drift over him as she judges his outfit. "Missing a hat, though."

"Your attention to detail is both a blessing and a curse." His teasing is enough to get a small grin out of her. "There it is."

"There what is?"

"Your smile." He fastens the last few buttons of his blazer and retrieves a hat from the wardrobe that is roughly the same shade of brown as his suit, then offers an arm to Lucy. "Shall we?"

"Just a second." Lucy knocks on Jiya's bedroom door but gets no response. Whether it's an intentional snub or the other woman is absent, she has no way to tell, and isn't about to barge in to find out, something that would no doubt only serve to make the strain between them worse. "Right. Breakfast."

Lucy waits until they've exited to the hallway and Flynn has locked the room behind them before she takes his proffered arm. Her hand gently grips the curve of his bicep and she can't help but give it a light squeeze of appraisal. Flynn doesn't react except for a soft snort of amusement.

Lucy turns her head slightly so she can see him in her peripheral vision and looks him over as they walk down the corridor - not at his face, which was becoming so familiar to her, but everything else she had never stopped to notice, like the way his meticulously styled hair was constantly at war with a small cowlick near his temple, or the trail of faint freckles cutting a path across his neck that disappeared somewhere on the other side of his adam's apple. They'd spent so much time running away from, alongside, and toward each other that this felt like the first time they'd slowed down enough for her to look at Flynn and see him not just as her trusted teammate and friend, not just as a grieving widower filled with pain, but as a man with once boyish good looks that had hardened thanks to decades of lived experience, leaving him no less handsome - more so, if she was honest with herself.

"Where to?" Flynn asks softly once they've reached the grand staircase, snapping Lucy out of her visual analysis. She turns before Flynn can notice her studying him and glances around, her eyes lighting up as she spots a sign on the wall opposite.

"Cafe Parisien!" she whispers loudly to Flynn, nearly pointing like a delighted child before she remembers where and when they are.

"Are you just mentioning it, or directing us there?"

"Both."

"Well then, by all means, lead the way, professor."

They're just taking their seats when Molly Brown appears in the cafe entrance, her eyes scanning the room before landing on them. She shuffles her way through the tables, apologizing as she goes to other passengers she might be disturbing, a wide grin on her face.

"Well now, don't you two look downright at home," she says as she reaches their table, helping herself to a spare seat briefly so she isn't hovering over them. "I'm still getting my sea legs under me, I'll admit, but the accommodations and amenities on hand are making it much more pleasant than usual."

"You're enjoying your cabin, then, Mrs. Brown?" Lucy asks, genuinely curious. She'd always had a soft spot for the ship and its eclectic mix of upper echelon passengers, none more than the woman currently before her, and her eagerness to lose herself in the history they were living was, at least at present, much more compelling than their actual reason for being there.

"Mrs. Brown was my mother-in-law, hun. Call me Maggie - or, what was it you said yesterday, Molly? That's not half bad either. Tell you what, Maggie or Molly is fine by me."

"I suppose it's only fitting you use our names as well." The L is half-formed in her mouth, but she catches herself this time, correcting before she can blurt the wrong thing. "Elizabeth and Thomas."

"Lizzie and Tom, huh?" Molly laughs at the mixed reaction she gets to that. Flynn seems amused by their guest and is grinning at Molly, while Lucy can't decide whether to be scandalized like a proper lady of the time would be, or thrilled that the Molly Brown thought of her as a friend.

"Lizzie and Tom are just fine," Flynn fills in when Lucy stays silent.

Molly laughs again. "I'm just teasing you both, of course. My real reason for stopping by was just to remind you of dinner and to ask whether you might consider escorting me as well, Mr. Cardeza. I'm traveling alone and I feel I've already imposed too much on poor Jacob and Madeleine as it is."

"I'd be delighted to have you on my other arm, Molly."

"Hoo- wee , girl, you found yourself a smooth one here. If you don't keep him, send him my way." Molly gives Flynn a mischievous wink, Lucy a final grin, then excuses herself to go track down the 1st class dining saloon for lunch.

Finally alone, Flynn and Lucy order an assortment of fresh pastries and fruit to go along with their strong coffees, and they burn through their breakfast in a matter of minutes, barely taking the time to savor the best food they've had in weeks.

"I can't believe we slept through the ship docking," Lucy sighs, chastising herself more than anything. "I'm not usually so careless."

"You're tired, Lucy. Both of us are. Lets just hope our absent teammate managed to find something poking around the ship before it left shore."

Practically on cue, Jiya appears at the entrance to Cafe Parisien, decked out in the traditional black and white dress uniform of a private maid. She makes her way across the room to them and gives Lucy a hasty curtsy before she leans forward to whisper, "I spoke with some of the White Star staff this morning as they were setting up for breakfast, and it sounds like the ship is going to offload some cargo in Ireland and swap out some of the engineering staff to ensure the men in the boiler room are in top shape for the journey."

"I think that's new." She rolls her eyes at the look they give her. "I'm not a robot - I'm reading as we go so the information is fresh but even I can only read so fast. The original crew of firemen were mostly hired in Southampton, that much I do recall."

"Exactly, which is why I figured I could sneak into engineering later, ask around about new faces or anything that seems out of place."

Flynn takes a thoughtful sip of his coffee and grimaces as he finds it now cold. "It's not a bad plan, but you'll need a new disguise that fits if you want to get away with pretending you're a man. You're not fooling anyone in that getup you had on yesterday."

"Fine. I'll look through steerage for someone more my size and 'borrow' an outfit." Jiya notices Lucy's nervous expression and sighs. "Yes?"

"Not that I doubt your ability to blend in, but...wouldn't Flynn sneaking into engineering be safer?"

Jiya gives her a strained smile. "We gave up that option when you two decided to play dress up as two of the wealthiest people onboard. Do you think anyone is going to buy that Thomas Cardeza has business to attend to in the boiler room?"

"Ah. That's...true."

"Also, in addition to knowing what I'm looking at, I'll likely blend in more. I'm small and unassuming, I can sneak around easier than the ent here."

"Ent?" Lucy looks to Flynn for clarification and he shrugs.

Jiya looks at them with mild contempt. "Seriously, not even Lord of the Rings? You two need to brush up on your pop culture, my references are wasted on you." She curtsies once more and smiles, announcing slightly louder than necessary, "Well, ma'am, I'll be off to prepare the room."

Prepare the room? Lucy mouths to Jiya, who shrugs, about-faces, and heads back in the direction of their stateroom. Once she's disappeared from view, Lucy sighs and slumps back in her chair. "I worry about her doing these things with no backup."

Flynn smiles. "I admire her gumption." Lucy raises an eyebrow and waits for him to elaborate. "She's taking her pain and channeling it somewhere productive. Is she taking more risks than she used to? Maybe. Did she earn the right to do so when she spent 3 years in the past? She'd probably argue as much. I don't know that I would disagree."

Lucy tilts her head and looks at Flynn curiously. "That sounds a lot like something from the Book of Jiya."

He stares down at the empty coffee mug in his hand, eyes unfocused. "This team shares an unfortunate common ground that I think ultimately binds us together."

"Our loss."

"It's the human condition, isn't it? To want more time with the people you love. But we have the power to go back and make changes to history, to actually make that happen."

"And the self-control not to play god."

"Perhaps you do." He offers a weak smile. "We're not all as righteous as you, Lucy."

"It's starting to feel a lot less like righteousness these days and a lot more like naivety."

Before Flynn can ask what she means, a White Star staffer appears at their tableside, and Lucy quickly shifts her attention to the welcome distraction.

"Miss Keynes, I'm here for your noon appointment."

She stares at him. "Sorry?"

Perplexed, the staffer glances down at the card tucked surreptitiously into one hand. "A last minute appointment was placed yesterday for a treatment in the Turkish bath for Miss Elizabeth Keynes-"

"That's correct," Flynn says abruptly.

Lucy turns her attention to him and quickly realizes what must have taken place.

"You booked me a spa treatment?" she whispers, confused and wondering what his angle could possibly be. The longer she looks at the smile he's giving her the clearer it becomes that there isn't one. "Why?"

"She'll be with you in just a moment," Flynn says to the intruding staff member, who dutifully bows and goes to wait near the cafe entrance, relieved not to be left hovering over them while they sort things out. Flynn returns his attention to Lucy once they're alone again. "Go. Relax for an hour or two."

"There's no time for this-"

"Lucy, for god's sake, you are human, we've had no time for rest, and two hours will not make or break whatever plan Rittenhouse has in play. We know what our mission time limit is. Take a minute to recharge. Jiya and I will hold down the fort."

She stares at his earnest face, biting her lip as she wrestles with her own indecision, before the bone-deep exhaustion wins out. She mouths thank you to Flynn before she rises from the table and goes to meet up with the waiting staffer, each step already feeling heavier.

---

"Jack, over here!"

Jiya smiles as she spots Nora through the crowd of steerage passengers in the 3rd class common area, both arms busy wrangling her children to stay close. They meet somewhere in the middle of the room and both kids offer her a shy wave that she returns.

"What are you three up to?"

"The children were hoping to take a walk on the boat deck and see the ocean. Care to join us?"

"Ah, I'd love to, but I'm actually on a bit of a mission."

Nora raises an eyebrow, a conspiratorial smile curling her lips. "What mischief are you getting up to?"

"Nothing dire." Jiya tugs at her baggy shirt to demonstrate just how much excess fabric is present. "I just realized I cannot go another week in these clothes."

Nora laughs. "Is that all? Easily solved. Roisin, watch your brother for me, stay close."

She releases the grip she has on her children to lead Jiya down a nearby hall, this one even more claustrophobic than the maze of halls above. They stop at a room where the door is already hanging open to reveal a gaggle of women who are sharing the room with the small family. Jiya offers them a smile as Nora busies herself digging through what Jiya presumes (or hopes) is her own luggage, and after a minute or two of rummaging produces what appears to be men's clothes that will fit her.

"These can't be Aiden's size."

"Good lord, no," Nora laughs, "These belong to his father."

Jiya looks up, surprised. "Your husband is here?" Truthfully, she's just as shocked Nora's husband is still alive, as she'd assumed the family was poor and on their own, but she swallows her prejudices. "Where is he?"

"In New York." Nora rummages a bit more and retrieves a small framed photo that she hands to Jiya. The slender man seated in the monochrome photo, while handsome, isn't particularly well off, his outfit reminding her of the hasty patch jobs her mother would do on her father's clothes so he could put off purchasing more, the bulk of their money instead going toward their children's future education.

(It was a cruel irony that her father's life insurance policy was all it took to quickly pay back her MIT loans, and all it cost was her father. It still didn't feel worth it.)

"Handsome fella." Jiya hands the photograph back to Nora, who looks down at it with adoration.

"I think so too. Apparently, he wears a beard these days - he says it's to stay warm in the winters, but I know that's just his excuse. He knows I can't stand the damn things." Nora laughs and tucks the photo of her husband away again, and it's at that moment that the telltale shriek of a larger sibling accidentally managing to hurt a smaller one echoes from out in the hall. "It would be my children causing a scene, wouldn't it?" she sighs as she shuffles between Jiya and her crowd of roommates. "Feel free to change and meet us on the boat deck, Jack, no need for you to help wrangle the cats. They've energy to burn at the moment so I'd best get them up there."

Jiya tracks down a nearby water closet that happens to be free and quickly shirks her oversized clothing in favor of the fitted items, and is happy to see they still fit loose enough not to give away her gender, at least not at first glance. The outfit passes the blend test with flying colors as she makes her way up to the 3rd class boat deck, not drawing a single glance from other passengers.

The kids are playing with a spinning top on the deck when Jiya finally tracks the family down, and she makes her way over to them and crouches next to Aiden.

"Do you guys know what makes it stand up like that?"

They shake their heads.

"Magic?" Roisin ventures with a shy smile.

Jiya laughs. "Of a sort It's because of physics." She whispers the word as if she's sharing a secret, and gets blank looks in return. "Do you know what gravity is?" They nod. "Okay, that's a good start. Here, let me show you."

Once she's finished her lesson, Jiya joins Nora on the bench she's been watching the proceedings from while the children continue their game, freshly armed with a newfound understanding and appreciation of the real magic behind the toy.

"You know science," Nora comments without looking her way. "Well, from the sounds of things."

"I know a thing or two."

"Are you a teacher?"

"No, nothing like that." She struggles with how to explain the concept of programming to someone born and bred in the 19th century who wasn't named Ada Lovelace, and ultimately doesn't even try. "I'm just really good with machines and stuff."

"It's your passion."

It isn't a question so much as a statement. Jiya doesn't respond. It was her passion, once, a passion that led her to apply at Mason Industries shortly after graduating at the top of her class. It was her code filling in the gaps for Rufus that finally allowed the Mothership to travel while seating more than the three that the Lifeboat could accommodate (at the time), something that was initially a blessing and put her name on the map but was ultimately a curse once Flynn stole it and filled those extra seats with even more trained killers.

But all of that feels a lifetime ago now, as she sits staring out over the choppy waters of the Atlantic, the frigid wind biting at their cheeks and reminding her of just how cold that water would be.

An image flashes in her mind, a vivid daydream of her newfound friends floating in the water, clutching to one another but no longer moving, and whether her imagination or an ill omen of the future, she can't tell anymore. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she feels sick to her stomach.

Nora is quick to notice. "Are you alright?"

Jiya nods and sighs, straightening slowly once the nausea passes. "There's a lot on my mind."

"I've been told I'm a good listener."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin. It's...really complicated."

"We have time."

Jiya examines her chipped, battered fingernails. She used to love painting her nails a different color each week, but hadn't touched a bottle of nail polish in three years thanks to the exorbitant cost of what passed for nail polish in the late 1800s. Not to mention a working woman's hands didn't stay pristine for long between scrubbing clothes clean with a bucket and washing board or stabbing herself repeatedly with shoddy needles in an attempt to darn the only pair of socks she owned.

After a long moment of silence Jiya murmurs, "I don't know where I belong."

Her companion stays silent, dutifully listening.

"I was a...modern woman." She struggles with how to translate a 21st-century lifestyle into one Nora would recognize. "I had the best schooling, easy access to food and water, didn't want for anything. And then I was...kidnapped, and though I got away in the end, I had to lay low in a place that was very, very different from anything I knew. I was on my own and…"

"Scared?" Nora supplies, and Jiiya nods, her throat suddenly tight.

"I was terrified. I felt lost and alone, and there was no one there to tell me what to do to get out of it. I just had myself."

"And? How did you fare in the end?"

She smiles despite the tears in her eyes. "Pretty decently. I scraped together some savings that I'd intended to put toward some land, maybe start my own business, and I'd made some friends despite the circumstances."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"It wasn't, until they found me."

"Your kidnappers?"

"No, my friends." She can tell it's not what Nora expected to hear. "They came racing in with the man I loved, come to whisk me back to the lap of luxury, convinced they were saving me and not realizing it was me saving them all along. Saving him." She wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. "That old life, without him, feels pointless, and I know that sounds ridiculous-"

"Not as much as you would think," Nora cuts in with a smile. "I grew up part of a wealthy household, much like you. Best schools, my pick of handsome wealthy suitors, a giant luxurious birdcage to be held prisoner in. So naturally, I rebelled in the most wicked ways possible, and that's how I met Robert." Her face lights up as she recounts the story, lost in her memories. "He had no money to speak of, at least not anything like my family's fortune, and as far as my parents were concerned he was a nobody and therefore not a prospect for me. But when I was with him, the whole world faded away. He didn't see me as property to inherit from my father like all the rest of my suitors - he just saw me. Loved me. And when I first fell pregnant with that little one over there-" A nod to Roisin. "-we decided it was time to leave my family well behind us and start a life together. And it was a life I loved, despite its hardships, but the work in Southampton eventually dried up too, and Robert had no choice but to look for opportunities in America."

"Did he find it?"

"It took him some time, but his last letter came along with money for tickets, telling us to finally come and join him, and he drew me a picture of the little cabin he built us on a small plot of land...lord help me, I don't think I've ever felt more rich in life."

"How long has he been overseas?"

Nora thinks for a moment. "Must be about four years now. Aiden was still on the breast when he left."

Jiya blinks. Four years apart. Four years to build separate lives with virtually no contact beyond the occasional letter. Four years to become wildly different people, strangers to one another.

"You're not worried?" Jiya asks, curious. "What if he's become someone you don't recognize?"

"Of course he's changed, we both have, how could you not? But the words he's written me every month without fail since he left and the small gifts he sends for our children tell me his love for us hasn't changed, no matter how much he has."

"What if you get there and he says you've changed too much for him?"

"There are many things in this world I'm uncertain of, Jack, but Robert has never been one of them." She shrugs. "I don't know how to explain it, but in a hundred lifetimes, I would choose him every time, and I know he'd do the same. I think some people are just meant to be."

"I thought we were. Rufus and I." She grins. "Our first date should have been a disaster, we argued about so many things they tell you not to discuss when first meeting someone, but that just intrigued me more. It's not even that he agreed with or placated me - I just felt like he was listening, you know? And for someone who was so used to feeling small and voiceless for most of her life, being heard meant something."

"What's stopping you from being with him?"

"God, it's more like what isn't stopping us. It feels like everything in the universe is against us being together, these insurmountable obstacles that I can't even begin to fathom climbing. Part of me wonders if maybe this, right now, is the best-case scenario. We're trapped apart, but I'm safe and he's safe, and that's the whole reason I suffered to begin with, isn't it? If he comes back, if he's in danger again, if I lose him again , then what was the point of any of it?"

It would be an understatement to say that Nora looked confused, but Jiya herself isn't sure if she understands half of what she's babbling about. Instead, she nods toward the kids. "You have a couple of smart cookies over there, mama. I'm impressed they already know about gravity."

"The one thing my parents did right was my education. It's only fair I give my children the same, or as close to it as I can. I dream of teaching someday. A small village schoolhouse, now isn't that a lovely thought." She smiles at Jiya. "That schoolhouse might need more teachers one day if you're ever passing through New York."

Jiya laughs. "No thank you. Despite current appearances, I can assure you I am terrible with children."

"And I can assure you, Jack, that we are our own worst critics. I have eyes to tell me otherwise. Children are curious. I think they have that in common with you, hm? Perhaps that's why you seem to have such an impact on them."

Fei springs to her mind quite out of nowhere. They'd met when she sought out a photography studio in San Francisco's Chinatown that would be willing to barter with her in lieu of money for the photo. Fei had braided Jiya's hair down her back, placing flowers in the braid where they were well out of sight of the camera, and Jiya had indulged the girl's fun. It had been the first smiles she'd had in weeks since she'd crash-landed in 1886, and her kinship with the young girl had continued in the years afterward as Jiya unwittingly took on the role of mentor.

Looking up Fei in the present had been an exercise in futility. The little girl that had impacted her life so heavily wasn't even a footnote on history, as if she never existed outside of the memory of a woman who didn't belong anywhere. History had forgotten so many, had failed so many, and all of them had mattered, just as Fei had, just as Nora and her children did. The team could hide their decisions in the past, or lack thereof, behind meant-to-be or some vague concept of fate, but at the end of the day the only thing necessary for evil to triumph was for good men to do nothing, and standing by like a good little government soldier while someone else called the shots was getting old.

With the sun just starting to set, Jiya quickly excuses herself and makes her way back down into the underbelly of the ship, hunting for the previously spotted entrance to the engineering decks. She finds it just as the stairs are filling with passengers headed to change for dinner and takes advantage of the crowd cover to slip through the door unnoticed.

---

"What should I expect in terms of etiquette?" Flynn asks Lucy as he gathers the pieces of his tuxedo from the evening previous. Thankfully the smell of cigar smoke has faded by now enough that he can stand being near the fabric without his eyes watering.

"Ten different utensils by your plate, several tiny portions of food, plenty of free-flowing champagne, and a lot of self-important people fawning over each other for various achievements."

Lucy is seated at her vanity in their shared room attempting to style her hair into yet another updo that wouldn't resemble the previous two attempts, a task she's struggling with as a dreamy look occasionally takes over her face. The lingering effects of her massage have left her somewhat foggy (though apparently the offer of a facial treatment heavy on the mercury after her massage had been enough to sober her up, at least enough to remember where she was and what exactly she was doing there). Each time Flynn glanced at her and spotted the dazed expression he had to contain a chuckle - he already knew how Lucy would react to feeling laughed at, and he wanted her to savor the after-effects at least long enough to recharge. She'd been operating on an empty tank for so many days already that her spark seemed to have dulled, if not gone out entirely. It was his turn to offer her the strength she'd given him so many times in the past.

"Any asses in particular Cardeza would kiss?"

"Well, if my suspicions are correct, this will be the captain's table that we're dining at, which probably means all the top players on board. Andrews and Ismay, at least, will likely be seated with our group, to satisfy the curiosity of wealthy future investors and answer any questions people might have."

"Andrews and Ismay having built the ship?"

"More or less. Andrews designed it, Ismay paid for it."

"Does that make them suspects?"

Lucy pauses. "You know, I hadn't considered that, but you're right."

"I wouldn't be surprised if the whole lot of them were corrupt." Flynn strides into the bedroom while attempting to tie his bowtie and leans over Lucy's shoulder in the vanity mirror so he can see what he's doing. "How many of them survive the sinking?"

"Cardeza and Ismay managed to get on lifeboats. The rest went down with the ship, whether by chance or choice. Do you know what you're doing?"

Flynn growls in frustration and lets the bowtie fall limp around his neck. "When was the necktie invented?"

"What you actually need to ask is when was it popularized," Lucy says as she turns and stands, taking each end of the silk bowtie in hand. "Unfortunately it won't be for another eight years, but lucky for you…" She twists the fabric in a variety of directions, chewing the edge of her lip as she focuses on her task, and within seconds has fashioned a tidy and even bowtie at his neck, the same as she had any number of times in her younger years when she'd asked her father to teach her. "...I am the daughter of a couple of history professors."

"Ah, forgot about Carol Preston's famous bowties."

That gets him a bright laugh from his dinner date. "You know I mean my dad."

"Henry, wasn't it?"

Lucy smooths her hands over Flynn's lapels fondly, a bittersweet smile on her face. "Henry George Wallace, foremost expert on 18th century military history at Berkeley and two-time fishing derby winner." She looks up at him curiously. "How did you know about my dad?"

Flynn hesitates before answering. "His obituary was pasted into the journal."

"Not sure why I asked." Her face is sad. "I'd give anything to talk to my dad these days. Whenever I felt lost, he knew what to say."

"Fathers are good at bluffing." He smiles. "We make it up as we go, but if no one notices, that means it's working." Flynn's face shifts, subtle but noticeable, and he fiddles idly with the gold band on his left hand but stays otherwise silent.

Lucy is about to bring it up when they're interrupted by a knock at the door, and Flynn quickly about faces and heads for the door, waving for Lucy to remain behind while he investigates. His caution proves unwarranted when, opening the door, he finds a dolled up Molly Brown in the hall, a wide grin on her face as she takes in his formal attire.

"Evening, Tom. Hope I haven't caught you too early."

"Not at all, Molly." Flynn steps aside and extends an arm to beckon her in.

She whistles as she takes in the impressively furnished parlor before her. "This one must have cost a pretty penny."

Flynn smirks. "You'd be surprised."

"Molly!" Lucy emerges from the bedroom now fully clothed in a deep sapphire evening dress for which she's only fastened half of the buttons so far. "Nearly ready, as you can see."

Molly laughs and steps forward to help Lucy finish the remainder of the task. "Gorgeous frock. My daughter Helen has one just like it." She steps back and Lucy turns to face her dining party, both of which are grinning widely. "You're a picture in that, Lizzie. The rest of the ladies at the table will be fuming when they see you upstage them. I can't wait."

Flynn checks the clock on the mantle, then offers each woman an arm. "Shall we, ladies?"

Lucy's guess proves correct as they find themselves seated at a wide table with an assortment of the wealthy who's-who and the ship's captain himself, Edward James Smith. The latter is the last to arrive, beckoning his guests to seat themselves and gesturing for the stewards to commence the free flowing champagne.

Though the conversation is animated, Flynn can only keep up with half of what they're discussing (at one point, it sounds a bit like they're debating the quality of metal rivets used in the building process, and thankfully no one expects Thomas Cardeza, banker and purveyor of textiles, to have an opinion on metallurgy). He instead focuses his attention on the ladies seated near him, in particular the brunette to his right who is fiddling anxiously with a salad fork while she and Molly discuss recent developments in women's suffrage (much to the discomfort of the Countess of Rothes and Ida Strauss across from them, who clearly find it distasteful conversation for dinner). He can see the passion burning in Lucy's eyes again, much like it would a year from now when she marched on the Capitol in Alice Paul's place, and he can tell the very same event is close to her mind as she lowers her hands to her lap and picks at the fabric of her dress - she's holding back in her arguments so as not to give away their stolen identities, and the effort of it was clearly doing a number on Lucy's already-prominent anxiety.

He places his palm gently over the hand Lucy is fidgeting with and she automatically turns it over to grasp his without turning her attention away from the friendly yet spirited discussion she's engaged in. Taken aback, Flynn glances down at their clasped hands and can't contain the hint of a smile that tugs at his lips. Feeling emboldened, he drags his thumb gently back and forth along her finger, the caress a constant reminder to her that he had her back, both figuratively and literally.

"Edward, tell me," Ismay says loudly from his seat to the captain's left, obviously hoping the entire table will stop and pay attention to him, "how fast do you think the ship is now moving as we enter open water?"

"We're moving steady at 18 knots at the moment but it's likely we'll be able to push her a few more as we cross into the open ocean"

"Wonderful. I believe she's designed to handle 23 knots?"

Attention turns to Mr. Andrews, who is mid-sip and quickly sets down his drink as he realizes they're waiting on him for an answer. "That she is, Bruce."

"How quickly could we cross, do you think, if the ship were to move at top speed?"

The captain takes some time to think, and Flynn peers across the table at Ismay, sizing up the man who for his part doesn't seem to have noticed the extra scrutiny - if anything, he's relishing the extra attention, seeming to Flynn to be nothing more than a deeply insecure man desperately hiding the fact.

"Might only take a few days," Captain Smith says, which gets a wide grin from Ismay. "There's no reason to push her on the first voyage, though, Bruce. I'd rather put her through the paces first."

"Of course, but imagine if we arrived in New York early! The papers are already marveling at her size, we need to show them her speed. Imagine the note you'd be retiring on, EJ - a historic crossing in every way for your final voyage as captain."

"Is that wise?" Lucy cuts in, her discussion with Molly having long since gone quiet as the table's full attention turned to Ismay. She doesn't let the looks the men give her deter her from continuing. "Surely we should be careful considering the ice flows-"

"There is always a time for caution, no doubt, but you needn't worry, Ms. Keynes. I give you my word that this ship is unsinkable. We gentlemen have everything in hand."

Lucy arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Shall I hold you to that, Mr. Ismay?"

"I'm always up for a friendly wager. I'd welcome any sum your fiance is willing to put down that we'll have a safe crossing." Ismay is clearly patronising her, convinced she's nothing more than a paranoid easy target, a dumb debutante who was lucky enough to bag herself a wealthy suitor.

"Very well," Flynn finally speaks up with a thin smile to Ismay. "A thousand pounds on the Titanic being just as mortal as the rest of us."

Astor laughs. "Good lord, Thomas. A fool is easily parted with his money."

Conversation continues on toward happier topics after that, the wager shrugged off as just a joke, but Flynn doesn't miss Ismay's calculating eyes dwelling occasionally on both he and Lucy.

---

Once she's rubbed a sufficient amount of coal dust onto her face and hands Jiya is able to get by unnoticed in engineering with surprising ease. Most of the men working are far too tired and busy to notice her slip by in silence, and only once is it implied she should take up a shovel and help; she hefts two (shockingly heavy) scoops of coal into a boiler before melting back into the crowd. That was definitely enough coal hefting to last her a lifetime.

She doesn't discover much at first beyond how underpaid and overworked the men in engineering are. Only a small selection of the twenty-nine boilers are lit at present, with a good chunk of the work going instead toward shoveling out a packed coal hopper that was smoldering and likely had been for some time judging by how much coal they'd already shifted out of it.

"How long has it been going now?" Jiya asks one of the men standing nearby in her best affectation of a deep male voice, mimicking an Irish brogue just for good measure. It turns out she needn't have worried as she has to repeat herself at a higher volume anyway just to be heard over the commotion.

"Since Belfast. Every time it seems like we've a handle on it the damn thing blazes up again. At this rate it'll be New York before it's out."

"That sounds bad."

The man snorts. "Bloody well is bad. Metal weakens under constant heat. Chief Engineer Bell argued with White Star it was a bad idea to set off without putting out the fire, and coal doesn't stop burning until it damn well decides it's done, but off they sent us regardless." He spits to the side, and though it's likely to rid himself of a mouthful of coal dust, she gets the feeling the gesture has more to do with his sentiment than anything else.

She moves on before her conversation partner can get a closer look at her face, instead maneuvering behind the massive boilers to look them over. Nothing seems out of place, at least as far as she can tell with an extremely rudimentary idea of how boilers and turbines work, and there are no plastic explosives or blinking LEDs in sight and no shifty looking characters loitering about.

Y'know, aside from her.

The watertight doors are an impressive feat of engineering that she can't help but stop and admire, her professional curiosity winning out over her caution. Each one towers above her, massive gears on either side working in tandem if activated to drop all sixteen heavy iron doors and seal off bulkhead compartments to contain leaks in the hull. It really was impressive for the time and she could see why so much of the crew had false confidence in the ship's impermeability.

"You new?"

Jiya ignores the question and attempts to shove past the man now standing in her path with her shoulder the way she'd seen hundreds of men do on TV. Unfortunately, she isn't built like any of those men, and he simply shoves her back with his shoulder.

"No, are you?" she replies rather lamely, forgetting the accent this time as she grows more and more flustered.

"You a stowaway?" he presses, now advancing on her. "Couldn't afford a ticket so you snuck on in the work crew but don't plan to do any work, that it?"

"No, I just-"

"Save the excuses for Bell, he's the one paid to deal with you."

The man only gets as far as grasping her forearm before Jiya throws a punch with her free hand. It barely connects with his jaw and doesn't seem to cause him any distress beyond surprising and pissing him off, and his grip only tightens. He gives her arm a sharp tug, dragging her after him, and it's in that movement that she trips over her own feet and a thrill of panic shoots through her as the cap falls from her head and the braid tucked beneath it tumbles down over one shoulder.

"The hell, you're a- JESUS!" He jumps back as she swings an errant pipe wrench she'd spotted in his direction, missing his chin by a hair's breadth but managing to connect solidly with his shoulder.

The man cries out in pain and releases her, all of his suspicion now turned to white hot anger, and Jiya has to take a few quick steps back to avoid the fists that swing wildly in her direction. She doesn't manage to avoid the hands that grip her lapels, however, and he slams her bodily against one of the cold, unused boilers. Her head smacks back against the metal thanks to sheer momentum and she feels the world swim around her, the sound of her assailant's angry words lost like she's hearing them from underwater.

He seems far less interested in simply delivering her unscathed to his superiors now that he's in pain and she's picked a fight, and he pins her against the boiler with one hand to her neck while reaching for her discarded pipe wrench with the other.

Something deep down, something instinctual and raw inside of Jiya kicks in, and as his fingers clench on her windpipe she throws her whole body into an attack, her fingers twisted like claws that she scrambles against his face, searching frantically for soft tissues to tear at in an effort to get away. Her fingernails find purchase in his cheek, tearing two shallow cuts in the flesh, and the man slaps a hand to his injured face and howls, releasing her as he's all at once lost in a world of agony.

He forgets about Jiya long enough that she can shove him back and run. Others begin to appear around them to look into the commotion but Jiya is already scrambling back up the ladders and gangways toward the exit above, her heart pounding as she propels herself forward faster than she ever though possible. She can hear them mobilizing a small search team below, yelling to alert the captain and master-at-arms, and she runs and runs, ignoring her burning lungs and the coppery taste in her mouth, runs to the only safe place she can think of.

---

"Sir, there's been an incident in engineering."

The message to Captain Smith isn't intended for Flynn and Lucy's ears but both of them tense as they overhear it. The captain is quick to excuse himself from the table before he presses for further details, and Flynn watches the conversation with keen eyes, unblinking and unmoving until Smith returns.

"Duty calls?" Flynn asks lightly, earning a sigh from Smith.

"Apparently a scuffle of some kind broke out between a fireman and a trimmer below decks. A small hassle, nothing more." He gathers his things and places his hat back on, then bows to the table. "Please, enjoy the rest of dinner in my absence."

Lucy waits a few minutes after the captain departs before she affects her most pained expression and rests a hand against her abdomen as if steadying herself. "Oh, Thomas, I think I may need to lay down."

Flynn looks concerned for a moment before he catches on to her ruse and slides easily into character with her. "Goodness, are you unwell, darling?"

"I feel faint. Perhaps I'm still getting my sea legs under me." She bows her head to those seated closest to her, in particular to her new friend Molly, who looks just as genuinely concerned as Flynn. "You'll have to excuse us, Margaret. I truly am sorry."

"Are you sure? If you need anything, I'm just down the hall, please don't hesitate-."

"I'm sure it will pass with some rest. Have a wonderful rest of the evening, Molly."

Lucy takes Flynn's arm and matches his calm pace as they make their way out of the dining room, only breaking into a hurried jog once they're alone in the corridor. Lucy's hands are shaking as she unlocks the door to their stateroom, and Flynn has only just locked it behind them before she's shedding layers of clothes, discarding the trappings of an aristocrat in search of something more practical so she'll be able to move around unseen.

"Lucy?"

"Help me with this." She turns her back to him so he can access the buttons running down the back of her dress, and he obediently unfastens the first few with a painful slowness that only serves to frustrate her. "I'd prefer to get out of this dress before I die of old age in it."

"I hope you aren't about to run into something without thinking it through," he says softly over her shoulder as he finishes the task given.

She chucks her corset across the room like a despised football. "The irony of hearing that from you."

"It won't help anyone, least of all Jiya, if you rush off and blow our cover story."

Despite talking her down, Flynn has already slipped on his shoulder holster and is checking the clip on his gun.

"You say one thing but the gun says another."

"I want to find her before the crew does. Whatever the hell happened, she clearly needed backup. You were right, she shouldn't have gone in alone."

"That's not-" Lucy sighs. "This isn't on you, Flynn."

"My only concern at present is the safety of that girl." He stands next to the door and listens for a moment, straining to hear footsteps in the hall outside. "Stay here until I find her. Please."

She's left behind for all of 30 seconds before Lucy snorts, "To hell with that," and throws a long dressing gown over her bloomers and chemise to join in the hunt.

---

Jiya jumps as there's a knock on the door to the Lifeboat, but she settles again as she sees Lucy's face peering up at her from the ground.

"I'll go if you want me to." Her voice is gentle, sympathetic. "You seem like you could use a friend, though."

Jiya looks at her with shining eyes and tries to speak, but can't find the words before she dissolves into sobs. She wraps her arms tightly around her legs and drops her forehead to her knees, trying to hide her face as she cries, and hears Lucy grunt and scramble in the doorway for a few seconds before she feels a soothing warm palm rest against her back.

"Jiya, what happened?"

The man's blood is still dried under her fingernails, and though her tears have washed away some of the coal dust streaks on her face, the clothes loaned to her by Nora were now filthy, the jacket sleeve torn at the elbow where she'd been grabbed. "A man came after me." Her voice is measured and her words seem rote, but fresh tears well in her eyes. She doesn't notice them. "And I stopped him."

"What did he do to you?"

"Nothing." She swallows. "I stopped him."

Lucy stares at her, trying to get a read on her, and then Jiya feels her friend's arms wrap around her, warm and reassuring, offering the lifeline she desperately needs. "You're safe now, Jiya," Lucy whispers softly, the same as the other woman had done for her in months previous.

Jiya squeezes her eyes shut and breaks down, slumping over in Lucy's lap and gripping her forearms tightly as she wails into the velvety fabric of the dressing gown. The intensity of her reaction takes both of them off guard, but Lucy simply folds herself over Jiya protectively, stroking her back and staying silent except for the occasional soft, "It's okay. I'm here."

Three years of pain floods out of her all at once, the walls finally toppled by her latest near death encounter. There was something terrifying about being seen, being weak and vulnerable and human, but the ghost of the man's hands on her neck still hasn't faded and Jiya can't bring herself to keep pushing people away. She'd never been more grateful for her friend's supportive presence, and the shame of how she'd treated her for the past few days floods over her.

"Lucy," she whispers, "I'm so sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No. Really." Jiya sits up so she can look her in the eye. "I've been a total ass since we got back from 1888, I've said horrible things-"

"And when I got back from 1918 with Rufus and Wyatt, I bit your head off for trying to make me coffee, remember?" Lucy gives her a gotcha smile. "Or had you forgotten that incident?"

Jiya had, admittedly, forgotten until now reminded. Lucy's return to the bunker after six weeks in Rittenhouse hands had not been without some hitches of its own. For starters, despite sharing a room, for the first several days Jiya was forced to sleep with a lamp on all night as Lucy frequently woke from nightmares, the most common one being Carol Preston waterboarding her daughter into compliance, and whether it was based on a memory or just a twisted concoction born from a thoroughly abused mind, Lucy never let on.

When the referenced coffee incident took place, Jiya had tried to bring Lucy a coffee in the morning before she woke, not realizing that Lucy's morning routine with Rittenhouse had been a rotation of pills washed down with tea before she was allowed to leave her bed. The flying molten ceramic had narrowly missed collision with her legs as Lucy flung it across the room, and the resulting shame at her loss of control left Lucy crying silently in her bunk afterward, no amount of reassurance from Jiya that it was alright easing the pain she felt. She'd crawled on the bed next to Lucy and hugged her close instead, waiting for her tears to subside, and in many ways they were in the same boat now, the roles reversed.

They're still in the same position when Flynn finds them, but he freezes in place halfway through pulling himself inside as Jiya looks up and shrieks, scrambling frantically back against the far wall as she doesn't recognize him at first as anything more than a huge figure looming over her in the darkness. Lucy waves for him to back up and give them space, to which he dutifully nods and retreats back to the floor, his eyes never leaving Jiya's curled up form.

"What happened?" he asks softly. His gaze dwells on her bloody nails. "Is she hurt?"

Lucy shakes her head.

"Is she okay?"

"She is right here," Jiya mutters, wiping her face with the sleeve of her blazer as she recovers from her misplaced panic, "and can speak for herself."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Did someone hurt you?"

"No, if anything I picked a fight. You should...you should see the other guy." She makes the joke with no mirth behind it. "Wait, Flynn-"

Lucy scrambles out of the Lifeboat after a departing Flynn. "Flynn, stop. Flynn. Garcia !"

He is somehow able to summon the self-control to stop when she asks, in part due to the jarring and rare use of his first name, but the storm of emotions on his face says everything about what's going through his head.

Lucy takes a breath, treading carefully now that she has his attention. "I know...exactly how you're feeling." She's struggling with her own vast array of emotions, fighting her own protective instincts, and the strain is evident in her voice. "I know you want to go and hunt down the man who caused that-" She points back at the open Lifeboat, toward Jiya. "-but you can't. I won't patronise you with the reasons why. You know them. And you know you can't."

He looks her dead in the eyes, his jaw clenched, and his voice is brimming with barely restrained rage as he chokes out, "What would you have me do, Lucy?"

She doesn't have an answer to that. They watch as he pulls back the slide on his pistol and shoves it roughly into the holster, then disappears to do god-knows-what to god-knows-who.

---

Fix it.

It's the only thought that's been running through Flynn's head for the last half hour. The next part of the thought - how he could fix it - was proving evasive thus far, and so in his hour of need he turns to a vice he's leaned on many times before and makes his way to the 1st class smoking lounge with the sole purpose of accessing the bar there.

"Vodka, neat." He waves two fingers as the bartender pours the initial ounce, beckoning him to continue until the glass is just under half full. He tips the man with a crumpled banknote from his pocket, not certain on the etiquette of tipping aboard the ship and not bothering to check how much it is since he's spending another man's money anyway.

He takes a sip as he makes his way across the room to the fireplace. The alcohol burns going down, taking the edge off the shitstorm of emotions inside. He wants to kill someone, wants to wrap his fingers around the windpipe of whatever son-of-a-bitch did that to his girl and squeeze until-

He takes another sip with an unsteady hand and squeezes his eyes shut. The image of Jiya, terrified of his very presence, is burned on the back of his eyelids, an unwelcome reminder of the man - the monster he used to be. He doesn't fully understand what took place, not yet, but he isn't stupid.

He needs to set things right.

He needs to fix it.

"Quite a commotion this evening, hm?"

Flynn turns to the voice and finds Bruce Ismay standing nearby, nursing a drink with one hand and a lit cigar with the other.

"What?"

"The ruckus in engineering. Seems a trimmer and fireman got into it, though the latter insists he did nothing to deserve the beating he got." Ismay sips his bourbon. "He'll finish out the voyage relieved of duty. Broke his collarbone in the fight. They'll dock him half-pay, of course, but considering he won't lift another finger and he'll still earn a wage...well, personally I'd be thanking the trimmer." Ismay chuckles to himself and shakes his head. "Never a dull moment on the sea."

Flynn studies Ismay in his periphery. Something was suspicious about the other man, something he still couldn't quite pin down, and now here Ismay was, presenting himself on a silver platter in search of the camaraderie of another rich, powerful man. Sensing an outlet, somewhere to direct his energy that might further the mission, he seats himself in a nearby armchair and gestures for Ismay to join him.

"What happened to the trimmer?"

Ismay shrugs. "Apparently scampered away before anyone could see them, but there's all sorts of rumors spreading. At first it was just a young stowaway, then it's a wog girl dressed as a man, or a drunk greaser who was just looking for a fight and picked the poor sap closest. Next they'll claim King George himself gave the man a wallop. I'm sure they'll find the lad soon enough - any of those descriptions will stand out."

Flynn's lip curls in distaste at Ismay's casual slurs. "Indeed."

The rumor mill suited them well in this case, as it would help to obscure the facts, and hopefully the ensuing investigation would end quickly thanks to a lack of leads. If not...well. He just hadn't gotten that far yet.

"I couldn't help but notice, Cardeza, and please say if I'm being too bold, but you seem a bit, ah, cavalier with your spending today."

The abrupt change in topic takes Flynn off guard. "What makes you say that?"

"Just an observation. Our friendly wager at dinner, then your generous tip to our friend over there." Ismay lifts his cup and wiggles it to signal to the bartender that he needs a refill. "In my experience, a man who spends like he has nothing to lose either has more money than he could ever hope to spend or has somehow managed to run out of most of it."

Flynn arches an eyebrow. "Speak plain, Ismay."

"I'm a helpful man. Or I try to be, at least." Ismay reaches inside his suit jacket and retrieves a business card that he extends to Flynn. "If you should ever need a hand - advice on the market, or perhaps a loan to get some exciting new ventures off the ground - please don't hesitate to reach out. You'll find I have friends in high places, men like ourselves who might need a hand now and then but who always seek to give back."

Flynn takes the card. "Thank you, Ismay."

"Call me Bruce."

Flynn's grin is all teeth, a shark circling oblivious prey. "Thank you, Bruce. I'll keep that in mind."