History repeats itself.
She knows that fact better than anyone, which is why she absolutely will not let her heart (or her hormones) or whatever the hell is going on inside of her come up with a victory. The only time people who lead with their hearts end up in history books is always accompanied with the footnote of horrible tragedy. Marc Antony and Cleopatra. Napoleon and Josephine. Héloïse and Abelard. Adolf and Eva. Don’t even get her started on Bonnie and Clyde. She is not about to add Lucy and Wyatt to that list.
It is stress, she tells herself. The urges, the desires, that always make her blush when he catches her eye across the room or helps her out of the Lifeboat are all just because of stress. She is cracking under it. She remembers the words he said to her in Germany about knowing what she is fighting for as a way to keep from falling apart, but she does not exactly know what to do when she is fighting against something.
Like her own damn hormones.
“Lucy.” Her mother’s voice cuts through the fog. “Your tea!”
She snaps back to reality to see her mother pointing at the screaming tea kettle. How long had it been whistling? Her hands shake as she cuts the gas on the stove and brings the kettle to pour herself a cup. The scents of chamomile and lavender fill her nostrils as she pours and she wonders how long she has to wait before she can drink it without burning her mouth to oblivion. This stuff is supposed to be calming, but she has the feeling that it is not even going to take the edge off.
Maybe she can figure out a way to inject it directly into her neural system.
“You okay?” It is her mom again and she all but jumps out of her skin again.
“Huh? Yeah. Sorry.” She wraps her hands around her mug to keep it from sloshing.
“What is going on with you?” Her mother sits on the stool across the kitchen island from where Lucy stands. “You haven’t been yourself in weeks.”
“I just -” She has a lie for this. She has practiced it in the mirror, but it still feels wrong saying it to her mother. “You know. I just am trying to figure some stuff out. It has all been so sudden with my new position -.”
Her mother frowns and cuts her off with a cluck of her tongue. “They work you too hard there. Who has ever heard of a historian working such bizarre hours?”
“Yeah. Well.” Lucy just shrugs. Her mother’s indifference is familiar territory at this point, but she still does not quite know how to field it. What she wouldn’t give for a little backup right about now. If Amy were here - “I’m just thankful to have a job in my field.”
“A job that is so stressful you can’t live with your fiance? Noah is going out of his head about all of this.”
It’s a low blow, especially considering her recent train of thought (and the fact she has to think hard to remember who Noah is) and Lucy looks down at her tea.
“It’s complicated, mom.”
“Oh. I know it is, babydoll, and I’m not pressuring you. You know you can stay here as long as you need.”
The sound of the phrase babydoll sends a braid of guilty pleasure so tightly down her spine that there is no way Lucy knows there is no way she can continue this conversation right now. She’s gotten better at lying, but she is nowhere near good enough to cover the blush that is spreading like wildfire across her skin at the recollection of a kiss that should mean nothing.
“Thanks mom.” She fakes a yawn. “I’m going to head to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She is on her way out of the kitchen, tea in hand, before she is even done speaking.
“Anytime you want to talk - you know where to find me!” Her mom calls after her, and Lucy feels bad for her hasty exit.
But she would feel even worse if she spilled the beans about the real reason why she had to leave.
It is only five seconds after she turns out the light before her fingers dip below the waistline of her panties. She thinks of a kiss that meant nothing and everything at the same time. She thinks of him and sighs.
She has no idea where he lives.
She has traveled, cumulatively, hundreds of years with the man, fought nazis, forged history, bested serial killers, but she has no idea where he sleeps at night. It is probably safer that way. If they don’t know where the other people in their team lives there is no way they can lead Rittenhouse to them, not that Rittenhouse would need any of them for that.
It seems they know everything anyway.
Trysts don’t make history.
Well - for the most part - they don’t if you are just a regular person. History making one-night-stands are reserved for movie stars and she is just a lowly historian so she is fairly certain she is not on any radar large enough to cement any kind of legacy. What she is more interested in is erasing the diary Flynn has in his possession.
Maybe, just maybe, she can alter the line of her life just enough that the book ceases to exist. Maybe, just maybe, she can work her way out of this. Maybe a tryst is just what she needs.
Lucy pops out her earbuds as she enters the house, winded and flushed. She’s taken up running, and she is bad at it, but she has heard it is a good stress reliever and boy howdy does she need some of that. She makes her way back to the kitchen to grab a drink of water to wash down the entire bottle of ibuprofen she is going to need after that extremely long (maybe she actually hit a mile this time) torture session when it happens.
“Noah stopped by. He left these.” Carolyn Preston points to the lush arrangement of peonies and roses on the kitchen counter. “Honestly Luc, you need to go talk to him. The poor boy is going nuts.”
And just like that, all the stress is back.
She grabs a glass and goes to the fridge.
“There’s nothing to talk about, mom.” She is tempted to put back in her ear buds and keep running. Always running. Never getting ahead.
“Nothing to talk about?” She can hear the disbelief in her mom’s voice, will see it in her face if she looks. “Lucy.”
Carolyn uses that special tone on her name. The ones that only mom’s can use to convey the fullness of their disappointment, and she cannot deal with that right now (which makes her feel guilty because there was a time not too long ago when she would have given anything to hear her mom say her name like that - or at all).
“I’ve got to take a shower.” She says, running from the room but not escaping.
“Call him, Lucy!” Her mom’s voice follows her up the stairs but she doesn’t want to call anybody.
Not Agent Christopher.
And sure as hell not Wyatt (except for the fact that that is exactly what she wants).
She turns the shower on cold and jumps right in.
Flynn is in 1780 and Lucy knows their objective before Agent Christopher even finishes the briefing. It is Benedict Arnold. Flynn is going after the man who almost single-handedly lost the Revolutionary War for the colonies, and she knows she should be horrified. She should be outraged at Flynn’s nerve, and she is. She is, but Wyatt is there too looking tousled and irritable and she wants to kiss him with her fist for being so distracting.
What is his deal anyway?
She knows the answer. Love of his life murdered and he feels responsible and she feels for him. She does. She isn’t a monster, and if Jessica were still living there is no way she would even entertain these thoughts, but Jessica is gone just like Amy is gone so she knows it is awful to lose someone you love beyond your own life.
She’d do anything to get back Amy, but the annoying thing is that the while the whole tortured backstory normally wouldn’t get much more than a sympathetic sigh from her (seriously. She does not go for bad boys with chips on their shoulders. Her insanely wonderful, understanding fiance is proof of that even if she can hardly remember his name.) Wyatt’s history has her rethinking the merits of a good old fashioned tormented soul.
And now she is going back in time with him. Again. Always. Racing against the odds to try to save the world and she cannot help but wonder when they ever get to save themselves.
She doesn’t want to change all of history, just hers.
She wants to change what she wrote in that journal. She wants to have her sister back. To do that, however, it is clear she will have to do something against the very fiber of her being. She is going to have to disrupt the flow of time. She is going to have to do something that will alter her course and hopefully the course of her journal and her sister’s existence.
She knows she is justifying.
She knows she is doing the thing she hates, but if that means stopping herself from becoming the same as the monster they are fighting then - yeah okay.
She respects the butterfly. She doesn’t want to step on a lot of them - just one. Just hers.
She knows that there is no change that she can make in only her life that will not ripple out and touch the world, but that is a risk she is willing to take. It is a risk she has to take, because she is not going to let Flynn win.
And that is what this is about. Not about how she is sitting in the Lifeboat flushed from head to toe because Wyatt looks nice in his period clothes with his hair brushed for once or how one piece has slipped over his forehead and she wants to brush it back or how she has to squeeze her knees together to ignore the fact that she is wet. No. It is not about those things.
She is taking back control over her life and she is going to do whatever it takes to make that happen, and it just so happens that that course correcting thing seems to be Wyatt.
She always liked playing dress-up as a child. She would imagine wild fantasies of her favorite historical figures all dressed in ill-fitting clothes, but nothing could prepare her for the intense discomfort of the real thing. Well she is experiencing it now and she is not impressed. The level of compression she is feeling at the hands of her authentic corset is making it difficult to breathe - to think - and that is dangerous. Especially with Flynn nearby.
He has been better and better at spotting them. Better and better at using his head start to set traps for them. Blending in with the time period is not enough anymore which always proves to more difficult than any of them anticipate. She may be hellbent on changing her own history, but she will not compromise the whole of America’s existence just because she needs to get laid.
“You’re awfully on edge ” Wyatt says as they shake off the post flight nausea and unbuckle after the jump.
“Yeah. Well. None of us are prepared to go back to a world that does not have the United States in it and that is one of the worst case scenarios here and we seem to be really good at landing in at least one worst case scenario each time we go on these missions.” Lucy hisses under her breath and she blames her corset for her additional nausea and testiness at his concern. Yeah. Her corset.
“Whoa there.” Wyatt is already unbuckled reaches across to touch her knee. She is forced to look into deep blue eyes that she absolutely has not thought about while pleasuring herself. “Breathe. Everything is going to be okay.”
But she cannot breathe. Not with him so close and her corset so tight and the crease between his eyebrows so deep with worry that she wants to smooth it with her fingertips, her lips. Instead she redirects her attention to unbuckling with a tense nod.
“I’ll relax when we are back in 2017 and the USA still exists.” She fumbles with the final fastener. She deflects further to distract from trembling fingers: “What about you, Rufus?”
“I always breathe better when I am not in a time period where I have to provide papers to prove I am not someone’s property on demand.” Rufus says from the control board and Lucy and Wyatt both tacitly agree that he has them both beat.
If she were a different person she would not do this. She would not take advantage of Wyatt coming over to her to press her case for sex while they wait on Flynn and Benedict Arnold. She would focus on the mission - except this is kind of her mission too - and not just for the orgasm. She wants Amy back, wants that journal gone, and it is becoming increasingly clear that if she wants that to happen she will have to take matters into her own hands.
“You doing okay?” He has that voice that he uses when he is uncomfortable and trying to hide it. So every time actual feelings come into play about anything.
Lucy looks up to him, casts a fleeting glance over to where Rufus stands a safe distance away, and she looks back at Wyatt and she cannot believe she is about to -
“I think we should sleep together. For history.” She blurts on a hard whisper and the instant the words are out of her mouth she replaces them by worrying her cuticle.
He blinks, frowning that infuriating crease back into place, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You think we should what now?”
Her entire body is on fire. Her mouth works but no words come out, her mind scrambling for a way out of this, but she cannot think with him looking at her the way he is. Like he thinks he misheard her. Like he hopes he hadn’t
Rufus breaks the silence and intrudes into their private world.
“Can someone please explain to me how the hell we got here and what the hell we are going to do now?”
Wyatt’s eyes never leave Lucy’s face, trying to read between her lines, and maybe that butterfly is squashed now. Maybe now nothing else has to happen between them but somehow that idea brings more disappointment than excitement.
“I - I don’t know, Rufus.” She stutters. “I don’t know.”
She is such an idiot.
She never should have said anything. She should have trusted the process and let Agent Christopher arrange a way for Amy to return but now she has just made everything awkward. She can feel Wyatt staring at her, trying to work the puzzle she’d laid out in front of him at the same time as he is trying his damndest to not just shoot Flynn in the head.
Flynn. Who is doing his damndest to get them all killed but she is perversely glad he is there because otherwise she would be alone in David Rittenhouse’s lair with Wyatt after she basically threw herself at his feet.
What is wrong with her?
Maybe if she had had her head in the game instead of her heart or - you know - her vagina, David Rittenhouse would not have a gun pointed at Wyatt’s head. Maybe if she didn’t absolutely embarrass herself and objectify her teammate that is helping to save, basically, the world as they know it, they wouldn’t be in this spot in the first place.
Her entire job is time, knowing what happened and when and how it shaped the world, so you’d think she would have a better sense of timing.
She could have struggled more, could have fought harder, and she knows that but there is something sickly comforting about being kidnapped by Flynn right now. He may be the villain of this story, but she is not the hero. That is for sure.
So when she gets aboard The Mothership, she buckles herself in without complaint. She knows he will have the pilot take off if she is ready or not, and in some ways she is just so fucking ready to be anywhere but here. Just as the world begins to take on the eerie green-blue haze of time and space shifting around them, Flynn looks across to her from where he buckled with a knowing smirk.
“Isn’t it interesting that you have two partners - and yet you only called out for one of them?”
He is so damn smug about it, too. Like he has her all figured out (which he kind of does if the journal is even half true and she did kind of leave out Rufus in her cry for help but there no way in hell she is going to come to close to admitting that to Flynn ever) and she hates him for it. She sets her jaw, juts out her chin, and looks him dead in the eye.
“Go to hell.” She says.
“I’m afraid I’m already there.”
1893 Chicago is everything she imagined it would be. The city is abuzz with ideas and innovation and she wishes she could just lay out and bask in it, but as she listens to Flynn’s agenda she realizes she is going to have her hands full.
I mean - history doesn’t just name a building The Murder Castle without good reason. But she has good enough reason to get into it. Which is probably the only reasons she doesn’t make a total fool of herself when she meets Harry (OMG) Houdini and helps Flynn rope him into his scheme.
She needs her team back as much a they need her.
Now is not the time to lose her head any more than she has already lost it. So she keeps it cool. She whispers and smiles and laughs and schemes with until Harry is unlocking the door that holds both Rufus and Wyatt behind it and - gods - when she finally does see him again, when he wraps his arms around her like he won’t ever let go, she wonders how she ever thought it could be okay to be anywhere but here.
When she has nightmares, this is what she dreams. She dreams of inescapable, close spaces. She dreams of death and pain and inevitable doom. She dreams of dying alone, but she knows she isn’t.
He is here, somewhere, close, and he will save her. She knows he will, but first she has to save herself.
So she breathes, focuses, and tries to bring everything she can remember about H.H. Holmes into focus. She remembers, it seems, just enough to set him on edge. She remembers speaking the word: I have seen your past, and I know your future - and she wonders how much of that is just wish fulfillment on her end.
She does not know her past, she wishes she could see her future. Then, maybe, then she would be able to take the pieces of her life and arrange them in the way she sees fit. Maybe then she would be able to make sense out of the mess that is now her existence.
At the end of it though she cannot say she is upset when Wyatt lodges a bullet in H.H Holmes’ sick, sadistic face.
She may not be one for stepping on butterflies, but she is all for crushing that sonofabitch.
When they make it out of the house of horrors and back to the lifeboat she realizes she has not actually looked at Wyatt this entire time. Not really. Not in anything more than a frantic, thank-gods-you’re-not-dead way. Now that they are out of imminent danger (well - as much as they ever can be when you are playing chess against a homicidal maniac and a ruthless secret society) she meets his eyes and the air goes out of her lungs.
She sees him - and he sees her and she feels all of the stress of the last two adventures fall from her mind.
They don’t lose each other’s gaze until they touch back down in present day. By the time she goes to loosen her buckles her cheeks are flushed, her legs and weak, and she is so sorry for whomever has to clean her historical undergarments because honestly this is ridiculous. They haven’t even touched, haven’t even readdressed her premature proclamation, and maybe he had forgotten. Maybe he really hadn’t heard what she said. After all it was hundreds of years ago.
She let’s Wyatt get out first.
Rufus looks at her on the way out. “You okay?”
Her eyes go to where Wyatt is walking away to start his mission debriefing before coming back to the other member of her team.
“Nothing that a little time won’t fix.”
She says and she wishes it was true.
“I think you’re right, you know.” Wyatt says as she hangs up her clothes on the appropriate racks and she startles. She hadn’t heard him approach.
“Wh - what -” Her heart jumps into her throat - starting a question she already knows the answer to. “What are you talking about?”
He meets her eyes in that unsettling way that leaves her in knots, the way that makes her feel like he sees her every thought, but there is something else in this too. There is something dark and wild in his eyes that she only sees when he is about to go in for the kill and that should not make her wet, but it does.
(And that is only the beginning of the reasons why she is going to have to invest in a shrink the second she gets back to her proper time stream.)
“You said we should sleep together - for history - and I don’t know what that means but yeah. We should.” This time he is the one who is edgy, a bit too tightly wound, and she wonders if he is slipping like she had been in World War II. She wonders if he is always this edgy but now, for some reason, it shows.
Maybe it is the Murder Castle.
Maybe it is because of her kidnapping or that Flynn has gotten away again because for how much that grates on her she knows it grates on him tenfold.
Or maybe he just has a hundred-year-old itch like she does that needs to be scratched.
So she nods, stupidly, unable to find the words to confirm her own diagnosis of the situation.
For how much she thought about this, she really underthought it.
“You got anywhere you gotta be?” He asks and this time she shakes her head, alternately entirely sure what is happening and not believing it. “Your place or mine?”
This is happening. She stiffens her gelatin knees.
“Y-yours.” Of course she would stutter.
Of course he would do that stupid half-grin.
She follow ten steps behind him all the way to his car on wobbly legs.
They don’t exactly talk on the drive.
He asks if she is comfortable (in regards to temperature - because they both know she is not otherwise) and apologizes for the mess (how much fast food can one man eat?) but that is about it. Unless you count her awkward throat clearing or his incessant finger tapping on the steering wheel as talking.
He drives an automatic, but she thinks for one second that his hand will slip off of the gearshift and land on her thigh. She tells herself that is stupid, but really, how stupid is it? They are going to his place to, presumably, fuck. So why wouldn’t ge touch her leg? But he doesn’t. In fact he doesn’t so much as look at her as he drives them to a side of town she doesn’t frequent.
Uncharted territory in so many ways.
She watches out of the corner of her eye as shadows shift and change on his face passing under street lamps and traffic lights. The lines of his neck, his jaw, are tense. She wants to ask him why. She want to access that dark, hidden part of him that she has only seen peeking through cracks he has led her to.
She knows better than to say anything though it takes everything inside of her to bite her tongue. Instead she reaches out her hand and puts it on his thigh.
He drives a bit faster after that.
He lives in a condo, but it has two parking spots he tells her like he is somehow ashamed of where he lives and that makes it better. She lives with her mom because she cannot stand the sight of her fiance, so she has no room to really judge, but it does seem odd. Of all the places she had pictured him living, this is not one of them.
He fumbles with his keys. She doesn’t know if she should chalk his misstep up to nerves or exhaustion or maybe a bit of both. Even if it was over a hundred years ago - he had just killed a man. She doesn’t know how you just come home after something like that.
She remembers Flynn telling her how he would leave his wife and child if they were returned to him, and she wonders if Wyatt would do the same for Jessica. If he could. If she would want him to.
The door pops open and they go inside. He flips on the lights.
It is simple, spartan even. The entry hall opens right into the living area which looks like very little living actually happens there. There is nothing personal about the space, but she supposes that makes sense. Why personalize a space you are only going to live in until the next mission?
She doesn’t like the idea of him leaving, of him not being part of her life, of being only one more member of a never ending series of teams. She looks at him from where he stands beside her.
“Do you want a beer or some water or -”
She grabs his face and kisses him. She can’t do this if he talks, if he makes it feel like anything more than she can let it be. She isn’t the girl who does these kinds of things, and she cannot think about it anymore. She just needs it to happen.
He does not seem to mind her trajectory, seems all too willing to fall into her, and she’ll take it. If she is using him to get something, she really cannot begrudge him the same thing. Can she?
His hands bury in her hair and she is aware that he is leading them somewhere else in the condo. She trusts him, doesn’t open her eyes, tries her very best to not think about the fact that they are inevitably heading to his bedroom.
He presses her back against a wall, filling every gap and curve of her frame with his bulk. He is stronger, harder, than the wall. Her hands fall away from his face and wrap around him, pulling him tighter against her. She arches, clawing into his shoulders, and this shouldn’t feel so good. The way his mouth latches onto hers, hungry and willing, should not feel so necessary.
This is supposed to be simple, but one large hand hitches up her shirt so he can run calloused fingers up her spine and the electricity it creates is not simple.
This is Wyatt. Brusque, reckless, inconsiderate, ruthless Wyatt. Thoughtful, passionate, sensitive, headstrong Wyatt. Wyatt who always operates in the black and white. Wyatt who drives her absolutely crazy with his lack of respect for history. Wyatt who just trusts her when she says they should sleep together for history (whatever that means). Wyatt who’s eyes were a little too sad, a little too desperate leaving headquarters tonight. Wyatt who is spreading her legs with his thigh and abandoning her mouth to work down her jaw, her neck, sending sparks and - okay.
This is not simple, but it is not the worst idea she has ever had.
She does not expect him to lift her, to hitch her legs up around his hips, but he does. Her ankles lock at the small of his back instinctively, arms wrapping his shoulders, and he moves her from the wall so he is bearing her entire weight. He brings his face out of her neck and looks up at her, eyes hooded and disbelieving.
“Tell me to stop - or I won’t.” He says and she realizes that even though she had started this, he will let her finish it. Even though she can feel how much he wants her to stay pressed against the fly of her jeans, he will let her leave. Hell - he’d drive her back to her car and this would be the last of it.
But that will not change her future, her past, her present. That will not somehow shift something just enough that she does not side with Flynn - does not lose Amy. That will not change the fact that part of her, somewhere inside, actually wants this to happen. Not sleeping together will do nothing but keep everything the same, and that will not do.
But she cannot say any of this so she ducks her head down and kisses him harder than necessary. He takes the hint and with hands hooked beneath her thighs he carries her down the hall.
His room is dark as he lays her back onto his bed. His long, thick body comes to rest half over her, half to the side. One hand ventures under her shirt up to the cage of wire and satin and squeezes. She moans and she cannot remember the last time someone did that. Come to think of it she cannot remember the last time she did any of this - wonders when the last time was for him.
If it was Jessica.
She breaks away on a gasp and he freezes.
“What?” She can see the faint illumination of his face from the hall light, can see that furrowed brow, and okay. Jessica is not here. She may never be here again. So Lucy reaches with delicate fingers and smooths the worried space. Her hand slips to this side of his face and he leans into it - turns to kiss her palm.
The sweetness of the gesture takes her breath.
Of all the things she had expected from this encounter, somehow sweetness hadn’t made it into the equation and she is not sure how to handle it. So she doesn’t. Instead she let’s her hand fall from his face to grab at the hem of his t-shirt. He gets the hint and it is gone in a breath.
He doesn’t have one of those fitness model bodies with photoshopped abs and pecs bigger than her breasts (not hard to do, honestly). His strength is functional, firm, and solid. She sees silver outlines of scar tissue in the dark and she wants to kiss each mark.
Her shirt is next.
Seems he is of the I’ll-You-Mine-If-You-Show-Me-Yours mentality and that is fine except she does not remember the last time someone saw her any kind of naked for reasons other than medical ones. She feels her entire body flush as he unhooks the front clasp of her bra and lets it fall away. His breath is deep and uneven as his gaze falls to all that is exposed to him. A reverent glow catches in his eyes and he is looking at her like he thinks she is amazing and beautiful and she doesn’t know what to do with that either so she sits up and hooks a hand around his neck at the same time.
Their lips crash together in cadence with their bodies and the skin on skin friction is enough to make her make all kinds of embarrassing noises. Her fingers explore the expanse of him, the dips and ridges of muscles over his back, the sparse sprinkling of hair across his chest, and it seems he wants to return the favor.
He crashes them back onto the bed and abandons her mouth to worship all of the newly revealed skin. He leaves stinging, biting kisses down the column of her throat that might leave a mark she isn’t going to be able to explain (she really does need to get better at that lying thing) until he reaches the peak of her breast with merciless teeth and lips. Each pull and suck sends a current straight to her groin and she lifts her hips reflexively.
He understands what she needs, needs it too.
His lips travel down the lean slope of her stomach while careful hands undo the fasteners of her pants and hook onto the waistband. He doesn’t draw out the process, is not a man for half-measures, so when her pants come off her underwear come off at the same time. She’d already lost her flats somewhere along the way (maybe when he lifted her to wall like a rag doll? shit) and he is able to pull them off without too much trouble.
And he is on her before she has a chance to be embarrassed.
He covers her with his body, one work rough hand pressing into her folds while his breath teases the sensitive shell of her ear. “Tell me what you like.”
The sound of his voice in her ear, so low and sex-wrecked, triggers an eruption of chills across her skin just as his thumb finds the small bundle of nerves that has been aching to be touched for hours, days.
“That.” She gasps. “I like that.”
He smiles into the curve of her throat and doesn’t let up. Instead he heightens the situation by pressing a finger into that sweet empty place between her legs. His free hand finds her breast and the two work at her mercilessly as he reclaims her mouth. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders as she just holds on.
Distantly she considers that this must all be a bizarre dream - that she will wake up at her desk in her room with Amy coming in the door with toast and tea and they would laugh about how she shouldn’t fall asleep while reading history texts. Then he slicks in a second finger and no - this is no dream. No dream could feel like that.
It doesn’t take long once he does that. She’s been turned on for centuries at this point and when the first wave of clenching ripples wash over her, he pulls back his mouth and just watches her face as she comes. Watches how he makes her come, and gods does she come. It is roll after roll of molten heat exploding out from her center until she is left melted and burned up beneath him.
He pulls away only when he seems satisfied that she is finished and strips off the rest of his clothes with military precision. She can see him then, curving up towards his stomach, and she knows he must be beyond ready. He’s been hard for a long time and despite her post-orgasmic lassitude she can feel her body winding back up just at the sight of him.
She hears the distant crinkle of a condom wrapper and then he is on top of her again, spreading her legs with his. He settles his hips in line with hers and meets her eyes.
“You okay?” He asks and she has no idea how to answer that.
She should be okay. She is the one who suggested this, but she had never expected - never dreamed that the experience would be anything like this. She never thought that it could be something this good - so effortlessly great - that she cannot trust herself to think about it without assigning meaning.
She nods, not trusting her voice, and reaches down and lines him up. He pushes in and even though she is no virgin and she is wetter than she has ever been she feels that age-old burning ache as he works himself in and out until he is fully seated inside of her and just holds.
His arms shake by her head where he braces on elbows above her. His eyes are squeezed closed, every muscle in his body pulled taut, and for one moment she is glad for his hesitation because he feels huge. Then the next she is ready for him to move and she cants her hips against his because she does not need any more time to overthink that this is actually happening.
He moves with a groan. His thrusts are strong and square, rubbing her in just the right places, and she is horrified when she feels her second climax building. She’s never been a multiple orgasm type of girl - but then again she’s never been much of an anything girl. Her history of sexual partners could be summed up on one hand and none of it had been all that stellar. So when she feels the first swell begin to crest and crash over her, she is just as surprised as he seems to be.
He picks up his pace, keeping his thrusts short and rapid so he can grind his pelvis against hers until her spine goes rigid and her head snaps back and he bites the racing pulse-point in her neck.
If the last time had been rolling waves, this is a white hot rocket of blinding energy. She looses track of herself, her body blending together into a kaleidoscope of sensation, but she thinks she hears him murmuring against her skin. She thinks she can feel him lick the teeth worried skin of her throat. She thinks she hears him growl her name as his thrusts turn to jerks and spasms and barely catches himself from crushing her with his body.
She stares beyond his shoulder to his ceiling, waiting for her body to come back to itself, and - holy shit - she does not know about her past but she knows this is something that will unavoidably shape her future and not just in the being-ruined-for-all-other-men side of things. She’s just had sex with Wyatt and they are going to have to go through time still all the while knowing just how the other one feels. As the haze of it all (racing pulses, heavy breathe, spectacular orgasms) begins to fade - she cannot remember how she ever thought this was a good idea.
He pulls out of her and they both inhale on a hiss - over sensitive and a little sore - before he rolls to his side. She flashes back to the last time she lay on a bed with him like this, shoulder to shoulder, in their shared room with Bonnie and Clyde and she is not prepared for that memory. She is not prepared to even think of things like soulmates and true love. Not when everything is as confusing as it is.
She reaches for her clothes, suddenly feeling very exposed, and he doesn’t stop her.
“Bathroom?” She asks and he points to a door in the corner, but he does not look at her - seems as unable to move as she had been a few moments before.
She finishes gathering everything up and darts to the bathroom before he shifts. She shuts the door and turns on the light. It is blinding after the time spent in the dark and she catches her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her skin is red and mottled from neck to navel from his mouth and stubble. Her lips are swollen and ripe. Her cheeks are flushed a bright pink and she is practically glowing.
She turns away and sits on the toilet. She shrugs back into her bra and pulls on her shirt. She stands, flushes, and works her clothes back onto her lower half. Her cheeks reach a new shade of crimson when she feels just how damp her panties are still and how in the hell is she supposed to go back out there now? She turns on the tap and washes her hands before pressing the cold water against her face, her neck, trying to cool the fire inside.
She takes one last good look at herself, now fully dressed, and runs her fingers through her hair. Aside from the series of hickeys that would no doubt darken to a horrifying shade in the days to come, you would never know what had just happened just by looking at her. You would never know she had just gone to war against time by fucking a man she’d come to care for and respect and the idea makes her shiver.
What had she done?
She takes a series of deep, centering breaths and turns back to the door. She breathes again, and then again once she puts her hand on the knob before she opens it again.
He is there, standing there in his jeans and nothing else looking disarmingly disheveled. He’d turned on a lamp on his nightstand and it casts long, strange shadows around the room. He meets her eyes across the room and they both freeze.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and she tries to not let her eyes go to the cut of his hipbones, the fact that she can tell he didn’t bother putting back on his boxer-briefs. The idea that she even knows his preferred cut of underwear is enough to lock herself back in his bathroom for the rest of her life.
He works his jaw a bit before offering a tentative: “Now what?”
“Now...” She swallows against the need to sweep his hair back off of his forehead. “Now we wait and see what happens.”