#anyway. funny to me. yeah boss make that guy shorter. etc etc.

[lordichamo]

Assorted daigo posts featuring funny lil hcs etc. yknow. to balance out the torment (lie)

[qqueenofhades]

bloodsport [fighting in a love war]: two

you all never stopped asking for a second part of this, and since timeless is officially back from the dead, well, the occasion should be commemorated. tagging @crazykittehcat​, @queenofexplosions​, @extasiswings​, and @prairiepirate​. sorry for any typos, as it is a horrible pain in the ass to post fic on a tablet, but my computer is still dead, so.

rated e.

part one/ao3.

Flynn and Lucy do not speak to each other for the next three days. This is noteworthy enough, given that Wyatt and Rufus have generally relied on her to communicate important bulletins to the fourth member of their team (or as Rufus puts it, ''translating it into asshole''), that it causes both of them to take notice. It's kind of hard not to, given that they get caught in the 1863 New York Draft Riots, straight out of Martin Scorsese, and Flynn is shooting on one side, Wyatt is shooting on the other, there is absolutely not a word exchanged between either of them, and they nearly all get killed by the Gangs of New York before they can bail. Once they arrive back at the Lifeboat, sooty and shouting and with bullet holes through several dangerously nearby pieces of their clothing, Wyatt finally explodes, ''What the hell was that about, man? Huh?''

''It's my fault now, Wyatt?'' Flynn is sleek and suave and showing his teeth, which means he's feeling especially dangerous. ''Given the fact that I was the one who told you Boss Tweed was Rittenhouse, you should thank me for -- ''

''Is that what you call it? You ordered Lucy to tell us that Boss Tweed was Rittenhouse, which I am sure she already knew, and which anyone could guess by looking at the guy for two seconds, and then you went to peace out in Five Points while the rest of us were dodging mobsters, so yeah, Flynn, you were a big help!'' Wyatt shoves his gun into the holster as they clamber in and slam the door, not wanting to hang around here any longer than they have to. He goes to help Lucy with her seatbelt as usual, but she shakes her head at him. Flynn looks smug, goes to help instead just to show up Wyatt while briefly forgetting he's not talking to her, and then smartly decides he does not want to try to touch her in any capacity after the look she just gave him. He sits down, buckles up with a black cloud almost visible over his head, and nobody says a word as Rufus fires up the jump to launch them back to 2017.

Once they land, Lucy angrily undoes her harness, picks up her skirts, and storms out of the Lifeboat without a word, which leaves the men behind for an extremely awkward competition of who can get out the fastest without running into each other. Rufus books it like he's trying out for the track team, and Flynn starts his usual melodramatic stalk off to brooding solitude, but Wyatt grabs his arm. ''Hey. I'm not done with you yet.''

''What a pity, I'm done with you.'' Flynn's eyes smolder back at him like burning coals. ''All of you, really.''

''Yeah. We know. You haven't stopped telling us every day. We get it. You hate us. But you know what? Fight me. I can take it. Don't you dare hurt Lucy, or -- ''

''Is that what you think I did? Hurt her?''

''I think you did something. What the hell happened?''

''Why are you asking me?'' Flynn frees himself with a jerk and stares down at the shorter man evilly. ''Why aren't you asking her? Not sure you want to hear the answer? You know I won't tell you, so now you can say you made the effort without the risk of uncovering the outcome. Good job, soldier. Gold star. Put it on your report. Now piss off.''

''HEY!'' Wyatt almost runs between him and the door, increasing Flynn's nearly-to-boiling-point temper still further. His face is still angry, but his tone is close to frantic. ''Just tell me you didn't hurt her! Look. We're not friends. That is clear to both of us. But I thought -- possibly idiotically, I admit -- that the one common ground we had was her. Was I wrong?''

At that, as much as Flynn wants to bark at him again, it feels like the air draining from a balloon, the water from a pool, the light from the sky. He's momentarily flummoxed, not the least because he has no idea if he has or not. He has been doing his best not to let the events of three days ago cross his mind in any capacity, cryogenically freezing them on the spot, consigning them to the dark place of his memory where he doesn't go. He's not going to be able to function otherwise.

''I didn't hurt her,'' he says at last, heavily. ''Not on purpose.''

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Wyatt's face. He clearly wants to believe this, but he is preconditioned to expect the worst from Flynn, and if Flynn is honest with himself, he knows the bastard has not exactly been given any compelling evidence to the contrary. As he has told them many times, he indeed is only helping because they have just about sworn a blood oath to bring Lorena and Iris back when they're done. And while Flynn doesn't want to believe them a tiny bit, not after what happened the first time, he's found himself doing it anyway. Because if he isn't fighting for them, he doesn't know why he's fighting at all, and if he's not fighting, he might as well just go curl up in a dark corner and die. It's been like this as long as he can remember. In different ways, yes, but it isn't something that started with losing his girls. Living in his head has been a total disaster from day one, and he's never once been sure how to stop it. He's tired.

''What do you mean, not on purpose?'' Wyatt says at last, somewhat less heatedly. ''Did you -- ''

''Nothing.'' Flynn turns to go. He wants a stiff drink, or three. ''It was nothing, all right?''

''Whatever that nothing is, it's affecting the mission. Lucy is doing her best to pull her weight regardless, because she's a professional. You're...'' Wyatt considers his words carefully. ''We didn't ask you to be on the team just because you were the nearest grunt with a gun who could be briefed about the time travel thing. If that was the criteria, we would have gone back to Pendleton and gotten another of my buddies. Another Bam-Bam, a -- ''

He stops.

Despite himself, Flynn feels a faint flicker of guilt, considering that he is -- indirectly, but not very -- responsible for Dave Baumgardner's death. Add it to the list. What comes out, of course, is caustic. ''Of course not. He didn't last very long, did he?''

''Yeah, because one of your guys shot him.'' Wyatt's head comes up, eyes flat and hard. ''You're a dick, Flynn. I know it. We know it. I'm pretty sure you know it, because you're too smart not to. Strictly speaking, both of us should probably still be in jail. But that doesn't matter now, and we asked you to be on the team because you are literally the only other person in the world who can help us. You think you're the only one who has to forgive us for the betrayal that we've already told you ten thousand times was not Lucy's fault. There's plenty on our side of the ledger too. You ever think about that?''

This is the last conversation Flynn wants to be having, especially given the unhappily low whisky content in his bloodstream. ''That you're so much better than me and I should be grateful you gave me a second chance at all, from the goodness of your hearts? There. Yes. I thought about it. Can I go now?''

''No.'' Wyatt remains looking at him levelly. ''That we're so much the same. As much as both of us hate it. And yeah. Fine. Go. Spend the night listening to Finnish death metal and watching grimdark YouTube videos, whatever you do to stay in the zone. Just don't take it out on Lucy.''

With that, he spins on his heel and strides off on double-time parade march, as Flynn stares balefully after him, wondering if he could nail Wyatt between the ears from here. Probably, but it would be messy, it would be very difficult to explain to the other two, and, well, Rittenhouse would be very pleased if he did. So, tempting as it is, he has to resist. He was hungry, but he doesn't think he is anymore. He has no idea what to do. Sleep? As if. Go back to tinkering with the Lifeboat -- Rufus hates it when he does that, but Rufus can eat his Chocodiles and shut up. Besides, Flynn's modifications work. Usually.

Seeing no other option, he goes to the charging station and pulls out the circuit board he's been rewiring. These Boy Scouts he's working with shot down his suggestion of stealing another nuke to power the Lifeboat the same way as the Mothership, which Flynn himself didn't see anything wrong with, and they keep losing time since Rittenhouse can jump whenever they want, while the Time Team has to wait for their battery to top up. Like driving through a tunnel shouting ''can you hear me now?'', while your enemies are taking the helicopter over the top. Not exactly a recipe for success.

Flynn sits down wearily, opens the case, and stares at the circuits until his eyes go out of focus. He picks up the pliers and makes a cursory adjustment, then drops his hand. Tries to work up the motivation for another one. Prove he's valuable, not that he should be caring about what these chuckleheads think of him. He knows he blew it today, hung them out to dry -- but he came back, didn't he? He could have bailed, left them there, taken the Lifeboat himself (well, he'd need Rufus at least for that, but he could have worked around that) and gone back to working alone. After all he's complained, both before his absorption into the time team and after, about having to delegate, that would seem to be the simplest solution. After all, he hates them. Doesn't care if they get stuck for good in the Civil War (funny, that, considering the civil war going on with them). Could have left. Etc. Etc.

But he came back.

Flynn doesn't want to think about this either, and if he does go to get something to assist him in forgetting, he'll probably run into one or all three of them, doing their insufferable team-bonding thing. Drinks after work for the crew. He can't stand that.

(He might want it. Just a little. To sit there and be part of something. Part of them.)

(He ignores it harder.)

He has made a further few futile attempts to modify the circuit board, when he senses more than hears someone by the entrance to the warehouse, a slight shift in space that nonetheless he has become too-attuned to. He lifts his head, flicks his eyes over as surreptitiously as he can without appearing to look, and sees Lucy standing on the far side, arms folded. She's changed out of her 1863 clothes and showered, her hair damp and dark around her pale face, and Flynn can catch a whiff of some floral shampoo that makes his throat briefly dry. He swallows hard, ignoring that too, as well as the simple sweatshirt and leggings she's wearing. He's seen her in all sorts of clothes by now, from every time (and less, an unhelpful voice in his brain whispers) and she looks beautiful in each, but this is a different Lucy. Lucy without her armor, without her makeup, without her never-flagging, steely strength as the undoubted captain of their ship, with just her hair loose and her walls down. She doesn't even appear to notice Flynn. She's here because by the looks of things, as tired as she is, sleep isn't in the cards for her either.

He hesitates, telling himself not to do anything stupid. Then, because he is Garcia Flynn, and stupidity is embedded in his DNA, he puts the board aside and gets to his feet. ''Lucy.''

She jumps, turns, sees him, and flinches. He can see her hastily putting her walls back up, her game face, preparing to deal with whatever crisis he's about to bring to the table in any sense of the word, and he feels guilty, in a way he didn't even for Bam-Bam, that he's the cause of it. She gets so little rest or respite, and even here, in whatever few stolen hours she gets before their next trip, she can't relax. Not with the Minotaur lurking in the labyrinth -- that makes her Ariadne, Flynn supposes, and it makes fucking Wyatt Theseus, which, you know, might explain a lot. Especially the throttling each other part. But Lucy is Lucy, and even now, she will give him another chance, listen to what he has to say, even if it will inevitably hurt her. She'll put that aside too. ''Yes, Flynn?'' she says tiredly. ''What do you need?''

That twists his heart. Of course she'd ask what he needs, prepare to fill a vacancy, requisition resources. Keep everything on track. He can hear Wyatt telling him that Lucy is still pulling her weight because she's a professional, and he's... well, he is clearly not. Briefly, he wonders if Lucy is not Ariadne, but Atlas, and you'd never know. ''I...'' Christ, he's not good at this. He and Lorena rarely argued, and when they did, the actions were already there, the instinctive and implict permission to make it better without the words that still came so hard to him, but which he tried, for her. He has none of that with Lucy, no shortcut or safe place. ''About today. It... could have gone better.''

A corner of Lucy's mouth quirks wryly. It's the closest thing that there has been to a smile on her face for the past several days, and Flynn feels almost abjectly grateful to be the reason for it. ''Yeah,'' she says. Calmly and matter-of-factly, not ripping into him unduly, but also refusing to let him in any degree off the hook. ''Yeah, it could have.''

''Wyatt told me too. Earlier.'' Flynn attempts a nonchalant shrug. ''I didn't mean to bother you. I'll just...''

With that, he tries to sidle back off toward his fruitless circuit board pursuits, but Lucy's quiet voice stops him. ''Garcia.''

As it does every time she uses his first name, that roots him to the spot like a bolt of stinging lightning, pulse suddenly tripping too fast. He waits tensely, hoping she won't say anything -- well -- dangerous. (Yes, it's true, this is usually his department, throwing verbal bombs at her, and he would deserve it if she wanted to make him pay more for what he could have cost them today, after everything they've endured already.) When she doesn't, he finally prompts, ''Yes?''

''I just -- '' Lucy bites her lip, which makes her look younger than usual. ''What... happened the other night. I'm sorry if it... I didn't want it to make things more difficult. They already are enough. If that's the case, I just... both of us should forget. We won't say anything to the others. I haven't, and I know for a fact you haven't. The job comes first.''

Flynn regards her, worn, muted, and ashamed that she feels as if she is the one who has to apologize to him, when his own actions -- well, he has still never encountered a situation that he has improved, at least without blowing it up entirely first. Finally, gruffly, he says, ''You know someone needs to teach you how to fight.''

Lucy looks as if she can't decide whether to accept this out or not. She glances down. ''I wasn't exactly talking about the fighting.''

Of course she wasn't. They fight all the time, they exist in a constant low-level state of conflict, why would she be talking about that as anything different? Like two reverse polarities forced together, clashing and sparking, except for when they're not, and that becomes the most dangerous state of all. And all that energy, that determination to keep up that division and distance, this war and its bloodsport, comes from Flynn. Lucy has been silently asking, begging for a truce this entire time, and all he has been doing is twisting the knife.

That, at last, is the one thing that breaks the increasingly rickety dam inside him, the one holding back his rationalizations and justifications and his anger, the way it's been easier to focus it on her, because she's here, and Rittenhouse isn't. Has remained just as elusive and shadowy and multi-headed as ever, just out of reach, counting on him to do half of its work for it by continuing to punish Lucy -- the others too, yes, but especially Lucy. Both sides have always known that this turns on her. Rittenhouse attempting to recruit her hasn't worked, but why come up with another plan, when they can see Flynn eating them out like a cancer from within? Must be waiting. Placing bets. Wondering what day Lucy breaks, and turns at last to them.

Slowly, so slowly, Flynn's hand comes up. He reminds himself that he'll punish himself for this later, but for once -- God, for once -- not Lucy. Wyatt's right, she deserves this least of all, and while Flynn himself would never admit that short of having it tortured out of him (and maybe not even then), and even he can see the appeal of a détente, if a temporary one. He waits for Lucy to push him away, which he would deserve if she did, or worse. But when she doesn't, his fingers end up brushing lightly over her cheek, his thumb tracing the bow of her lower lip, the indent of her chin. He starts to move his hand away, feeling as absurdly self-conscious as if he's done something far worse, but Lucy takes an unexpected step, and his arm gets stuck between them.

Flynn's throat closes as if a fist has wrapped around it. He was not counting on this, and isn't sure how to extricate himself, as they were almost having a genuine moment there and for once, he doesn't want to ruin it. His hands skim down Lucy's sides to her hips, hovering but not quite taking hold, though both of them can surely feel the electricity crackling in that remaining breath of space. Lucy's eyelashes flutter, her lips parting, until Flynn realizes, with an entirely different sort of shock, that if he leaned down and kissed her right now, she probably wouldn't object at all. Not that he should. That is exactly the sort of action that ''don't do something stupid'' from earlier was supposed to prevent.

To Flynn's credit, he does make an effort. Perhaps less to his credit, the only thing that effort does is draw him downwards, as Lucy rises on her tiptoes. Her arms wrap around his neck -- perhaps less from a desire for deeper closeness than because of the fact that simple statistics dictate she needs to achieve considerably more height to comfortably kiss Flynn. That indeed appears to be what is happening here, as their mouths open and turn and seek hungrily deeper, as he lifts her and presses her back against the Lifeboat's cold metal hull, as the kiss turns raw and insatiable. Until Lucy's hand comes up to pull at his cravat, as Flynn has once more not bothered to change out of his nineteenth-century suit, he freezes, and both of them come to their senses as if doused in cold water. Lucy jerks away, Flynn puts her down, they take three steps back as if from a piece of live ordnance, and remain there, staring. It is excruciating.

''I -- '' Lucy says at last. ''I should go.''

''Yes.'' Flynn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to let on how breathless he is, blood roaring in his ears (and in other places). He's only aware of how dangerous that was, the need to push her away again, before she starts feeling too sorry for him, before she thinks he deserves any kindness at all. ''Run back. I'm sure the kindergarten class needs you.''

Lucy arches one eyebrow at the irony of him calling anyone else a kindergartner, especially when it comes to emotional maturity, but infuriatingly, she doesn't take the bait. Instead, she gives him one of those piercing looks that he can never quite withstand, no matter what he tries. After a moment, she says, ''Rufus.''

''What?'' Whatever Flynn was expecting -- and frankly, if he was expecting anything, that would mean he thought this through, which he did not -- it wasn't that. ''What about Rufus?''

Lucy shrugs, lightly but with an unmistakable edge. ''Chicago,'' she says. ''1931. We weren't supposed to go there originally. Rittenhouse had taken over Mason Industries and they knew how they were going to solve all of this. My -- biological father had it all worked out. Wyatt was in jail for stealing the Lifeboat and Baumgardner was dead, so Rufus and I had been assigned a new soldier. Or should I say, hired gun. The plan was for us to jump to 1962 Texas, and kill your mother. Maria Thompkins.''

''Wh -- ?'' Flynn feels punched. ''You knew my mother?''

''After the moon landing,'' Lucy goes on, coolly and dispassionately as if reading a medical report. ''We found out who the woman you spent all your time with there was, and that you saved your half-brother's life. So, of course, Rittenhouse found out as well. The easiest way to stop you, according to them, was just to kill your mother before you were born. Rufus and I both vehemently opposed it, fought against it. I told Cahill to his face that it was the wrong decision and that I wouldn't do it. It didn't matter. We still ended up in the Lifeboat in 1962.''

''But -- '' Flynn is reeling, struggling to keep up with this. Knowing that she would have been justified in letting this happen, as he was willing to let her grandfather die in the explosion in 1954. Her father was already born, yes, but -- ''I'm still... here, I didn't -- ''

''Yes,'' Lucy says. ''Yes, you are. Because Rufus, the shy tech geek who has never fought anything except in a computer game, took on a trained Rittenhouse assassin to save your mother. I helped,'' she adds, clearly as an afterthought. ''We managed to knock him out, subdue him, and jump back to pick up Wyatt and follow you to 1931. You remember what you arranged to happen to Rufus in 1931?''

Flynn cringes.

Lucy folds her arms, chin tilted back -- showy displays, major breakdowns aren't her style -- but transparently and totally furious. ''So,'' she says. ''You know why Rufus snarks at you and you snark at him and so forth? It's because he's scared of you. He's scared to be alone with you, he's scared you'll try to get him killed again, and he knows it would jeopardize the mission if he said anything, so he swallows it and he never tells you what he did for your mother, and just ignores it, because he's that brave. Wyatt is used to hating your guts. Me, well, I know you well enough that I'm not that bothered by you anymore. But Rufus? How does he protect himself?''

''Lucy -- '' Flynn's cheeks feel hot. ''Lucy, I'm -- ''

''I don't want your apology,'' Lucy says. ''Not for me. What I want is for you to apologize to him, and mean it. Not that I'm holding my breath for that. So. Suit yourself. We're stuck with each other anyway.''

She shrugs again, having never raised her voice once through all of this, while Flynn can feel each of the stripes she left scalding on his backside. It strikes him how deeply, truly connected the three of them actually are, much as he derides it and snorts at it and rolls his eyes. Wyatt wants nothing for himself, if Lucy might be hurting more, and Lucy wants nothing for herself, if Rufus might be hurting more. Whatever each one of them are facing, struggling with, they don't care about that pain if they need to cover someone else's back, close ranks, shield whoever might be nearest to breaking. That's why they kept beating Flynn, stopping his plans. He knew as much about where and when they were as them, if not more. He was willing to do far more than them. He was certainly not concerned with whatever collateral damage he might inflict. But they do have something he doesn't. They have each other. And it's true that they have far more to forgive him for than he does them, and yet, they've still offered him a place with them. Out of necessity, yes, but they've tried to make it more than that. And he's --

Flynn doesn't have any idea what to say. He feels as if the ground has gone out from under him, as if she's reached into his chest and torn something out of him, that small, endless fire that he keeps burning against the world, the sense of righteous outrage, the only thing he really has left. It hurts him, but it hurts his enemies more, so it's always been a sacrifice he's willing to make. Now, though. Now, he's completely at a loss. Just him, and Lucy Preston across the way, still confoundedly expecting him to change, to make a better choice. He wishes she wouldn't. That she would just give up. That would make this easier.

And yet. He knows that that -- as with him -- is the one thing she is never going to do.

He takes a step. Another. After what Lucy just said to him, she would once more be deserved in backing away, in running screaming. But Garcia Flynn has always been a man of action, and that is the only way he knows how to go about fixing this, in whatever small part. When Lucy doesn't back away, when he's reached her and closed the distance between them again, when she's practically straining her neck to look directly up at him, he holds her gaze. Then, slowly, goes to his knees in front of her, which makes them just about even. He waits.

Lucy's cheeks flush pink, as her tongue darts out to touch her lips. He can breathe the faint lingering fragrance of her shampoo, that fresh scent that hangs around women, something bracing and clean, a bit like sunlight. It's going to his head, it's making him giddy, so he's thankful to already be on his knees. As his hands come up, almost span her waist, and then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings. Punish yourself later. His mantra, every time he comes close to forgetting, for a moment, why he is doing this. As he tugs them slowly down her hips, pulling her panties with them, as he brushes his nose against her slender thigh and she sucks in a breath and braces her hands on his shoulders. He is light-headed with want for her. He is starving to death, and the banquet is laid before him, but he will not take a bite.

Lucy utters a small impatient noise in her throat, trying to shift herself into his mouth, and Flynn is a number of things, but he's not quite strong enough to resist that. He kisses her as suddenly below as he did above, all at once, thorough and devouring, and Lucy's grip tightens on him almost hard enough to hurt. Not that she could hurt him, not this way. In other ways, she's quite adept, but it is only in seeing his weaknesses and targeting them as unerringly as a sniper. Never cruel, never for sport, but simply because she knows exactly what he is, and always has.

Flynn braces himself, hands on her thighs, as he licks her, delicately circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, and then moves lower, slipping his tongue into her, starting a slow rhythm. He increases the pace steadily, pulling her leg to drape over his shoulder as she grasps for purchase on the Lifeboat again, knuckles white. As with everything Flynn does, it is done wholeheartedly and with utter abandon, no stopping, no slowing, no mitigating factor. He bites lightly at her, moving her leg to get a better angle, as he can hear the ghost of a moan catch in her throat. She doesn't say anything. Likely for the best. Talking rarely goes well between the two of them.

Flynn can taste her slickness on his tongue, a light citrusy tart that must be from whatever she washed with in the shower, feel the rasp of her fine dark hair against his lips. He doesn't let up until Lucy's toes clench, her body shudders, and she comes with a choking, muffled gasp that reverberates against his mouth, through both of them and into the Lifeboat on the other side. Oddly fitting, considering that he feels as if they are adrift on a wild and stormy sea, and this is the only chance they have of survival, of ever making it back to land. He remains where he is for a moment more, then slides back on his knees, once more wiping his mouth with his arm, feeling hot and bothered and fragile as glass himself, but not about to ask her for satisfaction. He will handle it. Later. Alone. As usual.

Lucy stands there weak-kneed, mouth open, eyes dark, gasping, until she finally recollects herself, pulls up her panties and leggings, and shoots a half-tentative look at him, as if waiting for him to do something else. When he doesn't, she bites her lip, ducks her head, and says softly, ''Good night, Flynn.'' Shoots another look back as if wondering or perhaps even hoping (though surely that is his imagination) that he will stop her. But he doesn't.

Flynn watches her go for a long moment, head thundering. Then, when he is sure she's off to -- wherever she's going, whatever she's going to do for the rest of the night -- he shuffles gingerly out of the warehouse, out across the courtyard, and up the stairs to his room. Shuts the door behind him and swears, in several of the numerous languages he knows. He doesn't exactly feel better, and he needs to attend to things, so he angrily wrenches off his shirt and trousers, gets on the bed, and takes himself in hand. Closes his eyes and imagines Lorena, imagines her smiling, saying something earthy, pushing him onto his back. He was always happy to let her lead; she enjoyed sex, enjoyed having it, knew what she wanted and how she wanted him to give it to her -- which was good, because he was clueless. Not about the sex part, as he could manage that well enough, but making her happy, truly being what she needed and wanted. Women have always been a mystery to him, like most men, but she took him by the hand and patiently showed him how, never made him feel stupid for not knowing. Chose him, for some baffling reason, when he was just as much a wreck as he is now, though somewhat differently. And now she can --

Flynn's eyes flash open. Because he has been thinking of Lorena, but the face he's picturing, that came the most easily to his mind, wasn't hers. Figures. He isn't sure that he shouldn't be completely ashamed of himself, trying to jerk off to his wife's memory after going the ''I'm sorry I'm a disaster, does oral sex help?'' route with another woman. He feels hollow and tawdry and unsatisfied, struggling to recapture the exact details of Lorena's face, the arch of her lips, the fine network of blue veins under her skin, and almost panics when he realizes that he can't. He has no pictures of her. He went off the grid after the murders and had to destroy every bit of potentially trackable electronic equipment. All the hard copies, all the photograph albums, were packed up and taken away by Lorena's parents. They never were terribly fond of Flynn, blamed him for their daughter and granddaughter's death (they're not wrong, he thinks, they're not wrong) and saw no reason to let him have any, especially if he was going on the run. The only place he sees her now is in his dreams.

He is starting to forget.

He is starting to forget.

He can't stop it. It's going to keep happening. There is no way to reverse the process. He has to do this, he has to get her back, because otherwise one day in the not-so-distant future, he might wake up and find even the ghost of her gone. He might not even remember exactly what he has lost. And when that happens, she'll be truly gone. Rittenhouse will win.

In a cold sweat, Flynn eases himself down on the bed, letting go and abandoning his efforts, lying there with his eyes screwed shut until things go somewhat slack on their own. He feels nauseous, panicked, at the edge of control, forcing down the screaming in his head. One more night. He can make it one more night. Then decide tomorrow if he can keep going. That's the trick. Make it through a day, remember that you can always die if you can't. That's the comfort.

Flynn waits until his breathing steadies, until his heart unclenches. He should get some sleep, though he rarely does. Doubtless they will be once more charging into the breach soon enough.

He decides he will apologize to Rufus tomorrow. It's oddly comforting.

He listens to his breath. He tries to count sheep. He always told Iris to, though he wasn't sure it worked. He listens to the night go on. Listens to the earth spin, the stars rattle softly in the heavens, the world move inexorably toward another morning. It won't stop. It won't stop.

All he can try to do is spin the planet back. Pass through the doors of time, rewrite the annals of time and space and history. He has always known that he is a difficult man to love, and that Lorena is the only woman who could, who was willing, who understood. Without her, he has no chance.

(No chance, he insists.)

(No chance.)

Eventually, shivering, silent, solitary in the dark, he sleeps.