#this acknowledges the christmas specials only so far as ' Flynn and Lucy necked in one of the Titanic's lifeboats ' and ignore the rest.

[tortoisesshells]

I wish you would write a fic where... Timeless and 1899 crossover, Lucy and Garcia on the ship and someone knows right away they don't belong...

(Send me an anymous (or not) summary of the fic you wish I would write. (maybe I will write a tidbit))

oh. oh MAN. I have too many ideas. Garcia Flynn and Eyk Larsen could get into one hell of a depressed widower contest and I think between Flynn and Lucy, they could cover about 60% of the spoken languages on the Kerberos. That said. Neither of those things happen here.

It had been convenient, Lucy Preston thought drowsily, hiding the Mothership in the half-empty cargo holds of the Kerberos – easier than the Titanic had been, just last year. Then, they’d scratched the famous Renault, but, well – it was still rusting away at the bottom of the Atlantic – or would be, in thirteen years. Time travel did funny things to your ability to sort out timelines and tenses –

“Lucy –?”

She groaned, and curled up more tightly on herself in the bed; she won’t get up now, she told herself. It was the most comfortable bed she’s slept on in months – and if she had any energy at all – and it were not such a matter of life and death that they find and speak with Dr. Maura Franklin (presently sleeping in the cabin next door) –

“Lucy,” Flynn said again, almost so quietly she can scarcely hear him in the dark; the bed creaked from his weight leaning on it.

Lucy reined in her thoughts, hauling herself towards wakefulness. “Is it my watch?”

“There’s someone in the hall. Picking the lock.”

She wanted to curse, but she moved silently to her feet instead; Flynn pushed her behind him, and she heard the sound of his holster, unsnapped. Lucy laid a hand on his back, and held her breath –

The door swung open, revealing a pale man, damp from the weather – even in the weak light of the hall, she could tell his coat was decades too recent. Rittenhouse.

“This isn’t your cabin,” said the stranger, eying Flynn’s pistol warily.

“It’s not yours, either,” Lucy replied, hitting the lights and closing the cabin door behind him, “We’ve checked the passenger lists. How’s Emma?”

The stranger repeated her question, seemingly genuine in his confusion; Lucy, with a nod from Flynn, asked, “You’re not Rittenhouse?”

“My name is Solace – Daniel Solace. If you’re here from Henry Singleton, I warn you –”

Flynn cut him off. “Who’s Henry Singleton?”