Chapter Text
Lucy came out of the change room at Mason Industries feeling completely wrong, this dress was too modern. It wasn't quite the right fabric or cut. But this beaded and delicate dress was what she'd grabbed - they didn’t have much time before they had to rush out in the Lifeboat. As she walked through the clothes racks, decade after decade passing her by, Lucy realized just how loose the fabric hung and how thin it was. She needed something a bit less flashy and more practical. Obviously. She wasn’t trying to stand out, and she wouldn't be able to move very quickly or quietly. She needed a regular drop waist fabric dress and a different kind of hat. Wyatt was standing putting back a suit in the section marked 1920s, he turned to her and his eyebrows raised.
“That’s what you’re wearing?”
She couldn’t quite gauge his reaction. Surprise? Was that good or bad? Her cheeks flushed, “It’s too much?”
He looked her up and down and gave a shrug, shaking his head, his eyes lingering, “You look great,”
That wasn’t the question. Lucy hastily looked at the rack, trying to find some dress that would be more appropriate, that would allow her to blend in.
“You’re not wearing a bow tie,” She told him, thinking it matched far too much with the extravagancy of her shimmering dress.
“No?”
She was having a hard time focusing, so she stood back and looked at Wyatt to see if his outfit would blend in any better than hers. His suit was medium brown, some kind of thin knitted wool, not nearly as thick as the ones that would have been worn back then. Of course it fit him perfectly. Of course her thoughts turned only to how attractive he looked in it. He’d have to remove the bow tie, it suit the era just fine, but she wouldn’t be able to focus on anything but him and how stupidly cute it looked.
There were calls from the deck and a new urgency get out there. She grabbed a maroon cardigan with big low pockets and tugged it on, hoping desperately it was dark when they arrived in Paris. Lucy knew there wouldn't be time to properly change into anything else. Her stomach dropped - a mix of excitement and terror. However she may have thought Wyatt looked at her, with whatever kind of pleasent, complimenting eyes, it had been a stupid risk. It was not only ridiculous, but infuriating because she knew deep down she’d picked it for that reason. It was stupid and dangerous, and reckless. Because a dress like this would never allow them any kind of anonymity. And she'd put it on just to see his reaction.
PARIS 1925
They sat at a little circular table on the corner of two major pedestrian streets in the Montparnasse district. The cobblestone promenade had a view of the river, the Left Bank just metres from their feet. Spindly green trees grew straight from the stones and music wafted up from the banks. The tables were nearly all occupied, people smoking and drinking in the middle of the day.
Around the corner people of all kinds came from the rush of the district to stroll down to the river. There were painters and performers, trying to get customers and people to watch them, donating into a hat. It was incredible. Whatever it was about this place that had her feeling so alive, Lucy thought she wouldn't mind staying here for a while.
Lucy could see Wyatt's leg jiggling, his fingers drumming against the table. They had to wait. There was nothing they could do now but wait for Flynn to show up with the woman key to finding who they were after.
“I don’t trust him. We should’ve gone in to find her.”
“He’s not going to kill her,” Lucy hoped she sounded convincing.
“How do you know that?”
“Because Flynn wants to know more than just where he is. That’s the most she’ll give up to him and then he’d have a body to hide. He knows I can get her to talk.”
Lucy’s eyes fell on the man seated on a little stool, his paints set up resting on a box. He was cleaning brushes and there was a child tugging on her mothers arm, pointing to a painting set out on the ground in front of him. She found it hard to believe she wasn't dreaming.
“That could be Bonnard, Chagall, or even Picasso. This place is full of famous painters. And writers. And musicians. We could get a portrait painted by a great historical artist on the Left Bank.” Lucy said as her bare arms erupted with goosebumps.
Wyatt tried very hard to contain his smile.
“We have two hours to wait. At least.” Lucy stood up and raised her eyebrows.
This wasn’t a life or death trip. Flynn wasn't here to kidnap or murder. They weren’t in a war zone. It was almost like a too-good-too-be-true vacation. She could tell Wyatt was already sold because he no longer tried to hide what had now become a thoroughly amused grin. He folded his arms.
The painter had a stool for his subjects, slightly larger than his own so two people could sit on it.
“Please paint us how you see us,” Lucy had said in a whir of French.
They sat with shoulders back as the older man told Wyatt to put his arms around her. She was glad Wyatt couldn’t see her smiling, because it was a ridiculous one. Something had washed over, something that didn't leave her feeling guilty or worried. She felt good. It was something about being in a real life version of all the movies her mother loved to watch with her.
Everything in the world, in the universe, had somehow aligned for her to experience this moment. A sunny day on the banks of the river Seine, being painted in the arms of a man with whom she felt more than comfortable. The painter was slow and focussed but Lucy never lost her smile.
It was a strange 40 minutes - longer than she had known it usually to take, from her research. But she supposed she could trust her own primary source as much as many secondary sources. She could feel the itch of Wyatt’s suit, the muscles in his arm sometimes tense and move.
They held hands now and again, which, as far as Lucy felt, was not the kind of posing just any colleagues would do even for fun. Even if they laughed about it, pretending it was some kind of joke. When really, she just wanted to see how their hands felt together. It felt good.
It wouldn’t feel the same to sit here in Rufus’ arms. It would feel wrong, as if the little contact between their fingers was intimate enough to be inappropriate if one of the parties was in a relationship with someone else. Lucy was fully aware that whatever they were doing was probably toeing some kind of line. And that it wasn't just her stepping over.
Lucy didn’t care. For a moment, a beautiful moment, she forgot that they were time travelling. She forgot that this wasn’t real life. Wasn't it real? She was really here, wasn't she? They weren’t playing a part for anyone, but they were really sitting here being painted. They were simply killing time. Even if it was time that had passed long before either of them were born.