Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

The painting was part caricature and part interpretation. On the loose canvas, Wyatt’s arm was painted over her shoulder and they were gazing at each other with wide smiles, crinkled eyes, and red cheeks. Painting Lucy held a flower in her one hand, and Wyatt’s free arm was holding her other hand. It was vibrant and colourful, a semi detailed background. They had both been smiling at the painter, but he’d turned their faces to each other in the painting and did something to their eyes. Lucy would think the painter had been looking at a couple in mad love.

She covered her mouth to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all, Wyatt had his eyebrows raised and was shaking his head.

“This is crazy.” She would never get used to time travel, or the goosebumps she got whenever she thought about the reality of it all.

They paced along the corner as the painting dried, looking for any sign of Flynn and the woman they were waiting for. As the sun set, Rufus and Flynn came toward them together. Of course the woman would meet them in a cabaret, apparently not wanting to be seen out in public. But Wyatt's distrust of Flynn was rubbing off on Lucy and her stomach became uneasy. Maybe she had been too distracted playing whatever game she was playing with Wyatt.

“I guess this was the right outfit after all,” Lucy muttered.

The Folies Bergère was every bit as lively and loud as Lucy had ever seen it depicted. It was cliche and it took her breath away and Lucy didn’t care. Not one bit. She was a kid in a candy store, gaping unashamedly at every person and detail she saw. Once into the main hall, past a tiered fountain, shimmering cabaret dancers were moving in unison by the curved double staircase. They were exposing more skin than Lucy was expecting and her jaw dropped, mesmerized by it all. People were drinking and smoking and watching, applauding. The air was thick with smoke, and the smell of old fabric and sweat was strong but nobody seemed to care. The room was huge, draped in gold and red fabrics, with glittering chandeliers and tables along the outside of the room. She was in one of the very first nightclubs.

“Why don’t we ever bring cameras when we travel back?” Lucy mused, it was almost too loud for Wyatt to hear her.

“Yeah,” He turned to her, a little perplexed, “Why don’t we? When would we ever …” He shook his head, “When are we ever going to see this again?” He was looking straight at her.

Rufus was suddenly there, leaning into them, “I’m going to get a table. It’s better to talk over there,” He nudged his head to the front of the hall where the music was loudest, from the big band playing behind the staircases.

The song changed to something like a quickstep and the stage was swiftly occupied by couples, doing a dance involving little steps and turns and hops. The couples on stage had complex choreography. Soon the rest of the room coupled up too, everybody seemed to know the dance like it was nothing.

Lucy gazed at Wyatt, thinking she had somehow stumbled onto the set of a movie set in the 1920s. There was no way this was actually what it could have been like. There was no way this could be real. There was no way she could feel so excited. He seemed to be in a similar state of disbelief, he even looked happy.

“I could never forgive myself if I didn’t dance at a real cabaret.” She told him.

“So, you’re real a fan of the 20’s then?” His grin was poorly concealed.

Lucy took a deep breath, trying to calm her heart. “It’s … exactly how I imagined. Except better.”

She could tell he was amused by her excitement. “You know how to dance like this?” He held out his hand.

Lucy shook her head and couldn’t stop smiling.

It was so loud and full of shuffling and singing that Lucy doubted anybody notice her and Wyatt hopping around, following neither the steps nor the rhythm. They spun at the wrong times, and he dipped her and twirled her when nobody else was doing either of those things. It was a miracle they never crashed into anyone else. Something had come over her, she felt drunk. The music and energy was just ... she was having a hard time thinking straight. 

“You’re a really bad dancer!” She called over the music, trying and failing to regain at least the proper stance. She couldn't remember when she'd last laughed so hard.

“So are you!” Wyatt laughed as they bobbed around out of time.

He pulled her close, she was hyper aware of his hand sliding down her back. She couldn’t help smiling, so big her cheeks hurt and squished her eyes. She couldn’t look at him without laughing. She was a teenager again, out far past her bedtime. When was the last time she smiled like this? They were there for hours, days, Wyatt spinning her round and round until she crashed against him, taking deep breaths. What were they doing?

He held her close again and she shut her eyes. The music surrounded her softly. His body was all she could feel, strong and comforting, holding her safe. It was a thrill to be so close to him. He smelled like his usual cologne. It made her weak. Their hearts pounded against each other. He turned his head to almost nuzzle her neck. They were the only ones breathing in the entire cabaret; in the entire world. This was a dream. This had to be a dream. She raked against the scratchy wool on his back. His fingers slid up to intertwine with the hair falling down her back. What were they doing?

She was sure she’d someday remember this in slow motion. She was already sentimental. It felt like forever. Just them, close and calm.This was already her memory. This was reality. She imagined telling children or grandchildren about the time she danced with their dad in Paris in the 20s. How could she ever explain that? Unless time travel wasn’t going to remain a secret. She supposed they could say they went to a theme club.

Lucy choked on her own thoughts and was brought to reality. She was clearly not in her right mind. Thinking about children? Let alone children with Wyatt? No. God. It was just the air here. It was just a fleeting thought. She wanted a drink. But she knew that would be irresponsible. They weren’t actually here to dance. They were here for a light interrogation. One for which Lucy should probably be preparing.

She pulled back, slightly stunned that the world was loud again. Drums and horns blaring all around them. Her thoughts were all over the place, in different decades. Confused and rudely awakened to the fact that no, she wasn't dreaming. Wyatt was looking at her with a different sort of intensity. He must have felt something, too, in the moments - years - they'd been dancing. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to panic. Moments ago kissing him would have been the easiest thing in the world, right?. It would have felt natural. Like coming home. She wouldn’t look away. How could she. Why couldn’t this last a little longer?

Everyone was clapping, the music had ended. The couples were all floating to the edges of the room, kissing each other and cheering and bowing at the band, who were tipping their hats. Lucy started clapping, Wyatt put his arm around her back as they moved with the crowd toward the tables. She was scared to look up at him, but could feel him looking at her, lowering his head.

He kissed her cheek. Slowly. His forehead lingering against the side of her head. There was a ferocious calm. Her heart was pounding. Lucy closed her eyes and turned ever so slightly toward him. Their lips met.

It was gentle, unsure. The rush of blood pumping to her ears, and other places, with every heartbeat was all she could hear. It was all she could feel. Tender. A softness carefully concealing a fire which neither of them was willing to let burn.

It didn’t last long enough. She just wanted another second of him. Half a second. Anything. She met his eyes, wide with furrowed brows, her own were rimmed with tears. Happy or sad, she couldn’t say. Maybe both. This wasn’t nothing. But it wasn’t something. This wasn’t real, that much was clear. Because none of this was real, because they were in a club 60 years before they were born. Her grandparents could be in this very club, and they’d be younger than she was.

This was crazy.