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He almost says it the first time they kiss.
They're in a dusty old hotel room, and she's fuming, angry with Wyatt, Rufus, and Jessica, and hating herself for it. Bottling it up, keeping it inside, so that no one gets hurt but her.
She needs an outlet, and he knows it, so he prods her, first about Wyatt, then about the journal. He does everything he's been avoiding since Jessica's return, pushing at every last wall she's built around herself.
When she snaps, he expects it, but he's not prepared for how much it hurts. "You don't know me," she bites out, and the ground feels less steady beneath him. There's a physical ache, as though she's driven a knife between his ribs, and a part of him wants to run away, to hide away in the faded journal pages, breathing in the words until the pain fades.
But there's a challenge in her eyes, one she's practically begging him to meet. She wants a fight, an excuse to take out her frustrations, so he'll give her one. After a halfhearted quip about awkward moments, he plows on.
"I know your thoughts, Lucy. I do, because you gave them to me! You handed me a piece of your soul, and begged me to look. You-"
"What. Do. You. Want?" Her voice is ice, slicing through the air.
Still, it's the second time in as many minutes she's asked that question, and he's starting to wonder if she wants an actual answer. Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.
"I want many things," he says pointedly, eyes lingering on her face, her lips. She stiffens, obviously understands, but refuses to back down. Defiance flashes in her eyes, and he holds up his hands, placating. "But all I'm asking is for you to stop shutting me out. To trust me. Just... Let me help."
She's on her feet in an instant. "And how, exactly, do you think you can help?"
Sometimes he forgets how short she is, how much he towers over her. It's easy, when she has that kind of fire in her eyes, when he feels like she's staring him down, even as she has to look up. Her hands are on her hips, and her jaw is set. She's ready for battle.
And oh, how can he help? His eyes are drawn back to her lips without his permission. He could make her forget, if only for an instant. He could show her that Wyatt walking away doesn't mean she's not good enough. He could-
But he won't. Because if he does, she'll shut him out, and never let him in again.
She's been watching him closely, and now, her face falls. Before he has time to wonder what that means, if she knows what he's thinking, (the way she usually does,) she surges forward, grabbing him by the collar, pulling him to her.
And.
Well.
If that's what she wants, he's not going to complain.
He meets her halfway, burying a hand in her curls, tilting his head, breathing her in. She's tugging, tugging him closer, hands on his shoulders, shaking, but holding firm.
She sets the pace, frantic, dizzying, kissing and kissing until neither of them can breathe. He tries to slow it, to stroke her cheek, to press reassurances against her mouth, but she growls, kissing him harder.
That's fine.
This is fine.
They can do that, if that's what she wants. He'll do anything for her. He loves her, loves her, LOVES HER-
She cups his cheek, stills, pulls away, and it's on the tip of his tongue to tell her, to reassure her once and for all that she's loved, that one man's choice does not determine her future, that she's valuable and precious and-
He opens his eyes, and sees the dawning horror in hers.
Swallowing his confession, he smiles, aiming for something gentle and teasing. (It's probably tighter than he'd like.) "Well, Lucy, any time you want that, I'm more than happy to oblige, but..." He shrugs. "I was thinking something along the lines of breaking Wyatt's back."
It startles a laugh from her, and the tension in his chest eases, just a notch. "Get out," she orders, but a hint of a smile plays at her lips.
"So that's a no on the back-breaking, then?"
"Out!"
He obeys, of course-doesn't know how to do anything else with her-but he pauses outside the doorway, smiling when he hears muffled giggles. She sounds a bit hysterical, but at the very least, she's found an outlet.
Good.
("I love you" still burns his tongue, and he wishes he could tell her, but he won't push her. She's laughing, and that's enough. It has to be.)
-
He almost tells her a thousand times, but each time, he reminds himself that she doesn't want to hear it. That right now, what she needs is a friend, a confidante, someone she can trust. (And occasionally kiss until they're both breathless, before she pulls away, each time acting like it will be the last time. Each time, he believes her a little less, but worries a little more that this is all they will ever be: frantic, secret kisses to take away the pain.)
Then, he gets shot.
The journal never said he'd take a bullet for her, but he isn't surprised, even as he crumples to the ground. She's screaming, although he can't make out the words. A shot rings out, and he has just enough presence of mind to look up, to see if she's still unharmed, before the world fades to black.
When he wakes, on a narrow metal bed in the bunker, she's by his side.
She's turned an empty barrel into a makeshift chair, and she's leaning against the bed, snoring softly.
He aches far less than he should, he realizes. After all, he did just get shot. He reaches out with his left hand, tracing it over his side, and winces. Yep, definitely shot. But he must be on strong pain meds, because he's not in agony.
They're the only ones in the room, and he takes a moment to watch her sleep. (It isn't creepy, he tells himself. After all, she's the one who chose to fall asleep by his bedside.)
She's still wearing her clothes from the mission, still splattered in blood, (hopefully his, not hers; he has no idea what happened after he blacked out,) through her face and hands are now clean.
Briefly, an image flashes through his mind of Wyatt, pressing a warm rag to her forehead, wiping away the blood. His stomach churns, and he shakes his head sharply. She's here, with him. Not with Wyatt. (At least for now.)
She starts, and lifts her head, pausing when she sees him. "You're awake."
Her voice is weak and hoarse, and her eyes are red-rimmed. She's been crying, he realizes. Over him.
It steals his breath for a moment, the fact that she cares enough to do that.
"I'm awake," he agrees, watching her carefully. She seems to realize how she looks, where she is, what that could mean, all at once, and panic slips into her eyes.
"I was just-do you need something? Water!" She stands suddenly, stumbling over her feet in an effort to put some distance between them. "I'll go get you some. Some water. And food. Yeah, you probably need-"
"Lucy."
"You must be starving. And exhausted. I'll just let you-" She's making her way to the door, words coming out in a rush, and he takes in a breath, repeating himself.
"Lucy."
She stills. "What?" There's a hint of the defiance from before their first kiss, but it's mixed with fear, fear of letting anyone know she cares.
(And he feels for Wyatt. He does. The man was put into an impossible situation, and has been coping the best he can.
He still hates him, for doing this to Lucy. It's irrational. Wyatt doesn't deserve it. And yet, Flynn really doesn't care.)
"Are you okay?" It's not what he means to say, but the moment the words leave his mouth, he realizes that he needs to know. "I sort of blacked out before we got out of there."
She nods, calming a little now that she knows he's not going to push. "Yeah, you hit your head pretty hard when you fell." A moment of consideration, then- "I thought you were dead. Wyatt's the one who saved you, I just... Froze."
Guilt hangs heavy in her words, and he swallows hard. "Lucy-"
"But Wyatt stopped the sleeper agents," she interrupts, "and he and Rufus carried you back to the Lifeboat."
How embarrassing. They'll probably never let him hear the end of it. He takes a small modicum of comfort in knowing that they probably hated every minute of it.
"Agent Christopher got a doctor to check you over, and patch you up."
"You haven't answered my question," he points out. "Are you okay?"
She hesitates, and his stomach drops. She doesn't seem injured, but what if something happened? What if she's hiding it? What if-
"I thought you were dead," she repeats, and in the low light, he sees tears welling up in her eyes.
Oh, Lucy, don't cry for me, he thinks. I'd rather it be me than you in this bed. "Hey, now," he murmurs, holding out his hand. She stares at him uncertainly, but he waits, and she returns to his side, slipping her hand into his. He holds tight, careful not to hurt her, but desperately trying to reassure her. "The journal says you and I stop Rittenhouse together. Now, we can't exactly do that if I'm dead, can we? Hm? Nothing is going to happen to me."
It's a risk, bringing up the journal. She could easily slam the door in his face. But instead, she only tightens her grip. "You don't know that," she insists, hand trembling. "Time can change. Anything can change."
"Not the journal," he says simply. "It's always right."
She opens her mouth to argue, but when he shifts, pain ripples through his body, and can't quite hide his wince. Her mouth snaps shut.
"I'm okay," he assures her, and it isn't really a lie. He's hurting, sure, but he's had far worse, and without her holding his hand through it all.
Her eyes widen, and he realizes he must have said the last bit out loud. Apparently they have him on strong pain meds.
She seems so lost, so confused, like she's trying to wrestle sense from his words. It's on the tip of his tongue to explain it, never mind the consequences. If she needs him to say it, he'll say it. He-
Suddenly, she drops his hand. For a moment, his heart follows, until she leans down, returning to her position resting against his bed. Almost of its own accord, his left hand crosses over to brush her curls, and she hums quietly.
"Sleep, Lucy," he murmurs, his own eyes growing heavy.
The rest can wait.
-
The next time the words almost slip out, she's kissing him again.
It isn't one of their normal kisses, angry or fierce, as she tries to drown out the pain. Instead, it's gentle, soft, searching. He trembles in her arms, traces his fingertips along the back of her neck, and holds her as close as he dares.
There isn't any sort of cataclysmic event to bring this on. In fact, it almost comes out of nowhere. (Except not really, because they've been building to this for who knows how long. Maybe since her future self pressed her journal to his hands and said, "Everything's going to be okay.")
They're sitting on the couch, watching a movie, and one of the characters tells a stupid joke. Truthfully, he forgets it moments after, but it's enough to make him laugh. She looks at him in surprise, and before he can question it, she kisses him.
When she pulls away, she stays close, forehead resting against his, and he keeps his eyes closed. He can't look, can't stand to see if she regrets it again, if she's searching his eyes for bright blue, if she's kissing someone who isn't there. He'll stay like this, just for now. He'll let himself pretend.
"I've never heard you laugh before," she explains, nose brushing his. He hums in acknowledgement, a smile playing at his lips.
"I'm happy." It feels like too much, too big a confession, but there's no taking it back now.
Her breath catches, just for a moment, and he half expects her to pull away, but then- "Good." She brushes a feather-light kiss against his lips, before pulling away, shifting so that her head rests on his shoulder. He finally dares open his eyes, and glances down, to find her staring at the screen. She doesn't look at him, but she's smiling, and he can't fight the urge to press a kiss to her hair. Her gentle sigh curls around him, warming him better than any blanket.
It's so peaceful, so domestic, that the words come to his lips unbidden. Surely she knows by now, right? Surely she won't-can't-object to him saying the words?
But all he can picture is her pulling away, their peaceful moment ruined by too much, too fast, too heavy, and...
He can wait.
-
Things change after that. She stops pretending that they aren't together, that there's nothing between them.
The first time she presses a sleepy kiss to his cheek at the kitchen table, as the others watch on, he stiffens, sparing Wyatt a glance. The younger man stares, the piece of toast he's been holding slipping from his fingertips, falling to his plate with a clatter. But Lucy doesn't even look at Wyatt, and while it could be a show, a voice in the back of his mind says she's still half-asleep. She doesn't have the energy for that kind of facade.
They go on missions together, or stay behind together, and Agent Christopher only makes the mistake of separating them once. He goes on the mission, and goes out of his way to drive the others insane, but somehow, he knows that isn't why it never happens again. When he steps off the Lifeboat, Lucy practically leaps into his arms, burying her nose in his neck. Over her shoulder, Agent Christopher watches on, an unreadable expression on her face.
No one will tell him what Lucy said or did, but he doesn't mind much, because she gets to be by his side now, and he couldn't be more grateful.
Whatever's between them, it's slow and tentative, but real: peppered kisses and morning coffee, rooftop conversations and soft slow dances with only the tv light, steady and growing without ever having a name.
It's harder to keep them in now, the words he desperately wants to say. When she's tucked against his side, or reading with her head on his lap, he opens his mouth a hundred times, and closes it a hundred more. He can't-won't-refuses to endanger this thing they have with truths she doesn't want to hear. This is more to him than it will ever be to her, far more than a rebound distraction, but he can live with that.
As long as he remembers what he cannot say.
-
He's too late.
In the chaos, he loses sight of her, only for a moment, and when he sees her again, she's bleeding out on the pavement.
This can't happen. It can't. The journal said they both survive this.
"No. No, please!" Someone shouts, louder and louder over the sounds of the crowd. It's pure agony, the voice pleading for her return.
His voice, he realizes distantly. "Please, please no." He drops to her side, but she doesn't move, doesn't even blink. He presses his fingertips to her neck, feeling desperately for a pulse, but there is none.
"No. I love you," he tells her, far too late. Again, as if it could bring her back, he whispers against her hair. "I love you. I love you. Please. I love you."
Hands tug at his wrists, pulling him away, away from her side, but he struggles against them. No! He can't leave her. He won't. "I'm sorry, Lucy. I love you."
The hands still on his wrists, and the world around him goes quiet. He should question it, doesn’t, just looks down out her in relief. “I love you,” he repeats, thinks he’ll never stop. Once for every time he should have said it when she was alive.
Her eyes open, and relief washes over him for a split second, until he sees them: A swirl of angry red and white, staring past him at nothing at all. “You have to wake up,” she says, but there’s no inflection in her words. No life. She’s still dead, even as she speaks. “Please. Wake up.” Her hand goes up suddenly, curling around his throat, crushing him. “Wake. Up.”
“Wake up!”
He sits up with a start, as the lifeless version of Lucy fades, replaced by very alive, very concerned version. Her hand is not around his throat, but cupping his cheek, and his hand is curled tightly around her arm.
Too tightly.
His wife always used to tell him he fought in his sleep, and apparently, that hasn’t changed.
He releases her hurriedly, relief dawning on him. She’s alive. She’s okay. He hasn’t lost her.
He’s lying on the couch he’s claimed as his own, must have fallen asleep there watching movies with Lucy.
“Hey,” she whispers, and suddenly, he just needs to feel her close to him, to know that she’s okay. He tugs her to him, and she comes willingly, crawling into his arms, and letting him bury his face in her neck. “It’s okay,” she says, stroking his hair. “It’s okay. It’s over now.”
It’s over.
Except it isn’t.
The image won’t leave his mind, of her bloody, lifeless, not even knowing…
He pulls away slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. He can’t hold back, has to tell her, has to let her know. Surely, by now, she’ll accept it? “Lucy, I-”
Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and the words still on his tongue.
Right.
She doesn’t want to hear it.
“I’m glad you’re okay,“ he finishes weakly.
To his surprise, her brows furrow in confusion. "Is that all you wanted to say?” She asks it as if she already knows the answer, and he’s sure he does, but she’s never pushed before. He has to wonder what she wants now.
“I don’t want to be… Too much,” he answers carefully, and she falters, looks away. Here it is then, he thinks. The end. It was inevitable, after all.
“I-” She starts, hesitates, stops. Looking for the best way to let him down easy, no doubt. “I-”
She shouldn’t feel bad about this. Not because of him. “Lucy, it’s okay, I-”
“Iloveyou.” The words come out in a rush, as if she expects the world to end with them, but when it doesn’t, she takes a breath, and repeats, slower. “I love you.”
Oh.
He’s drowning.
She loves him, she loves him, she said it, meant it, and he never thought he’d be so lucky. The one thing the journal never talks about is what they share.
She loves him.
She… Is staring at him, wide-eyed, waiting for his response. As if she doesn’t know. As if she doesn’t realize. How can she not realize? (But she thought she knew with Wyatt, he remembers bitterly. Maybe he’s not the only one that’s been afraid of too good to be true.)
Tears pricking at his eyes, he cups her cheek, takes a breath, and finally, finally says it. “I love you.” Again, just for good measure. “I love you.” And this is going to be a problem, he thinks. Now that he’s said it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop, doesn’t want to stop, never wants to stop hearing her say it…
They exhale together, taking in the new reality of their situation, and she smiles. It’s shaky, barely there, but it’s real, and he put it there. He smiles in return, and she leans in, as he meets her halfway.
It’s different from any kiss they’ve shared before. It’s a promise, a vow, in every brush of lips. As he tilts his head, she cups his cheek, and the tenderness of the moment almost overwhelms him. “I love you,” he whispers against her lips, just because he can, and she answers in kind.
He’s not sure who says it next, a quiet confession in the low light.
“I love you.”