Notes: Set between The War To End All Wars and The Darlington 500. Not 100% canon compliant.

Soft but insistent lips cover his; a hint of warm, spicy coffee from that morning tingles on his tongue and she tastes like Christmas, like cinnamon and cloves. He breathes her in, deep into his lungs, holds her there until the air is forced out. He wishes he could have held that breath forever.

Lucy Preston's lips are on his. This might be the closest to Heaven he will ever get.

Her fingertips trail down his neck, linger and caress his skin. Her shadow blocks out the light, blocks out the world, until all he can feel, and taste, and smell, is her.

He's jostled as she tears off his clothes, as she literally tears the shirt he is wearing. It's his favorite (of all the recent shirts stolen from washing lines in the past) and he thinks maybe if it was a different situation he might complain. But her palms are running up his ribs, over his chest, and her lips are on his again, and he can't even breathe, let alone form words.

It feels like a dream. It must be a dream. There's no way he's this lucky.

When she straddles him with unexpected speed and presses her weight down on his chest, all he can think is how she's an absolute warrior now, so different to the person he met a year ago. Time has changed them both.
Time. First time.
He's starting to think they should slow down, enjoy this. Currently, he isn't enjoying it. It's starting to hurt. His chest aches, his lungs burn, and as he's forced onto his side, gasping for breath, he thinks maybe this is actually Hell.

"Breathe, Wyatt," she soothes, rubbing small circles against his skin.

He's fucking trying.

Why can't he breathe? "What?" he gasps out. He sucks air in, aware now of the cold, hard cobblestones against his side, the thin blades of grass tickling his forehead. He cracks his eyes open, finds himself on the road, near where it meets the edge of a field, where he was standing before -. Oh. Before Emma fired at him.

"Got you in the vest," she assures him. "Lucky Agent Christopher started insisting upon it."

They all wear them tucked under their clothes now – if the fashion of the time allows.

He can't see her, but he can feel her palm on his back, knows she is kneeling behind him, ready to cover him if bullets whiz by again. His vest rests on the ground in front of him, where it landed after she must have ripped it off him, and he can see the glint as sunlight catches the .45 caliber round compacted in the Kevlar. More Flynn's modern bullet of choice than Emma's, but he tries not to focus on what that might mean. He just needs to breathe.

"I think it cracked a rib," she tells him. "You stopped breathing." Her voice, deceptively steady until then, falters on that sentence.

With a groan, he rolls onto his back and she moves to kneel at his side. Her hand rests on his shoulder now and she peers down at him. "We need to get you home."

"I'm fine," he tries to assure her but it comes out broken, his lungs still burning, his entire body screaming in pain.

She shakes her head, but relief breaks through the concern clouding her eyes and she squeezes his shoulder. "You can rest for a few minutes first though."

"Lucy?" Rufus' voice calls. "Wyatt okay?"

"He's breathing," Lucy replies, her hand still resting on his shoulder, her palm warm against his skin. "Conscious."

Wyatt lifts an arm and gives Rufus a weak wave. "And not allowed to move until Lucy says so."

He gets the exact response from Rufus he'd been expecting. "Yeah, well that might need to be now." Rufus throws Lucy a worried glance that Wyatt doesn't miss. "We gotta go."

"I'm good," Wyatt lies to reassure them both. "Just help me up."

"You hit your head, Wyatt," she tells him with a firm edge to her tone that seeps through her concern. "And need I remind you about the cracked rib and the fact you stopped breathing. You need to take this slow."

"Yeah," he murmurs. To be honest, he's happy to lie here, staring up into her eyes, remembering how her lips had felt against his. The warmth of her hand resting on his shoulder, the relief in her eyes, all silences the screaming pain tearing through him. Moving is the last thing on his mind. But they need to leave.

With his friends on both sides of him, he is helped to his feet. It hurts like a sonofabitch, each step sending burning pain tearing through him. So he thinks about her lips again, her knees straddling him, hands sliding up his chest. "Hey," he says softly once they reach the lifeboat. He gestures for her to lean closer so he can speak low into her ear while Rufus is distracted with opening the hatch. He brushes his lips across her cheek, and whispers, "Thank you."

She pulls back, and there's a soft pink blush staining her pale cheeks. Her throat ripples as she swallows down her emotion and she nods.

They share a moment, at least that's what he's calling this. She's staring at him, all wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. He's somehow keeping the eye contact despite wanting to give in to fatigue and sleep for a week. Only when Rufus reaches for him to help haul him into the lifeboat is it broken. He grumbles as his friends jostle him into his seat. They're being careful, he knows, but every movement, every breath, is like fire and even gentle movements make him grit his teeth.

When he's secure in his chair, he closes his eyes and through the pain a smile tugs at his lips. Lips that, just moments ago, had Lucy Preston's pressed to them…

Eh, as far as being shot goes, this was one of his better experiences.

Because of her.

Notes: So this isn't a new fic, it's actually an old NCISLA drabble I wrote, that was inspired by a Castle fic from way way back. I was going through old fic tonight and saw potential to turn this into a Timeless ficlet. A bit of recycling, but I missed writing these characters.

I've had a few people asking where my fic can be found now most of it is off FFnet and AO3. I'm currently working on getting it all on my fic site and the link will be in my profile once it's live. A few fics are still floating around on AO3 under the orphan account pseud.