Threading the Timelines

Chapter Twelve

Dear Garcia,

Two weeks ago, I buried you. I wasn't there. Two years ago, you told me about our destiny. I didn't believe you. Five years from now, I pass our destiny to you. I don't know how many times I've done this before. Maybe too many to count. But every time--whether I know it concretely or not, I know it--every time, you die.

And every time I end up sobbing on the floor of the bunker.

None of this makes sense to you, I know that. I'm wishing on a falling star. That's all that's left to me. How many times have I lost you? How many more times do I have to lose you?

I never told you how I was afraid of plants, did I? Well I am. Ridiculous, I know, but there it is. There's this one time, when we were enemies, that you stranded us in 1754. Tromping through the woods with all these prehistorically large leaves. Beautiful, but literally the worst thing I could imagine.

We wasted so much time, you and I, being enemies.

~*~*~*~
June 5, 2018

I count the squares of the ceiling. Your ceiling. One hundred forty-two. Thirty-two windows. Vodka in the coffee cup. I function, but not much more. No one suspects, but Denise. They shy from me, averting their eyes. I am someone to avoid. How do I give up on you?

They've stopped asking me how I am. Thank god. I am so sick of that question. I'm the asshole who got the love of my life killed. How do you think I am? Every day I wake up and forget, for the briefest of most blissful moments, that you are gone. But every morning, I remember you're dead. I don't know how much longer I can do it.

Knocking. I rouse myself.

"Lucy, It's Denise," she calls through the door. "I'm coming in." Her eyes adjust to the dim light of the room. It's stuffy, claustrophobic.

"Hey. What's up?" I ask, my voice bright, brittle. I don't know how to fake it. I try harder. "Need something?"

She pulls a pile of clothes from the chair, my eyes track the motion, my favorite's in that pile, and takes it back into her lap, sitting down. Her hands fidget. I pretend not to eye the vodka on the desk. She hands it to me anyway. I tuck it into myself, this bottle is not for drinking. She makes a decision, I can see it in her eyes, one that'll require me to put on pants.

"Get dressed."

I pull on a pair of old jeans and slip a hoodie over his grey t-shirt. My thoughts are fuzzy. "Where are we going?" Leaving the bunker seems exhausting, but I take the first step. I stumble a little getting out of bed, I don't have much energy these days.

"You need fresh air."

I should leave the bottle, but I can't release it. "Bring it." She must see the panic on my face.

"It's just a bottle." I set it on his desk. I tell myself there's no reason to bring it. "I don't know why..." I can't confess.

She reaches for me, hands on my shoulders. "You shared it with Flynn?"

I nod. "Our first night as friends."

She hands it back to me. "Bring it." Pulls me into her arms. "It's time to say goodbye."

~*~*~*~
March 23, 2023

Lucy enters the date and the Lifeboat refines the coordinates. This mission planned from the beginning. The catalyst. Lucy Preston and Garcia Flynn. Recorded and stored every version of their lives. Camouflaged from current iteration. The path forward unhindered by previous choice. The Lifeboat finds him. Once again. One last time. The final timeline.