a/n : this will eventually qualify as a TFP for January :) It's a post-S1 (shortish) WIP. Enjoy!


"Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean…"

Wyatt eyed Lucy warily, but she gave no explanation for that cryptically muttered phrase, just kept trudging along the cracked, trash-strewn sidewalk.

He'd long ago given up on the idea of decoding every little thing she said in moments like this. She had this remarkable habit of unwittingly regurgitating famous and not-so-famous quotes when she was overworked and overwhelmed, uttering the apt words of poets and politicians alike, many of which went straight over his head.

She stumbled over a rutted chunk of concrete and grunted a curse that was swiftly whipped away by the midnight wind. Mean streets, indeed.

Wyatt gripped her arm and pulled her along with him, ducking into a passing doorway and pressing his body against hers for a millisecond of reprieve.

"You alright?"

"Yeah," she hissed between her teeth, her arm shaking riotously inside of his hand. "We shouldn't have stopped."

"I don't hear anything. Haven't for nearly five blocks now."

He was tired, and if he was tired, that spelled far worse for her. Lucy was tough, far tougher than he'd ever expected her to be in the beginning, but this jump was pushing all the wrong buttons. They'd been scurrying like rats along the grimy streets of mid-60s Manhattan for nearly 36 straight hours, and what began as a simple mission to outwit Emma had rapidly unraveled into a complex tangle with a mob-fueled crime war.

So here they were, cut off from Rufus for the better part of an hour now, desperately trying to find their way back to him while simultaneously attempting to outrun Gambino's hired thugs. Or had Lucy said that this was Genovese territory, not Gambino's? It was all starting to blur together for him and he didn't really give two damns at this point. His objective had boiled down to one very basic directive - see a tommy gun, run in the opposite direction. Nothing in his current arsenal could compete with that kind of firepower.

Lucy's eyes were still frantic as she stared past him, her gaze hunting through the inscrutable haze of night. Judging by the thickly encroaching mist, they must have looped back around to the docks by now. The Lifeboat was parked on the other side of the Hudson, a relatively quick trek by way of the Holland Tunnel, and hopefully Rufus was already waiting for them there. That was always the backup plan of all backup plans in a scenario like this - get to the Lifeboat, take cover, and pray that the rest of the team finds their way there too.

Gunshots ricocheted from somewhere above them. Another shootout, this one seemingly raining down from the rooftops. Lucy clutched his jacket and hid her face in his shoulder, shuddering involuntarily with each pop of ammunition that split the city skyline.

"I just want to go home," she whispered into him with a shiver.

"I know, I'm sor -"

"No," Lucy grumbled hastily, straightening up from between his arms, "that line of thinking wasn't helpful at all, so don't bother acknowledging it with a response."

Wyatt offered a weary half-grin, shaking his head with unconcealed admiration. "I'll be busting my ass to get you decorated one of these days, Lucy Preston. Distinguished Civilian Service… Outstanding Civilian Service Award...I don't know what it'll be, but I'm not quitting until you have a big shiny medal."

She laughed dismissively and pushed a loose tendril of hair away from her face. "You're a real riot, you know."

He was a breath away from making a plea of sincerity when another round of bullets ruptured their quiet interlude. This outbreak was closer than before, apparently at street level now and growing louder. It chased the laugher from Lucy's eyes, leaving fresh daggers of terror in its place. Wyatt reached past her and tried the doorknob behind them on nothing but a vague impulse. The knob fell off in his hand, allowing the door to creak open into nothing but dissolving blackness.

"I don't like it," she breathed against his neck.

"Neither do I." There was more gunfire, a groan and a thud, pounding footsteps closing in on them. Wyatt gave her arm a squeeze and shook his head. "I like that even less."

Lucy nodded her agreement, lower lip tucked severely into her teeth. He drew her in with him, never once loosening his hold on her arm, and waited, motionless and painfully alert, until his eyes could adjust to the dim outline of a cavernous room.

His revulsion was immediate. "Shit."

She sucked in a harsh breath beside him. "Wyatt - "

"I know," he answered furiously, scanning box after box of contraband artillery. "We're sitting ducks in here...this must be - "

"Supply headquarters," supplied a flat voice from God-knows-where in the endless towers of boxes. The steely click of an unlatching safety echoed in tandem. "Welcome to your final resting place, kids."

Wyatt shoved Lucy to the ground and rolled on top of her, utilizing the momentum to keep them both moving until they had some semblance of coverage in the oncoming barrage of bullets. He seized her shoulders and crushed his forehead to hers, so close he couldn't even see her eyes.

"Stay here."

"But - "

"Stay. Here. I swear to God, Lucy," he swallowed past the crater-sized well of emotion in his throat and shook his head once, blood rushing past his ears. "Don't move. Please."

He couldn't look at her as he rose to his feet. Every step he put between them was as good as a bullet driven straight through his heart.


to be continued...

also, credit to Raymond Chandler for Lucy's quote at the very beginning of the chapter, as well as helping to inspire the title of the fic.