The Weary Kind – Ryan Bingham
And this ain't no place for the weary kind
And this ain't no place to lose your mind
And this ain't no place to fall behind
Pick up your crazy heart and give it one more try
AN: Listen, before you say anything… I KNOW. I know OCs are generally awful and squeezed in for no reason. I fully support the amazing Garcy stories out there. BUT… But no matter what a phenomenal dumbass he's been, realistically, I do feel Wyatt and Lucy are meant to be. Thus, some Flynn/OC love but I promise I will do my damnedest to make her a fleshed-out, interesting character with great Flynn chemistry.
Also, I obviously do not own Timeless or the characters that appear in it.
"Pretzel? Flynn asked, tilting the open bag toward Wyatt in the driver seat next to him. Wyatt Logan, sporting a week's growth of beard and a ratty Atlanta Braves baseball cap, glanced at the bag, then at the frustratingly impassive face of the man who'd spent the better part of a year trying to kill Wyatt and his friends. The same man he'd shared this miserable 1993 Aerostar van with for the last eight days.
"You are taking this way better than you should." Wyatt grumbled, turning his attention back to the apartment complex they were surveilling.
"Suit yourself," Flynn shrugged, taking a handful of pretzels and feeding them into his mouth one by one. He was slouched low in the passenger seat, or low as he could with the seat pushed all the way back and his knees pressed against the faded dashboard. The dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but the irreverent, almost cheerful attitude with which he approached their missions was always unsettling. Moreso when the cnsequences of their current stakeout were so high – and so personal.
It had taken a good long while for Agent Christopher to gain access to the thumb drive that had been seized at Flynn's arrest, and even longer to agree to hand over the information Flynn desired. Six names with shockingly complete dossiers compiled by Ethan Cahill years before. Three had been arrested in the takedown of Rittenhouse, including the corporate lawyer who'd ordered the hit on Flynn's family. One was confirmed dead on a previous mission. One more they'd found weeks ago and captured. The interrogation was ugly – just about everything Flynn did was ugly – but it had begun civilly and eventually rendered valuable information. Wyatt suspected Flynn might even have handed the man over to Homeland Security after the fact, had he not beaten the hell out of him, rendering any possible prosecution null.
In the end, a single, dispassionate shot to the head had been the end of Robert Haver. That humane end, and the relative professionalism of Flynn's interview with the Rittenhouse agent might have suggested the former NSA operative was regaining his humanity. Might.
In the end, Wyatt was torn – glad to have someone so skilled on their side, but incapable to fully believing he'd remain on their side. Then there was Lucy…
"She's back." Flynn commented, setting the open bag of pretzels on the center console and wiping his hands on his jeans before taking the compact binoculars off the dashboard and peering across the street. Wyatt, disturbed from his grim rumination, sat upright and reached for his own binoculars.
They'd been surprised to find, in the course of tailing Charles Tyson, that their target appeared to be surveilling someone else. It had worked to their benefit – Tyson wasn't watching for a tail himself while he surreptitiously followed the mystery woman and her young daughter. However, it had taken three or four cracks to the jaw and threats of further harm (which Flynn laughed off in that disturbing, tightly controlled way of his) for Wyatt to convince Flynn not to go tearing after Tyson immediately and blow their cover.
Wyatt shifted in his seat at the memory, his bruised ribs smarting. Lucy wouldn't be pleased to hear they'd gotten in another dustup. This time, though, Wyatt understood. The man they were following had already murdered one mother and child among an untold number of hits. Watching him pursue this young woman and her five- or six-year-old girl had made even Wyatt's gut twist into tense knots. Still, Wyatt suspected there was something different going on here, and convinced Flynn that if Tyson was surveilling her for a Rittenhouse execution, taking out one man wouldn't stop it. They needed to catch the team.
Peering across the busy street to the open second floor walkway of the shabby apartment complex, Wyatt confirmed the unknown woman was returning to her unit, her daughter carried on one hip and several reusable grocery bags slung over the opposite shoulder. It was late, the sun already beginning to set, and the girl was slumped against her mom's shoulder, dead asleep, while the woman struggled to fish her keys out of her purse and open the door.
Next to him, Garcia Flynn swallowed hard, choking down the conflicting tangle of concern and tenderness he couldn't help feeling at the sight of this little moment of mundane struggle and comfortable bliss. What did Tyson want with them? He'd asked himself more than once, but instinct kept coming around to the same conclusion. They'd called in a request with Christopher to identify the tenant, only to find she paid with cash and leased under the name Dorothy Gale. Flynn knew this was a person in hiding. A person, most likely, hiding from Tyson.
The dossier had listed a spouse, Roxanne Tyson né Oliver. In their search for Charles Tyson, they'd tried to locate her to no avail – which had necessitated the capture and interrogation of his fellow Rittenhouse agent. Flynn knew, in his gut, he was looking at Roxanne Tyson. The little girl was undoubtedly Tyson's daughter, Francesca.
"Flynn," Wyatt said abruptly, "Tyson's on the move."
Roxanne exhaled a sigh of relief as she finally got the door open and slipped into her darkening apartment. Switching on the entry light, she walked toward the hallway, depositing the bags of groceries on the floor by the kitchenette before carrying Frankie down the hallway toward her room.
Inside the girl's room, she carefully picked her way across a floor littered with stuffed toys and picture books, all formless in the pre-dusk light eking through the lone window. Roxanne knelt slowly by the twin bed and gently shifted her sleeping daughter to the mattress. Frankie sighed and fidgeted a moment, but was too far gone to wake up over so slight a movement. Roxanne gently tugged off the girl's shoes and pulled the comforter – white with large, abstract orange and pink daises – over the sleeping five-year-old.
She knelt there a moment, brushing the dark curly hair away from Frankie's brow. She had perishables in the grocery bags, however, so she stayed only a moment before laying a gentle kiss on her daughter's forehead and tip-toeing away, closing the door gently behind her.
In the kitchen, the refrigerator droned on in a labored whirr while she began to unpack and shelve her chilled goods. It had been a long day cleaning houses ten times nicer than her tiny apartment, and it would be longer still when Mrs. Rollins arrived to sit with Frankie while Roxanne headed to her second shift as a night guard at the Oakland wharf. Once the refrigerator was packed, she opened the cupboard to pull out a tin cup and a bottle of whiskey, pouring herself two fingers and dropping in a couple ice cubes before screwing the cap back on and tucking the bottle back in the cupboard behind boxes of pasta and cereal.
Roxanne took up the camping mug and turned, leaning back against the counter and taking a slow, grateful sip of the rich, subtly spicy liquid. Tingling and silky, she didn't drink often, but she did drink well. This was no rot-gut but rather well-aged sour mash bourbon. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, willing the tension and wariness out of her body. The alcohol would make her drowsy for her graveyard shift, but it was her solace for mouthing off and getting herself fired from yet another cleaning service.
"Honey, I'm home." That voice, a voice she knew in her sleep, reached her ears and a surge of terror froze her in place. Charles.
Slowly, purposefully, her heart rabbiting in her chest and the rush of adrenaline making every audible and tactile sensation twenty times sharper, Roxanne lowered her head and opened her eyes. Sure enough, there he stood in the kitchen doorway, backlit by the entry light while she stood in the darkened kitchen, but just as identifiable by his silhouette as by broad daylight. The realization hit her, then, that she'd forgotten to lock the door while she was carrying Frankie.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, setting the cup on the counter beside her and carefully releasing her death grip from the enameled tin. Charles took a step into the kitchen and her eyes scanned frantically for a way around him.
"What kind of question is that?" he asked, bemused, "I'm here for you. And for my daughter." At those words, the rage broke over her in a consuming heat and Roxanne lunged, knowing there was no way around him but through. She lowered her shoulder, plowing directly into his diaphragm and surprised him just enough to make him stumble backward out of the doorway. Taking advantage of his momentary lack of footing, she planted a knee squarely in his groin and elicited an enraged shout before he fell to the floor.
She lept over his prostrate form, his contorted face and shaved head burning wrathful scarlet in his agony, and made for the hallway – for her bedroom and the 50 caliber Desert Eagle locked up in her night stand. But Charles was viper fast, sparing one hand to take an implacable grip on her ankle, and Roxanne crashed to the floor. Stunned and somewhat winded, she kicked out with her free foot, connecting with his jaw and neck once, twice, and a third time before he finally let go and she clambered to her feet and careened down the hallway.
"Mommy!" she heard Frankie cry from her bedroom.
"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!" Roxanne bellowed, reaching her bedroom and throwing herself to her knees to pull open the night stand. She hoped beyond hope Frankie would listen, would remember their drills and hide in her room. She yanked the plastic case from the drawer and worked on the tumbler lock with trembling but precise fingers, listening for any noise from the living room. The lid snapped open and Roxanne pulled out the heavy firearm and a loaded clip. She heard Charles' hand slap against the hallway wall, supporting himself as he lurched toward her room, cussing out her name. Roxanne inserted the clip and crawled over her bed to the opposite side from the bedroom door. She crouched low, taking cover and chambering a round before carefully releasing the safety.
Just then, Charles lurched against the door jam, one hand still clutching his crotch, and Roxanne eased out her breath before squeezing the trigger.
Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) – Nancy Sinatra
Bang bang. I shot you down
Bang bang. You hit the ground
Bang bang. That awful sound
Bang bang. I used to shoot you down