Author's Note: This was written for timeless-fanfic-prompts on tumblr's prompt: "Am I dead?"
"No, but you're going to wish you were."
Summary: Set in Season 2. Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like "Why?" [Wyatt Logan/Garcia Flynn pre-slash, though you could read it as Gen. Warning for mentions of past abuse.]
It's Friday evening and they don't have a mission because for once, Rittenhouse isn't trying to upend history as they know it. (Well, of course it is, but the alarms signaling that Emma's taken the Mothership out again remain blissfully silent.) This means that Wyatt doesn't need to be at Mason Industries. And yet, there he is at the office on his day off, minus Rufus's constant flow of comforting chatter and Lucy's soft eyes that see too much but still not enough.
Apart from the intense nausea that still claws itself up from his gut to his throat every damn time he rides the Lifeboat, one perk of his latest gig is the small on-site gym. That's where Wyatt is now.
He rolls his shoulders back, scrubs his damp palms on his shorts, and thinks, One more set. He needs to know he's hit the weights hard enough that he'll sleep that night—instead of seeing Jessica's blue eyes following him in the darkness as the red numbers on his bedside clock frogmarch on toward dawn.
Whenever he reaches out a hand to touch Jessica, she shakes her head and retreats.
(The sleeplessness messes with his head, and on some nights he talks to Jessica, carrying on full conversations with her. "Jess, am I dead?" he asks her on occasion, unsure what he wants her answer to be. That should probably scare him. It doesn't.
She tilts her head, long sunshine hair unfurling like a flag down over her bare shoulder as she leans over his pillow and watches him, lips tipped in a smile that holds no threat, only sadness. "No, but you're going to wish you were."
Jessica's right; sometimes he does.
She always knew him better than he knew himself.
He never tells anyone.
He doesn't need a shrink and a psych eval to tell him what he already knows: He's splintering from the inside out.)
One last set of stiff-legged deadlifts and he'll be finished for the day. Lucky for him, the last set is the toughest.
Wyatt's gaze definitely doesn't drift across the length of the small gym to the only other person working out there: a tall, lean man running at a medium pace on a treadmill, his long legs taking him nowhere. Garcia Flynn. (Hint: his eyes absolutely do not linger on the blotches of sweat that have filtered from Flynn's skin to the fabric of his shirt, turning parts of the gray tee nearly black. What? They don't. Furthermore, Wyatt doesn't wonder if his cotton-covered skin smells like salt or gun oil or—)
They work together now, on the same team. Wyatt doesn't like it, but like doesn't enter the delicate equation; he's got his orders. While their numbers are symmetrical, the ease and understanding that he, Rufus, and Lucy had fumbled their way into is gone with Flynn's addition.
Two plus two equals four, sure; in their case, though, it's more like three plus one, and the plus one makes everything uncomfortable and just...difficult. Which makes sense because he and Flynn have tried to kill each other. Who can blame them for any lingering awkwardness? Either they'll get over the hump or they won't.
Is Wyatt sure which one he's rooting for? Ha. No. But Flynn's an itch he just can't scratch.
So no, he does not study Flynn and ask himself what convoluted thoughts churn through his head and what, exactly, he's running from or toward. Because Wyatt Logan is a simple man from Texas who hates puzzles, absolutely detests them, and knows better than to ever ask dangerous questions like "Why?"
Wyatt pinches the bridge of his nose and scuffs the sole of his shoe on the cushioned gym flooring. He shakes his head, a sigh leaking out. Focus, Logan, snaps the voice in his head. But the voice crackling like static in his ear isn't his own. It cuts like a cat o'nine, gruff with exasperation and rich with an accent he can taste in the back of his mouth and—
Shut it down.
This time he does. He bends down and curls his hands around the barbell, feels the life-beaten skin of his palms absorb the crosshatch pattern etched into the metal, then stands. With his knees slightly bent, he pushes his hips back and lets his arms slide the bar closer to the floor, just until he feels a bittersweet burn and a pleasure-pain stretch in his hamstrings. Slowly he reverses, returning to a standing position. He deadlifts again and again, not bothering to count reps anymore, until his legs shake like leaves on a storm-blown tree rooted deep in a West Texas hill, and his breath stutters, and the man across the room, the one directly in his line of sight, fades into a meaningless blur.
(Or so Wyatt tells himself.)
Tonight he'll sleep.
Wyatt showers after his workout, allowing the hot water to dominate his body until he's not a person or even a soldier anymore, just a collection of wet skin and slowly tightening muscles.
He's dry and dressed, seated on a bench in the locker room, about to shove his freshly-socked feet into his shoes, when his phone pings with a message.
He picks the phone up from the bench and peers at it. It's a text from Rufus. Drinks at Jake's at 7:30?
Without thinking too hard about it, he taps out a fast reply. Nah. Not tonight. Tired.
You sure? Lucy'll be there.
Wyatt huffs a laugh and cracks his knuckles before responding. I'm sure. Brunch at Doc's Diner tomorrow at 11:30?
Done. Good night, man.
See ya, Rufus.
The phone tips back on the bench, and Wyatt digs through his duffel bag for his car keys. He fumbles them; they slip from his fingers and hit the tile floor with a clink. After he snags them from the floor, he glances up and finds Flynn standing a few feet away in front of the wall of blue lockers across from him. A white towel curls around his waist, leaving his back bare. Wyatt sucks in a breath and returns his gaze to his bag, only to discover his brain has lost all control of his eyes, which keep wanting to flick back to Flynn. Shoulders hunched, he ducks his head and hazards a furtive look. Eyes wide, Wyatt looks and looks and can't look away from the network of pale scars crisscrossing the width of the other man's back. The scars, they're old, judging by their color—white. Something painful and hot rises in Wyatt's stomach. He swallows it back.
"See something you like, Logan?" Flynn asks, turning to face him, one eyebrow angled up in that way that Wyatt hates. A sarcastic smile lurks around the borders of Flynn's mouth, and Wyatt hates it. He fucking loathes that smile that's anything but a smile. He wants to wipe it off his face with his fist or with his—
Wyatt flinches like he's been hit. The blood rises in his face, thick and hot, but somehow he summons a smirk. He has to play the game right. "You wish." Clearing his throat, he zips his bag shut and swings himself up from the bench, intent on leaving as quickly as he can. But he has to pass right by Flynn to get to the door that leads out of the locker room. Keep walking. Keep walking.
His feet stop listening when he's three feet away from Flynn. The question flies from his mouth before he can capture and cage it like he should: "What happened to you?"
Flynn has his pants on now. At Wyatt's question, he takes the towel he's slung over his shoulder and tosses it on the bench. His brow furrows and his green eyes narrow. "You'll have to be more specific."
Wyatt ignores Flynn's naked chest and meets his gaze head-on. "Your back." He taps his own back with his index finger. "The scars. What happened to you?"
They stare at each other, locked in silence for so long that Wyatt thinks for sure Flynn won't answer. Water drips from one of the showers, the sound echoing lightly. Something flickers behind Flynn's green eyes. Then he blinks twice, and it's gone. "My father," Flynn replies. He swipes a hand over his mouth and down the faint stubble stippling his chin. "My father happened."
Remembering the weight of his own father's fists, that ugly sensation tightens Wyatt's stomach again. Sorry. There's a confusing maelstrom of feelings spinning inside him and he doesn't feel capable of separating it into its components right then. "Oh," is all he says, pushing his hands into his front pockets. He coughs, just to give himself something to do. "So, uh, me, Rufus, and Lucy, we're meeting for brunch tomorrow at 11:30." He rocks back on his heels. His cheek itches, so he scratches it. "Do you want to join us?" It's a terrible idea, of course it is, and he regrets the offer as soon as it's out his mouth.
Flynn laughs, the sound echoing like gunshots off all the metal and tile in the empty locker room. "This doesn't change anything. Don't feel sorry for me. That would be a mistake." He pulls a black shirt over his head, covering his chest and the marks on his back that Wyatt wishes he could un-see. "No, I don't want join you for brunch." The last word is emphasized by a nasty smile that raises the tiny hairs on the back of Wyatt's neck.
Wyatt eyes the faint stripe of warm color running along Flynn's cheekbones. He shrugs. "You're an idiot," he says, but the words lack any real heat.
Flynn mutters something Wyatt's ears don't quite catch.
His stomach rumbles and Wyatt starts walking again.
"Don't tell them."
The words are quiet, but Wyatt hears them anyway. The "please" goes unspoken, but Wyatt hears it anyway. He doesn't need to ask who the "them" is. He pauses in the doorway but doesn't glance back over his shoulder. "I won't," he says. I'm sorry, even if you won't believe me, he thinks but doesn't say.
Sleep finds him in his bed that night, but Jessica does not. In his dreams, Wyatt stumbles through a labyrinth of winding white paths that don't lead anywhere. Green eyes watch him without blinking. A familiar voice carried on the wind whispers, "Focus, Logan." When he wakes the next morning, his mouth tastes gritty with Afghan sand. His head echoes with these words: "Don't tell them."