Disclaimer: I do not own Timeless.

The Ox: Part 2

Connor sat in the gallery of a fashion show, watching six-foot tall women in their twenties parade down a catwalk. They were adorned in assorted dresses and skirts, each one more fantastically overdone than the last. The photographers and fashion reporters in the front rows all gushed.

"Next, from Tobias Junipero's Neyo Tryggo Line," said the announcer and the next model walked down the catwalk wearing a skimpy cocktail dress that looked like it could've come from the 1920s, except the designs, cuts, and gemstones along the neckline looked distinctly modern.

After her came a girl wearing a hoop skirt that wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of a western, but with heels and long-sleeve satin top. And after that, a 1940s flowery dress, except the designs of the flowers flashed distinctively similar to the go-go girls of the '80s.

Connor applauded for every one of them.

After the show, he made his way backstage, keeping his eyes peeled for a familiar face, but in fact, found his friend by the sound of his carrying voice.

"Why did you allow this kind of lighting for my show- I told you to get the full effect of this line, we need solid, not flashing. We're seducing the prime minister at a foreign dignitaries ball, not twerking with our gal-pals in a second-rate club."

A short Filipino man wearing high-waisted Dockers and striped suspenders came into view, gesturing madly. "It's like you're trying to make me cry, but I swear to you that I won't! I will simply plot your murders tonight before bed." The man looked around and caught sight of Connor then sighed.

"Hello, T.J.," said Connor. "Buy you a drink?"

The designer scowled. "Will it replace the collection rented for your special project?"

"Bought and paid for," corrected Connor.

"But with the promise that they'd be returned!" said TJ. "Those clothes were absolute top of the line and your office 'accident' burnt them to a crisp!"

T.J. had a flair for dramatics, but Connor actually felt in this case, he was justified.

"I'm sorry I lost all your clothes, but I think I might be able to offer you something."

T.J. shrugged. "I hate that you know I probably wanna get out of this racket," he gestured at the changing rooms around them, earning himself several rude stares. "Yeah, I said it!" he snapped at the nearest grip boy. "And stop ogling the models! Buy the pictures in the trashy magazines like all the others!"

"The people who destroyed your collection are still trying to dismantle my entire operation," said Connor. He leaned in close to T.J.'s ear and whispered, "What if I told you what I was really using all those designs for?"

.

.

Jiya was flipping through photos of wedding dresses online. "What about this one?" asked Lucy, and Jiya looked over. Lucy was showing her a picture of a Middle-Eastern woman in a wedding dress with a headdress covering everything except her face.

"God, no, why would I want that?" asked Jiya, then she noticed the searchbar. "Did you Google Lebanese wedding dresses?"

Lucy opened her mouth but said nothing. Her hands waved around in a sort of shrug for a second.

Agent Christopher laughed. "The same thing happened at my wedding. All my white friends, completely well-intentioned, kept telling me to try on traditional Indian dresses. No one cared that I wanted to wear my dress blues from my Metro days."

"I am an American girl, I want a culturally American wedding. I want a white dress, I wanna throw a bouquet, and I wanna dance to Shania Twain's 'From This Moment'."

"All you're missing is the awkward cousin who no one actually wanted there," said Lucy.

When Jiya would tell this story later, Flynn came around the corner immediately after that statement. In actuality, it was at least twenty or so seconds.

"More wedding stuff," he said, trying to sound revolted, but Jiya could tell he was eyeing their laptop screens with a kind of glee in his eye.

"Flynn, you're a man," said Jiya, quickly. "What's your opinion on this dress? You see the love of your life wearing it, had badly do you wanna rip it off?" It wasn't long after that that Flynn was actually leaning across the couch, looking at all the dresses with them.

The scene was interrupted with the appearance of Mason and someone none of them knew.

"Did you leave the bunker?" asked Agent Christopher, looking back at the entrance. "How-?"

"Really, Denise, I'm an engineer," said Mason. "This…" he continued, ignoring Agent Christopher's scolding look, "is Tobias Junpiero, the greatest fashion designer in the world. And one of my closest friends."

"Call me T.J.," said the man. "Tobias Junipero is way too Hollywood."

"You are Hollywood," Mason reminded him.

"And hate every bit of it," said T.J.

"T.J. designed most of the clothes you've worn on your missions," said Mason. "Everything that burnt up when Rittenhouse bombed us."

"Those were all yours!" said Lucy with surprise. "Those clothes were perfect! You didn't recreate the vintage look, you actually used the materials and craftsmanship that people used back then!"

T.J.'s eyebrows shot up into his forehead. "Someone who appreciates attention to detail. Nice to meet you, Mrs…"

"Miss... uh, Professor Lucy Preston." Flustered, she stood up from the couch and shook his hand, ignoring the laptop that had fallen to the floor.

"Calm down," Jiya whispered. "You're not his type. Trust me."

"Well, I heard you were down on your luck financially, Connor," said T.J., looking around the bunker. "This is worse than expected. And what does this have to do with my clothes?"

Before Connor could answer, the alarms started sounding. "They jumped," said Flynn, leaping to his feet and hurrying toward the control room.

"Who jumped? What's happening?" asked T.J.

"Better to show you," said Connor.

"Might as well, since apparently this operation is no longer covert," growled Agent Christopher.

The team, including Rufus and Wyatt, were all assembled around the console, T.J. hanging back somewhat, watching the proceedings carefully.

"May 30, 1893, New York City," said Jiya and everyone looked at Lucy expectantly. It looked like her mind was working very quickly, but brow was furrowed in confusion.

"That date seems so significant," said Lucy, "but I can't think why? And why New York?" She looked at Jiya who immediately rolled her eyes back.

She tried not to imagine the look T.J. must be giving her right now. He was probably thinking of any sort of rational explanation he could.

Instead she focused on what she was seeing. "There's a school," she said. "Kids, all different ages, in the same class… they must be very well behaved, no one's talking… wait, no… they're using sign language."

"Several schools in the late 1800s were able to use American Sign Language to teach deaf children," said Lucy. "In New York, there were probably several of them."

"A deaf school," said Wyatt. "Shouldn't be too hard to narrow down once we get there."

"Get where?" said T.J., but no one was listening.

"Rufus should be back in the seat," Flynn said quickly.

"Why?" demanded Jiya. She'd gotten used to being their go-to pilot.

Flynn shrugged. "He can't stay in the bunker forever. Besides, don't you have wedding dresses to try on?"

Jiya wasn't buying that for a second- sure it was easy to get Flynn to feel included by asking his opinion on wedding stuff, but there was no way he cared enough about their wedding to factor it as who would or wouldn't pilot."

"I concur," said Connor. "Lucy, gentlemen… best get cracking."

Jiya watched her fiancé and the rest of the team rush into the machine ("What is that thing?" T.J. was saying). It roared to life with its familiar clanking and vanished before their eyes.

T.J. watched, expressionless. Then he looked back at Connor.

"And you took MY clothes into that thing?"

"Really?" asked Jiya. "That's the weirdest thing about this?"

.

.

1890s Brooklyn was very dirty, Emma discovered. She should've dressed down for this mission, but she thought it set a better precedent to appear well dressed. The address was for an office building in Flatrush, and her heels clacked loudly against the paved road as she approached.

She knocked five times in a quick pattern and a peep hole opened.

"Back again?" came a voice. She'd never been here before. But Rittenhouse had a way of detecting intruders.

"I'm persistent," replied Emma. It was the call sign she'd learned.

The peep hole closed, Emma heard the sound of a bolt unlatching, and the door swung open.

Rittenhouse had a few people stationed at this safehouse, but only one was present, a young blond man in his early-to-mid twenties.

"I have an assignment for you," she said. He nodded, unquestioning.

"There's a boy in Brooklyn. About fourteen years old, but six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a big head. He likes to terrorize the other children."

The young man nodded.

"He calls himself the Ox," Emma said. "Give him this," she tossed over a bag of silver dollars. "Tell him he'll get more if he comes back with you and accepts the job I have to offer."