AN: Look, I know he's killed a lot of people, and that's terrible, but can we agree that THAT scene in 1x11 where Flynn guns down two Pinkertons, then slings the shotgun to his shoulder and runs his hand through his hair is by far the most erotic thing ever shown on network television? I want a PornHub channel with nothing but that scene on repeat.
I still don't own Timeless.
Flynn and Wyatt had made their way across the bustling street, dodging traffic and earning an ireful chorus of car horns before they reached the parking lot to the apartment complex. Constantly vigilant, they'd moved gradually closer to the stairwell, taking cover behind and between the parked vehicles but it appeared Tyson was alone. No signs of a Rittenhouse strike team.
When they heard a shout – a woman screaming at someone to stay where they were – Flynn drew his weapon and sprinted the last ten yards to the stairwell with Wyatt trying to keep pace in his wake. He took the stairs three-at-a-time and sprinted toward the woman's apartment, barely registering Wyatt's pounding footsteps and hissed profanity. The former Delta Force member was careening after Flynn who had apparently decided to completely disregarded safe tactical approach protocols.
Wyatt was just catching up when an immensely loud shot rang out. Then, at least five seconds later, as Flynn was approaching the second-to-last apartment, a second shot. No silencer, large caliber.
"Flynn!" Wyatt shouted, to no avail. The towering man had disappeared through the door, gun at the ready. "Sonofa…" Wyatt panted as he unholstered his firearm, rounded the open doorway and damn near ran square into Flynn's back. The older man's gun was raised, but he was walking cannily, now, and Wyatt quickly took up scanning and clearing the meager living room they'd entered. Satisfied that no one was waiting behind the door or behind any furniture, he swept forward, taking up a position on Flynn's left and spotting a large, and decidedly masculine, prone form slumped haphazardly agains the hallway wall. Charles Tyson.
"Mrs. Tyson…" Flynn called, strong but calm, "Are you hurt?"
"Who's there?" a woman's voice called, strong but cracking with strain,
"Hey, maybe let me take lead on this," Wyatt muttered before Flynn could answer.
"What?" Flynn hissed, looking at him for the first time since they'd heard that shout and started their sprint for the building.
"Listen, she has to be terrified and you are just… very large and very creepy. Let me talk to her." Wyatt breathed back.
"You damn well better answer," came the woman's voice, firmer this time, and audibly nearer the doorway to the bedroom where she was hiding, "I have rounds to spare." Flynn glanced at Wyatt, unkempt and panting, with clear skepticism. Still, he couldn't deny the other man was far more charming in general and presently calmer than himself. He give a quick, tight nod and stepped to the side to cover the hallway as Wyatt walked slowly forward, gun lowered toward the floor.
"My name is Wyatt Logan, ma'am," he said, his voice steady and warm, but she interrupted.
"There are two of you?" she asked, sounding tense again. Wyatt swallowed – dammit, Flynn.
"Yes, ma'am." He said, gently as he could manage. At the start of the hallway he stopped, leaning against the wall and glancing down at the deathly still Rittenhouse agent. Well, that was one problem taken care of. "We're not here to hurt you, we're here to help."
"Forgive my skepticism," she responded dryly, and Wyatt heard Flynn give a snort of mirth. Psychopath.
"I promise you, we've been tailing this man, and only entered when we saw him approach. Is he your husband?"
"Was," she clarified. "And what business is he of yours?"
"He was a suspect in a criminal conspiracy, ma'am."
"So, you're law enforcement?"
"Not exactly," Wyatt admitted. "We work with some federal agencies, but it's, uh, off the books."
"And who's your friend, Wyatt?" she asked, and Wyatt saw her right arm and shoulder at the bedroom doorway, the aluminum barrel of her gun pointed directly at his heart. Slowly, Wyatt separated his hands, raising his free hand to show her it was empty and the gun hand palm out, his index finger laid straight against the trigger guard. Just one eye, fixed on his center mass, showed in a sliver of her stoic face through the angle of the doorway. She nodded acknowledgement but didn't lower her weapon. Wyatt slowly crouched down and placed his firearm on the floor before standing up again.
"My partner's name," he nearly choked over the word, but it was better than 'friend,' "is Flynn. We're–"
"Flynn?" she interrupted him. Wyatt glanced back at Flynn, who had likewise lowered his weapon but not holstered it. The taller man raised his eyebrows in response, just as surprised as Wyatt by the note of recognition.
"Uh, yes ma'am," Flynn responded, trying to take a cue from Wyatt's gentleman bastard playbook. "Garcia Flynn, I'm–" Before he could finish, the woman stepped clear of the doorway, her weapon now lowered. Wyatt kept his hands up, more than a little annoyed that she'd taken a bead directly on his center mass while Flynn got a pass seemingly on his name alone. Then he saw the look on her face, the shock and knowing in the knit of her brow.
"It's you," she breathed.
Flynn was damn sure he'd never seen this woman before, and her knowledge of him was at once both suspicious and intriguing. Still, in acknowledgement of their détante, he'd holstered his weapon and raised his hands as she kept her handgun trained on the floor and inched her way nearer. She'd reached a closed door on the opposite side of the hall, just past the body of Charles Tyson, and switched the gun to her left hand, raising it again with a fierce look on her face as she reached for the door knob with her right hand. Flynn nodded, seemingly unperturbed by the 50 cal pointed at his racing heart.
The woman tried the door knob and found it locked. Tapping a simple rhythm – five beats of Row Row Row Your Boat – she called softly, "Sweet pea, it's mom, you can unlock the door for me." A few heartbeats later, the two men heard the tiny click of the lock being released, a sound that would have been imperceptible anywhere outside this stone silent apartment.
Roxanne opened the door and edged cautiously inside, still keeping an eye on both men. Wyatt stepped back a few paces, away from his own gun on the ground, and she slipped fully inside the other bedroom.
"Frankie," they heard her call gently inside the room, "Sweet pea are you hurt?"
"Mommy," the smaller voice was unsure, trembling, but relieved.
"Yes, Frankie, I'm here. It's safe now, you can come out."
"Mommy!" carried the relieved cry followed by muffled keening sounds. Flynn and Wyatt looked to each other, and Flynn turned, his back against one wall, to glance at the still open front door. The crying noises continued, interspersed with unintelligible words and reassurances.
"Ma'am," Flynn said softly, but just loud enough for her to hear in the other room, "Is it alright if I shut the door."
There was a moment of silence and then, "Yes. Please." She had control over her voice, but only just.
"Is your little girl alright?" Flynn asked as he stepped to the door and gently shut it. He caught Wyatt's eye and nodded toward the door; the younger man carefully picked his firearm up and turned out to face the living room and the front door.
"Yes, as well as she can be expected."
"Mrs. Tyson, we–"
"Don't call me that," she replied sternly, and Flynn saw her emerge from the bedroom, her daughter cradled in one arm, a halo of dark auburn curls hiding the tiny face buried in her mom's shoulder. The handgun was still gripped firmly in the woman's left hand.
"My apologies," Flynn said gracefully, "What would you prefer?"
"My maiden name is Oliver," she said, then considered him a moment, "You can call me Roxanne." Wyatt shot a disbelieving glance at Flynn, who ignored him, and shook his head.
"Alright, Roxanne," Flynn nodded, "What do you need to get out of here tonight?" She understood, but considered him warily as she tightened her grip on Frankie.
"We won't take you anywhere you don't want to go, and we can call a cab if you like, but it's not safe to stay here tonight."
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"Looking for him," Flynn nodded at very dead elephant in the room.
"You know, then." She said, her look boring holes into the depths of his soul. He understood.
"Yes, I know," he said, and the flash of pain in her eyes was obvious as a changing traffic signal, "It's not your fault." He still didn't understand how she knew, or how she knew him, but he knew somehow she wasn't one of them. She wasn't Rittenhouse. He swallowed hard before continuing.
"Is that why you're hiding? You found out what he was?" Flynn asked, and she nodded once, adjusting her grip on the gun hanging at her side. "You can't stay here. If he knows, they know, and they'll find you." Turning reluctantly, Roxanne looked down at Charles Tyson's body and closed her eyes, working hard to compose herself.
"I have nowhere else," she whispered. "It took so long–" Her voice gave out.
"I know," Flynn said, and he did. Wiping yourself off the map took time and resources. "We can help you, if you want. I promise, we won't harm you, or your daughter. If you want you can point that ridiculously large gun at my head the entire time I'm driving." He said that last with a sideways grin, but complete sincerity.
"Flynn, where are we going–"
"We'll figure it out, Wyatt," Flynn cut him off. Roxanne Oliver glanced from him to Wyatt's turned back and then to Flynn once more.
"How much time do we have?"
Have You Got It In You – Imogen Heap
Been one of those days,
Safety first don't push (don't push me),
What's the hurry?
'Cause there's one nerve remaining,
Waiting on one look (one look), have you got it?
Have you got it in you?