AN: This is 110% emotional manipulation, and I'm not sorry.
I don't own Timeless, NBC, the idea of time travel, or a garlic press.
They pulled up to the black site at half-past three. Wyatt had called ahead and Agent Christopher, impeccably dressed and somehow showing no fatigue for the early hour, was waiting with a small cohort of hand-picked agents. While he absolutely agreed with the necessity of getting the woman and her daughter away form Rittenhouse, he wasn't in favor of letting any unknown entities into the bunker.
Wyatt parked and got out of the van, approaching Christopher with a tired smile. He'd make his concerns known before Flynn had a chance to bowl through the protocols like he always did.
Flynn pulled up behind the surveillance van, cutting the engine and turning to hand the keys over to Roxanne. He was amazed she was still awake, and as she reached for the keys, a strong part of him wanted to take hold of her hand and squeeze it. To reassure her of her safety. Instead, warm fingers grazed his palm, and he caught her eyes just a moment in the scant light. She looked as secure in the situation a she was likely to be at this point, and all he could do was remain solid and matter-of-fact with her. Excessive solicitousness would only set her on edge.
"I need to check in with the boss," he said quietly, her daughter was still fast asleep, "You can stay here with her if you like and then we'll get you inside." Roxanne nodded, alert but exhausted. Flynn got out of the vehicle and walked past the van, glancing back only once, to meet with Wyatt and Agent Christopher. They were conversing in the harsh glow of the vehicle's headlights, and Christopher nodded acknowledgement when she saw him.
"Flynn," she addressed him with a nod, "I hear you've brought visitors." Her tone was curious but skeptical.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied with a subtly sardonic edge. He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward on the balls of his feet. "I thought we could earn a little extra money Air BnB'ing the sofa. Mason's coffers aren't what they used to be."
"Cute," she responded dryly.
"I thought so,"
"Wyatt's given me the overview, Tyson's dead?"
"Yes."
"That's inconvenient."
"Yes, well, better him than his wife and child," Flynn's tone was flippant, but more cutting than even he'd intended. Christopher regarded him, her face softening.
"I agree," she said more gently, "But it still leaves us without an opportunity to interrogate him. Has she been secured?"
"Define secured."
"She's packing a 50 cal Desert Eagle," Wyatt supplied, and Flynn cut him a withering look.
"She'll need to be disarmed," Agent Christopher said.
"Mmm-no," Flynn answered.
"This isn't negotiable, Flynn, she's–"
"I agree," Flynn interrupted Christopher cheerfully, "It isn't negotiable. She stays armed."
"She's safe here, she doesn't need it," Wyatt argued.
"She doesn't know that," Flynn said.
"She's a security risk," he insisted.
"And you're the expert on that?"
"Flynn!" Christopher scolded before Wyatt had a chance to respond, "Enough, both of you. No one enters this bunker armed without background clearance."
"Jessica came in unarmed and left with Wyatt's gun."
"I said enough."
"No, not enough," Flynn snapped, all pretense of irreverence gone, "We've been surveilling her for days, and so had Tyson before she shot the bastard, so if Rittenhouse choreographed this whole scenario to trap us, she could have just as easily missed and allowed him to flee down the fire escape. They didn't have to sacrifice an agent they've been utilizing for over a decade. When we arrived she was damn ready to shoot Wyatt, as well, but even he felt confident enough at the time to lay his weapon on the ground."
Flynn honestly hadn't considered any of this, not even on the circuitous, five-hour drive to the bunker. His instinct said she was clean, and he hadn't interrogated the thought in any great detail until he was put on the spot. He was constantly amazed with how rapidly his mind put things together when his dander was well and properly up. For her part, Christopher looked compelled, but not entirely convinced.
"Listen," Flynn growled, "If she's Rittenhouse, if she's that good, nothing will prevent her getting a weapon once she's inside. But she isn't, and I'd stake my goddamn life on it. She's been on the run from these psychopaths for four years. She's terrified and alone and protecting her child. If you disarm her I swear to you I'll hand her my own gun the moment she's inside."
"This is ridiculous," Wyatt breathed, and Flynn ground his teeth, resisting the urge to clock the arrogant son of a bitch. Christopher regarded them carefully – she respected, however grudgingly, Flynn's advocacy and Wyatt's skepticism. Still, she had to balance two competing possibilities – that Wyatt's suspicions were informed more by his own humiliation and guilt than an objective assessment of the situation, and that Flynn's instinct on this particular matter was colored by the loss of his own family.
"She can keep the gun. We don't tell her about the time machine," she said finally, "And she'll need to be debriefed first thing tomorrow." Ultimately, she was inclined to believe in the woman's innocence and Flynn's instinct on the matter. She resented Flynn undermining her like this, rendering any decision she made on the matter null, but not once in 38 years of service had she allowed her ego to get in the way of the job.
"It's damn near four in the morning," Flynn reminded.
"Fine, then, noon," Christopher acquiesced.
"Well, where are we going to put them?" Wyatt asked, resigned.
"They'll take my bunk," Flynn said, "I'll sleep in the infirmary."
When Frankie Oliver wrapped her arms around his neck, reluctantly at first, Flynn's heart had melted damn near to the evaporation point. He'd informed Roxanne the only access to the bunker was a ladder, and offered to carry the exhausted child down. They woke her up, and Roxanne did her best to explain the situation to her daughter. Fortunately, young children never really find anything unusual in a world that's still so new to them, and the girl was nonplussed with the news they'd be sleeping underground. If anything, she'd probably think this all was a wonderful adventure come morning, like living in a reverse tree-house.
Flynn had taken a moment to greet her once she awoke. To let her talk to him and interrogate him before explaining they'd need to climb down a ladder and asking if she'd let him carry her. She'd been cautious, clearly unused to men in general, but emboldened by her mom's calm reassurances. Finally, she'd reached her arms out to him, ready to be lifted from her car seat, and he'd swallowed a lump in his throat before tucking her close to his chest, telling her to hang on as tightly as she possibly could. Her mom had then started down the ladder first, the handgun tucked in the waste-band of her black slacks, and Flynn had followed with the Frankie's unruly mop of curls tickling his face and her tiny arms clutched tight around his neck.
While Flynn and Roxanne had been waking up her daughter, Wyatt and the handful of guards had unloaded the vehicles and lowered the girls' things down by rope. Modest piles of their suitcases and filled trash bags greeted them when they made it to the bottom, and Roxanne started grabbing what she could.
"I'll come back for those," Flynn offered, but she shook her head with a faint tilt of a smile.
"The suitcases are on wheels, my dude, I promise I won't get the vapors," she insisted, ending with a truly horrific turn at a southern accent.
"Fair enough," he smiled back, wanting to encourage this brief moment of ease, "Miss Frankie, we're all done with the ladder. Would you like to get down?" He spoke into the mess of curls just below his chin, but the girl shook her head and strengthened her grip. "OK, you can just stay right there," he said, barely keeping the emotion out of his voice. This kid was wrenching his heart in her stubborn little hands – and he wasn't entirely mad about it.
Roxanne was wrung out in a way she hadn't been in years, and while it hadn't broken, yet, she knew a good long cry was coming. Flynn led the way down the corridor, carrying her daughter like she weighed nothing at all. He pointed straight ahead as they made to turn right, explaining the kitchen and sitting area was just down the main hall and they were headed for the bunk rooms. Eventually, Frankie had raised her head, peeking over the man's shoulder with those deep blue eyes and loosening one hand to wave back at her mom. Roxanne choked back what she wasn't sure was a laugh or a cry and waved back with the strongest smile she could muster.
The rusted, echoing passageways were more than a little disconcerting. She could almost feel the chill of the concrete floor through her worn flats, and she shivered from the ambient chill and delayed shock. Along the way, Flynn pointed out the door to the shared bathroom – wouldn't that just be fun – and rattled off an overview of bathroom etiquette. A chair was involved. She did notice, however, that he made a point of mentioning other women living in the facility, and she was grateful for his foresight. She was cautiously grateful for rather a lot tonight, actually.
Finally, they reached a heavy metal door that Flynn opened with a firm pull and motioned her inside. The room was small, sparely furnished with a low, utilitarian single bed against one wall, a couple tables and file cabinets and a heavily worn reception chair dating from, she guessed, the Nixon administration. There were some books and miscellaneous conveniences on some of the surfaces, but few enough she wondered if this was an occupied room or not. She was surrounded by four steel walls bearing continental patches of rust and scant remainders of paint, lit by a single incandescent bulb. It was grim relief after a hell of a night, but relief nonetheless.
"It's not much," Flynn commented, clearly reading the lay of her thoughts, "But it's secure and 90% tetanus-free."
It might have been the most mediocre joke she'd ever heard and Roxanne was just fragile enough for that to be exceptionally goddamn funny. It started with an abrupt snort of giggles before cascading into full, tear-streaming, red-faced belly-laughs. She backed herself onto the bad and collapsed to a seated position, her own manic laughter compounding on its self-aware absurdity and making her laugh all the harder until she tipped sideways in silent, windless gasps that evolved to earnest tears.
Flynn understood, intimately, that frantic, end-of-your-rope hysteria. That grieving, wounded place where the most inane thing could start you laughing until you collapsed into a sobbing mess. He still didn't have a damn clue what to do about it. The child, hearing her mother's laughter followed by these new, wracking sobs, started squirming in his arms, and Flynn quickly knelt down to let her go. She made straight for the bedside, starting to climb up before the woman noticed, pushing the mousy blonde hair out of her own eyes and reaching out to pull the girl up and wrap her in a desperate, tear-soaked hug. For a moment, the two clung to one another, curled together on that desolate little army bed, Roxanne pressing frantic kisses all along her daughter's forehead.
Flynn knew enough to give them their privacy, exiting his room and swinging the door not-quite closed, lest they feel imprisoned. He took his time returning to the entry to retrieve the last of their belongings, smiling grimly to himself at the sight of Frankie's Wonder Woman backpack. He carried everything back to his room, laying them just outside the door and pausing a moment to listen. The weeping had stopped, but he could still hear a sniffle or two and he knocked quietly on the door. A loud sniff and squeak of ancient bed springs preceded the gradual opening of the door.
She'd done her best in those seconds, clearly, to compose herself, and she held herself with a surprising degree of poise in light of the situation. Still, her face was a puffy, mottled red spreading outward from her nose and her brown eyes were bloodshot behind red-rimmed eyelids.
"I didn't want to disturb you," Flynn said, casually, "But I didn't think you wanted your things sitting out in the hallway overnight. Frankly, Logan can't be trusted." She smiled faintly at his joke and opened the door wider.
"Of course, thank you," she said.
"Don't mention it." Flynn carried the handful of bags inside, stacking them as neatly as he could manage in what little space there was. Frankie, he noted, was already fast asleep.
"This is your room, isn't it?" Roxanne asked. His back still turned, he smiled to himself at her perceptiveness, and made up his mind to do something that would no doubt earn him a reprimand. That was always fun.
"It is," he said, matter-of-factly, as he turned around, "But it's no inconvenience. I can bunk in the infirmary and tomorrow– tomorrow the boss will want to speak with you."
"Right," she acknowledged.
"I'm not… supposed to say anything, but I suspect she, Agent Christopher that is, will want to discuss more than just last night." Roxane thought that over for a beat, then nodded with a rueful turn of her lips, so Flynn continued, "I know how difficult it is to remember things that happened years ago, to put it all in order, and I thought if you knew, if you were at least a little prepared, it might be a little easier."
"Do you you do this for every woman you kidnap?" she asked, but thought better of it almost immediately, "I'm sorry– I…"
"Don't be." Flynn said firmly, "I would say much worse in your position." He didn't answer her question. Not only because he was more likely to kill than to capture, but because he wouldn't have warned anyone else about a potential debriefing (mostly for the fun of it, if he was being honest), and he didn't care to examine the reasoning behind that.
"Good point," she acquiesced, glancing to the bed and rubbing a hand over her aching lower back before noticing the gun still tucked there. "Still," she said, drawing the gun and removing the clip before setting it on the table and crouching down to open one of the bags on the floor, "As kidnappings go this hasn't been the worst."
"Don't tell my supervisor," Flynn said as he watched her pull a gun case out and open it. She shook her head at his joke and he thought maybe he heard a hint of a breath of what almost might be a chuckle. She was just closing the case, and Flynn opened his mouth to take his leave when she paused and looked up at him.
"You know, I might have something that could help."
"Help?"
"For tomorrow," she explained, finishing locking up the case before rifling through the pile of bags. "I kept a journal, after we left. Partly therapeutic and partly, well, to keep track of all the lying. Anyway, it includes every place we went and– and all the names I've used. Sometimes I mention people we knew. I suppose I can't be in any greater danger for anyone knowing where I'm not, anymore." She found the bag she was looking for, it appeared to be her handbag, and she pulled out a pale leather-bound journal with a map of the world printed all across the front and back cover. Standing up, she looked at it a moment, biting her lip, before handing it over.
Flynn was more than a little thunder-struck at the coincidence of it. He contained his shock long enough to take the diary.
"Of course," he said, "Uh, the debriefing is at noon and I'll make sure Agent Christopher receives this." He gave a small, forced smile. "I, uh, I'll leave you to your sleep. The infirmary is just down the hall and around the corner. First door on the right, if– if you need anything." He didn't wait for a response, but left the room as gracefully as he could manage, shutting the door behind him.
Daughters – Lissie
Fierce as fire, sweet as fruit
Not easily defined, not following suit
In a world that's run on pride and force
Women of the world, we have a voice