AN: I swear to god this whole thing isn't going to be one long angst-fest. There's just some obvious shit I have to address about this whole wacked-out situation. Also, a million thanks to my reviewers, Gracielinn, Shelly, and GenuineRisk! I'm so happy you're enjoying the story (and, yes, Gracie, I'm working on Lyatt – and so will Roxanne, trust). Also, should the Flynn/OC portmanteau be Floc?
I don't own Timeless, dagnabbit.
"I had no idea," Roxanne said, standing at the control console, staring at the Lifeboat.
"It's a lot to wrap your head around," Flynn agreed. After the team voted, he'd desperately hoped – something. As soon as they'd briefed her on Rittenhouse and the time machines – machines, plural – life had gotten exponentially more dangerous for her. Instinctively, Flynn wanted her to say 'no,' to decline the incalculable risk of their missions. But then, the idea of entrusting her's and her daughter's safety to others, of never knowing where they were or if they were OK – after he'd made the deciding vote to subject them to this – rankled him. Two days had passed, and she hadn't made her decision, yet.
"Well, that too, but I mean…" she struggled to find the words, her mouth still moving in mute frustration.
"You had no idea what Charles was a part of," he supplied, understanding. "Why he killed my family."
"Yes." Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Flynn had seen her standing here, more than once, staring at the infernal machine. She'd wait until Frankie was asleep, taking a nap or gone to bed for the evening, and then Roxanne would just withdraw from everyone to come stand her vigil. Lucy, and even Wyatt, had tried more than once to engage her, to draw her back to the group and encourage her to talk, but she always declined. Jiya mostly ignored her, working around her, and occasionally Connor tried to approach her, but he didn't know what to say. He feared his own machine, maybe even regretted inventing it, though he'd never said as much.
"I don't understand it," she said, finally. She didn't have to elaborate. "I mean, I comprehend it just fine, but I don't…"
"I know," was all Flynn could say. Even after all he'd done, and he harbored no illusions about the horrors he'd committed, even as well as he knew Rittenhouse, he couldn't understand it. To be so convinced of one's moral and intellectual superiority, to be so committed to an idea that you'd slaughter innocents. He understood grief. He understood revenge. He didn't understand that calculated, entitled viciousness.
"You know, I wondered, almost daily where you were," she said, "I barely knew your name, but after seeing you that night, after I understood what happened and went on the run myself… I only knew police and Interpol hadn't found you, and I couldn't help thinking what I would do if…" She couldn't finish that sentence. Instead, she cleared her throat and attempted to sound irreverent, "Of course, I had no idea time travel existed so all my theorizing fell woefully short."
"Came as a hell of a shock to me, too."
"How'd you find out?"
"Lucy." At his response, Roxanne tore her eyes away from the Lifeboat to look at him, perplexed. "It's a long story," he said with a wry smile.
"Right," was all she said, and they were silent together for several minutes. Flynn wondered if he should walk away, leave her to her thoughts, but there was a tension in her, a feeling that there was more on her mind. Finally, she spoke with a raw, gravelly whisper, "I'm so sorry."
Flynn opened his mouth to retort, but she shook her head, "I'm sorry for what happened, not about Charles, I know that wasn't my fault, but I'm so sorry it happened to you, no matter…" Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, "No matter who did it. And I'm so sorry I didn't say anything. That I let them keep hunting you when I knew…" That final sentence came out in a flood, and against his better judgment, Flynn reached for her had, gripping it tightly. He was immeasurably relieved when she didn't pull away, when instead she clutched his hand like a lifeline.
"You did the right thing," he insisted, moving to face her, to stand between her and that damned time machine, "They knew, Roxanne. My house was shot all to hell, they had to have dug rounds from six separate weapons out of the walls, they knew it was a hit. And they hid it from everyone. Rittenhouse is everywhere, including the police. They managed to fool the NSA and FBI. They made damn sure the evidence never leaked beyond anyone who could contain it. If you had come forward…"
"But I didn't know that," she interrupted. He'd resisted looking too closely at her until now, but he found himself caught in her unwavering gaze. Dark brown eyes, clear and depthless, held him fast like she was trying to communicate the entirely of her guilt and grief through sheer will, "I didn't know about Rittenhouse, I didn't know about their power – their reach. I could have sought witness protection, but I disappeared and I stayed quiet about an innocent man framed for his family's murder because I wasn't willing to risk my own. Because I was selfish."
"Good," Flynn bit out through clinched teeth. He grabbed her upper arm with his free hand. "I have done terrible things – I went on a killing spree across three centuries to stop these bastards, to prevent them hurting my girls or anyone else, and you getting yourself killed, getting your daughter killed, that would have been selfish and stupid. I dug my own grave, but I never, never would have wanted that sacrifice from you or anyone." For a moment, she couldn't speak, only searched his face, and he understood it was ultimately pointless. Nothing he said could lift this weight off her.
The words had been on the tip of her tongue for days. Four years ago she'd thought about going to the authorities, seriously considered approaching the FBI, to tell them they were hunting the wrong man and to beg for witness protection. Of course, now she knew it would have been suicide, but she hadn't then. Day after day she'd made the conscious decision not to come forward, and as the days ran together and the weeks built up into months it had grown easier, more automatic to justify her silence. And then she'd seen him again. And then she'd learned what horror his life had become after that night.
She'd been grateful when he'd taken her hand, anchored her here in the maelstrom of her own guilt and fear and uncertainty. Now, she studied him, the stern set of his mouth and unshakable green eyes and complete belief in every word he spoke. And it didn't matter. As soon as Agent Christopher had given her the news – briefing her in intricate detail on Rittenhouse and the time machine and the circumstances that had brought the team to this bunker, that had brought bitter enemies together – she'd had a sick feeling in her stomach. Suddenly knowing how close she and Frankie had been to death, and knowing Christopher had to be telling her all this for a reason.
After laying out their problem, and their request, Christopher had introduced her to the team properly. They'd been warm and wonderful in spite of everything they'd been through. All except Flynn. The man who'd inadvertently rescued her and her daughter, and around whom she centered so much guilt and now gratitude, hadn't said a word. She was already concerned on several fronts – she had a child to see to, she hadn't worked as a nurse in over a decade – but to suspect that it would be a trial for him to work with her, that her presence might actually harm the team and decrease the likelihood of their mission succeeding…
Two days she'd waited to make her decision. Two days of everyone clearly acting on their best behavior, trying to convince her to stay, but she couldn't shake the belief that one of them didn't want her here. And she hadn't known how to broach the subject until tonight when he'd approached her.
After a moment, recognition lit his face. He knew – knew she wasn't going to just forgive herself on his word. He let go her hand, and for a moment her heart stopped, terrified to be left unmoored and knowing with sinking certainty that he witnessed her guilt and was finally seeing her through that same shameful lens, until he pulled her roughly into his arms. She was shocked beyond words, her hands frozen at her side and her cheek pressed against his dark wool sweater, until he lay his chin against the top of her head and, involuntarily, her arms lifted to wrap around his waist as she buried her face into the plush cable knitting.
"Please, don't make this decision because you feel obligated," he said, and his voice was dead certain, steadying her, even as she clung more tightly, "You don't owe me anything – you don't owe us anything." Her throat grew raw and tears welled up in her eyes. "But know if you do this, I– Wyatt and I will do everything in our power to protect you. To make sure you make it home to your little girl."
"You can't promise that," she breathed, and it was a bitter truth that hung between them.
"No, but I know you're safer with– with us than with anyone." There was resolve in his voice, as if a decision had been made, and it gave her hope despite herself. Maybe she could do this. Maybe this wasn't madness. At least, not any madder than it already was. She began to relax, to notice his thumb stroking a steady rhythm along her shoulder blade. She let herself lean against him.
"Can we stop them?" she asked, and she felt odd asking it. Why was that her question? "If I help you, can you stop them?"
"We'll sure as hell have a better shot."
Roxanne snuck quietly into her borrowed quarters, grateful to see Frankie still asleep as the light from the corridor spilled inside. She shut the door as softly as she could and dug around in the dark for her pajamas. After she changed, she sat in that musty old reception chair, listening to the soft breathing of her daughter, her whole world, laying on that cramped army bunk. Her thoughts and emotions were in upheaval. Not that they'd ever properly settled down since the night of the shooting, but tonight it was sharper, more visceral. She stood on the threshold of the most monumental decision of her life, and that was a life full of pivotal decisions.
She'd said what she needed to say. That was a relief. And she'd come to the conclusion that Garcia Flynn, already an obvious outlier in this group, had ultimately decided to support her inclusion on this mission. Perhaps she understood better, now, why he'd seemed against it – and it wasn't discomfort with having the wife of his family's murderer on the team. But she still had to weigh the two underlying issues she'd begun with. How could she be certain she'd be of any use when she hadn't touched a patient, never mind a trauma patient, in 15 years? How could she justify taking this risk when she was all Frankie had in the world?
Alternately, how could she risk going into hiding again now that she knew what hunted her? How could she justify walking away from the opportunity to eliminate such a powerful threat to so many people? She'd spent most of her life searching for a way to fight the good fight, to defend the rights and dignity of her fellow human beings, and many of her choices had been a mistake. It might have made her cynical, but that wasn't in her nature. Some part of her, some profoundly foolish part, insisted it was possible. Possible to fight the good fight – and win. And that small but powerful instinct was urging her to jump in.
And through the middle of all this now ran a new and confounding tangle of emotions. Roxanne hadn't been… unaffected by that embrace, by even the grip of his hand on hers. Her immediate response had been ease, even relief at the solidness of his presence. He'd provided a fixed point just when she needed it, and she was grateful. But she'd also spent the last four years on the run. Four years avoiding any connection or any relationship – platonic or romantic – that might expose her. She hadn't touched any man, certainly hadn't been embraced by one, in four years and by any objective estimation Garcia Flynn was one hell of man.
At least, that was the narrative she wove for herself, sitting in the dark, propped forward with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, concentrating on her own breathing to calm her heartbeat and settle her mind. She was battling the doggedly persistent sensory memory of his arms wrapped around her, of the rise and fall of his chest beneath that wool sweater, of the scent of Irish Spring and him which she'd immediately recognized after sleeping in his bed these last few nights. It was all overwhelming and decidedly inappropriate.
It was no fault of his, he'd been completely respectful, even professional, in his compassion. She was just keyed up, but if she meant to do this, if she meant to help them, she had to disconnect her own longing for human connection from this unusually perceptive and empathetic man. She needed internal boundaries, and she needed to foster deeper relationships, real friendships, with the whole team. That was, she assured herself, the only way to diffuse the potency of this response in future.
Finally, Roxanne rose from the chair and approached the bunk, hesitating a moment as she both anticipated and dreaded his scent on the pillow. Steeling herself, she gently shift Frankie closer to the wall, the little girl mumbling and stretching her limbs briefly but remaining fast asleep, and eased herself between the sheets, curling protectively around her little girl. Hopefully, sleep would make things clearer, bring her to a decision she could live with.
In the morning, Roxanne stretched and sat up. Her eyes adjusted reluctantly to the glow of corridor lights shining through the frosted windows along the wall opposite the bunk. She rose from the bed, the concrete cold beneath her feet as she reminded herself to wear socks to bed for the umpteenth time, and crossed to the table where she'd set the burner phone she'd been provided with – a phone with only one number in it.
The phone rang only twice before Agent Christopher picked up.
"Hi, Agent Christopher, it's Roxanne. I decided… I'm in."
From Now On – Mandolin Orange
There's an awful lonesome feelin'
Concealed within our past
But the future holds my reasons
There'll be no more looking back
From now on