Summary: Wyatt meets an oddly-familiar woman in a bar. It must be Fate. Like that's a thing.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,800
Spoilers: Vague spoilers for Timeless season 1. Nothing specific for Lethal Weapon.
Warnings: Minor language.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I just like to borrow.
A/N: So I'm not entirely sure what this is. The bonus is, it's short! As a big fan (obviously) of Timeless, when I started watching Lethal Weapon, I suddenly started noticing a lot of parallels between the shows and the characters, and I think that's where this fic came from! Set at the beginning of Timeless season 2, so likely to be Kripked to high Heaven when it actually airs!

KNOCKING ON THE DOOR

The brunette at the bar was looking at him.

This wasn't necessarily an unusual occurrence in Wyatt's experience.

Didn't always happen, but more often than not, he walked into a strange bar, at least one head would turn in his direction.

Sometimes it was a girl giving him the eye. Sometimes it was a group of girls, usually giggling. Occasionally it was a guy. That was okay, he didn't judge.

This time though?

It was weird.

Not the girl—woman—looking at him. She was anything but weird. In fact, she was gorgeous. Long chestnut hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Big brown eyes. Porcelain skin. Slimly built, wearing a short black cocktail dress and strappy heels that reminded him of the pair Jess wore on their first date, before she figured out he could care less about her trying to cripple herself wearing six inch heels and much preferred her in something a little more comfortable that didn't make her trip over her own feet.

She was definitely looking at him.

And she definitely looked familiar.

Which was the weird part.

The familiarity.

Although he was pretty damn sure he would have remembered her had he met her before.

Trying to pretend like he hadn't noticed her checking him out from the other side of the room, he seated himself at the opposite end of the bar and attempted to get the bartender's attention. Without a whole lot of success.

He hated L.A.

All surface and gloss and insincerity and if your face didn't fit there was no way you were getting a drink any time this millennium.

And then suddenly against all odds and Wyatt's expectations, there was a guy standing in front of him looking at him pretty much the same way the hot brunette had been looking at him, and he thought, what the hell, if he had to flirt with a male bartender to get a drink around here, then at least he was never likely to wind up in this bar again in his lifetime.

"Not seen you around here before, blue eyes," the guy said.

Wyatt blinked his blue eyes at him like he'd never heard that one a million times before. "Errand," he said shortly.

"Oh? Lemme guess. Ohio."

Wyatt squinted at him. "I look like I'm from Ohio?" he asked, not sure whether to be offended or to take it as a compliment.

The bartender shrugged. "Got that hometown mid-western boy kinda look," he explained, leaning forward on the bar. Which instinctively caused Wyatt to lean back a little.

"Nah," a female voice suddenly said in his ear. "Texas. Right?"

He glanced to his left, to where the hot brunette was suddenly leaning against the bar right next to him.

He glanced at the bartender, who was looking kinda peeved at the interruption, truth be told, before turning his attention back to the brunette.

"That's kinda...freakily accurate," he told her. "That your superpower?"

The girl shrugged. "Party trick," she said, looking up at the bartender. "I'll have a white wine." She glanced back at Wyatt. "And he'll have...whiskey rocks, right?"

Wyatt squinted at her. "Have you been stalking me?"

She sniggered. "Lot of experience with Texans," she said cryptically, and Wyatt nodded.

"Whiskey it is."

The bartender huffed before turning to get their drinks, but not before the brunette barked, "Not that one!" at the exact same moment Wyatt did the same, causing the bartender to hastily remove his hand from the apparently offensive bottle of Rittenhouse rye he'd been reaching for.

Wyatt blinked, swallowed, and finally murmured, "Jack Daniels is just fine."

The bartender looked almost as confused as the brunette as he headed down the bar for the Jack Daniels.

The girl shook her head with a minute frown, before smiling lopsidedly at Wyatt. "Honestly?" she said. "I don't think he was your type. You could do better."

Wyatt sniggered.

He really hadn't wanted to come to L.A., but things were actually starting to look up. Maybe this wasn't going to be such a miserable, sneaky-as-all-hell trip after all.

"Actually," he said, "I kinda prefer 'em a little less hairy."

It was the girl's turn to snigger. "You get hit on by guys a lot?"

Wyatt glanced sideways at her. "You hit on strangers in bars a lot?"

The bartender chose that moment to return with their drinks, and the girl raised her glass good naturedly. "Touché."

It was Wyatt's turn to grin. "Wyatt," he said, holding out his hand towards her.

She hesitated for a second before taking it. "Maureen," she introduced herself.

"How do you know I'm not a serial killer?" Wyatt asked.

Maureen shrugged. "Like the guy said, you have that whole 'hometown boy' thing going on. Plus, I have some experience with serial killers."

Wyatt paused mid-swallow, putting his glass down carefully. "You do?"

She chuckled a little at his rather obvious and sudden hesitation. "In a professional sense. I'm a psychologist with the LAPD." She blinked then, frowning. "I have no idea why I just told you that. It's usually at least the third date before I chase guys away by telling them what I do for a living." She shrugged again, taking another sip from her glass.

White wine.

Kinda like…

"So I shared. What do you do for a living?"

Wyatt blinked at her.

I travel through time hunting down a shadowy organization hell bent on destroying reality as we know it.

"I'm a soldier."

"Yeah? At Pendleton?"

"Are you sure you're not stalking me?"

Maureen chuckled. "Have a friend there. Well, the husband of a friend."

Wyatt nodded.

She moved a step closer. "So, you Special Forces, Wyatt?"

Wyatt blinked at her. "What makes you say that?"

"You also have that whole, 'don't mess with me, I could kill you with a pencil sharpener' thing going on."

Wyatt actually choked on his whiskey. "Really? You got all that from my first name and where I'm stationed?"

Maureen tapped the side of her temple. "Psychologist," she reminded him. "It's a little like being a psychic."

Wyatt nodded. "Good to know."

Maureen took the seat next to him without being asked. "So what 'errand' brings you to L.A.?" she asked.

Wyatt took a breath, suddenly finding the bottom of his glass particularly fascinating. "My friend had...well she had some bad news recently. I'm just out here keeping an eye on her."

"On your own in a bar?"

Wyatt smiled softly. "She's watching a movie across the street."

Maureen raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you're stalking her?"

Wyatt frowned. "Not exactly. It's my job to protect her."

"Like a bodyguard?"

"Kind of."

He looked up at her and suddenly realized why she seemed so familiar.

Crap.

Here he was, minding his own business, trying the hell not to be thinking about Lucy and possibilities and...and everything else he'd kind of gotten into his head since he got back from 1983 and Jess wasn't here and, and, hell, if he concentrated hard enough he could pretend it didn't go back to that kiss at Bonnie and Clyde's place, and denial was a really great idea when you were sent to shadow the girl you kind of, possibly, probably, sort of, might be kind of falling in love with when you suddenly found yourself at a bar with a complete stranger who could easily have been mistaken for her sister.

"You okay?" Maureen asked suddenly. "Not sure where you went for a second there."

Wyatt blinked. "I kind of—"

"Well whaddya know! Doctor Cahill, as I live and breathe! Am I interrupting?"

Suddenly there was a guy standing behind her. About Wyatt's height. Brown eyes. Craziest hair Wyatt had ever seen.

And, unless he was very much mistaken, the guy also had a Texas accent.

"Riggs? What the hell are you—"

Wyatt didn't hear the rest of the doctor's sentence.

He was too busy mentally rewinding what the guy with the crazy hair just said.

Cahill?

"Your name's Cahill?" Wyatt blurted.

Maureen's expression turned suddenly frosty, her whole posture stiffening. "Oh, here we go," she said shortly. "I knew you were too hot to be sitting in a bar all by yourself. Come on then. You a reporter? Blogger? Conspiracy theorist?"

Wyatt blinked at her, and the scruffy guy standing behind her was suddenly standing in front of her.

"Huh?"

"Because I have no clue what the hell my jailbird dad has been up to and if anyone else asks me what Rittenhouse is I'm going to break someone's face."

The guy with the hair glanced sideways at her. "Aw, c'mon, Doc, let it be mine. I'd give anything to see that!"

She rolled her eyes at him, and Wyatt was even more confused.

"This your boyfriend?" he asked her suddenly.

Which caused the crazy hair guy to laugh hysterically. "I was gonna ask you the same about him, Doc!" he burst out. "Didn't know you had a thing for pretty boys."

"Riggs—" Maureen began, but stopped herself abruptly, before taking a breath, pushing her hair out of her eyes and downing the glass of wine in one gulp.

Even the crazy-haired guy looked impressed.

"Wow, Doc," he said. "You sure you're not from Texas?"

Maureen chose to ignore him, and it was only then Wyatt noticed the gold LAPD shield on his belt.

This guy was a cop?

Really?

"So whaddya want to know?" she demanded, one hand on her hip as she swiveled back in Wyatt's direction.

"Uh," Wyatt stumbled. "You're Benjamin Cahill's daughter?"

Maureen blinked at him. "Don't pretend that's not why you're here, right?" she said. "All that crap about being here for a friend. Bullshit. Right? You're just after the scoop? Find out what his daughter knows about the nutjobs he's apparently working with when she thought he was a respectable pediatric surgeon? Well let me tell you something, mister," she continued, suddenly back in front of Riggs, one finger jabbing into Wyatt's chest to punctuate each word, "I haven't heard word one from my sperm donor since I was two years old, so don't go blaming me for his shadowy, whackjob, Machiavellian conspiracy theory crap."

She stopped. Took a breath. Blinked.

Wyatt blinked back at her.

"Whoa, Doc!" The crazy-haired guy—Riggs, apparently—burst out. "Am I sensing some anger issues? You wanna talk about it? We could burn candles and do yoga." Maureen scowled at him, and he snorted, before turning his attention back to Wyatt. "I don't think you answered my friend's question, son," he said, suddenly a whole lot more serious. "Whaddaya want with the doc?"

The cop chose that moment to take a step towards him, resuming his position in front of the doctor, until he was all up in Wyatt's face with an expression on his own that Wyatt last saw on an insurgent in Syria.

"Look, honestly, I don't want anything," Wyatt began to explain, raising his hands in truce. "I think this might just be the world's biggest coincidence ever. Or, y'know...fate…" He trailed off.

Fate. Yeah. Okay.

Wyatt's attention flicked from the still-smoldering doctor to Riggs, who he considered for a second; the way he stood, the way he moved. The way his eyes flicked around the room at all times like he was performing a constant threat assessment.

"SEAL, huh?" Wyatt hazarded.

Riggs blinked. "What's it to you?"

Wyatt shrugged. "And El Paso?"

Riggs blinked again, and Wyatt inclined his head towards Maureen.

"My party trick," he explained. "Moved around a lot as a kid. Know all the accents."

Riggs took a step back, almost as if he wasn't sure whether to stand down or not. "Texas boy, huh?"

Wyatt shrugged again.

"Says he's Special Forces," Maureen put in. "Not sure I believe him now though."

"Hey, you were the one hitting on me," Wyatt pointed out. "I was just looking for somewhere to hang out while my friend watched her movie."

"Why didn't you go watch the movie with her?" Maureen demanded, righteous indignation once again chilling her voice. "Huh? If you were really protecting her, you'd be in there with her."

Wyatt sighed, taking another sip of his Jack Daniels. "Supposed to be a low-key protection detail," he explained with a shrug. "Plus, I don't do chick flicks," he added. "Especially chick flick comedies about a bunch of chicks strangling music a Capella."

Riggs snorted. "Heck, son, I love those movies!"

Wyatt squinted at him. "No way you're from Texas."

Riggs raised an eyebrow. "Wife's fault," he said. "Made me go all California."

"She should maybe take a crack at the hair next," Wyatt commented.

The guy's smile never faltered, but there was something in his eyes Wyatt recognized. From looking in the mirror.

It was his turn to stand.

"I'm sorry," he said, the cop not having to say a word. "Didn't realize."

Riggs looked a little taken aback. "How did you—"

Wyatt shrugged again. "Know the look," he said, not explaining any further, and not actually realizing he was twirling an imaginary wedding band around his finger until he noticed Riggs looking down at his hands. "Five years now."

The guy looked like he was about to say something else when he was drowned out by a shrill voice suddenly snapping, "Wyatt Logan, I knew you were following me!"

Wyatt flinched. Smiled awkwardly at Maureen and Riggs, before glancing over his shoulder to where Lucy Preston was storming through the bar towards him, a scowl on her face that could have melted steel.

Although the steely gaze was somewhat undermined by her catching her heel in some girl's Gucci purse, almost going ass over teakettle and spending the next thirty seconds apologizing, before finally finding her way over to Wyatt's position.

"I said I needed some time to figure things out, dammit!" she snapped, as if the cop and the doctor weren't even there. "Why are you following me?"

"Uh," Wyatt began, smiling awkwardly at Riggs and Maureen before putting a gentle hand on Lucy's shoulder. "Maybe we should talk about this somewhere a little more private?"

Lucy blinked at him, then at the crazy-haired cop and the girl standing slightly behind him. "Who are these people?" she demanded, albeit a little more softly.

Wyatt smiled at Maureen. "Maureen, this is my imaginary friend, Lucy," he introduced the historian, who frowned at him.

"Huh?"

Maureen pursed her lips for a second. "Doesn't prove anything," she said. "You could still be a reporter ."

"I'm not a reporter—"

"She thinks you're a reporter?" Lucy glanced up at him, before whispering out of the corner of her mouth, "Why does that lady think you're a reporter?"

Wyatt took a breath. "Lucy, this is—uh—Detective Riggs I guess—?"

The cop beamed at her. "Ma'am," he said, ducking his head.

Causing Wyatt to snigger and Lucy to elbow him in the ribs.

"Did you put him up to that?" she demanded, before turning her attention back to Riggs. "Did he put you up to that?"

"To what?"

"We're about the same age, you don't have to call me—"

"He's from Texas," Wyatt put in. "I told you, we're polite."

Lucy ground her teeth audibly. "I'm not listening to you, Master Sergeant," she told him frostily.

Riggs raised an eyebrow. "Master Sergeant?" He almost looked impressed.

Lucy stopped scowling at Wyatt for a second to turn back to the cop. "Hard to believe, I know, but he's actually Delta Force," she told him.

It was the psychologist's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Wyatt shrugged again.

"Wow."

Lucy appraised her for a second. "I don't think we've been introduced?"

Wyatt inclined his head slightly. "Lucy Preston, this is Dr. Maureen Cahill." He enunciated the surname very carefully, feeling kind of justified when Lucy's expression altered completely.

She glanced from Maureen to Wyatt and back again. "Ca-Cahill?" she repeated.

"That's right," Wyatt said. "Guess who her dad is?"

Lucy opened and closed her mouth several times with absolutely no effect whatsoever. "You—she—you—"

He inclined his head towards her. "Told you we oughta go somewhere more private."

Lucy swallowed.

She turned back to the doctor and smiled awkwardly. "I think maybe—" she started to back away, but Wyatt stilled her with a gentle hand to the small of her back.

"Maybe you shouldn't just knock on the door this time?" he suggested.

Lucy took a breath, smiled awkwardly at her half-sister, and nodded.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

The End