What Makes Us

Drama/Angst/Action/Romance

By: Maegmel

A/N: I own nothing, except my crazy mind. I would like to put out a disclaimer that I do have a full-time job and updates may not be regular. However, I'm currently obsessed with this show.

Chapter 1

It was a cold Christmas Eve, even by California standards. Wyatt shivered involuntarily and zipped his well-worn jacket as he stepped out of Mason Industries, alone, after their latest mission. It had gone well, by their standards anyway. The Wright brothers had still made their historic flight, despite Flynn's best efforts to sabatoge them. It had only been one day later than it should have been, and Rufus had saved the day on that one. Finding a way to repair (much more quickly than he should have) the damage made to the plane prototype. Lucy was still about to have a conniption fit about how the initial flight date had been post-poned, but Wyatt was willing to call it a win. Especially since he had a flight of his own to make. In 2016.

He had almost escaped to his burgundy pickup, when he heard the unique squeal of the un-oiled hardly used side door of the otherwise well-maintained Mason Industries warehouse. Wyatt liked to think of it as his side-door. The one he escaped out of, before Agent Christopher could thank him for his latest efforts. Or he could avoid the well-meaning invites of his teammates for a beer. Or worse-dinner. Wyatt was a loner. He liked being a loner. And he was very good at it since Jessica died.

The problem was that Lucy had discovered his side-door and realized he had loner tendencies. And ever since the Alamo mission she had doggedly tried to reach out to him, to get him to open up in their free minutes before the next launch or the after the debriefs. He knew it would be her footsteps following him before he heard the distinctive clack of her beloved leather boots.

The pace quickened when he failed to turn around. Not tonight Lucy. He thought with a twinge of a guilty conscience. He felt bad always avoiding her efforts and rebuffing her advances. The skeptic in him thought it might be the remorse the average American citizen felt when they came to know a veteran with a record like his. When they found out what he'd been through to keep them safe at night. But I'm alive, and there are so many others who don't walk today because of me. The smaller part of him thought it might be because she was worried he wasn't dealing with Jessica's death well. A bigger portion, the angel-on-his-shoulder portion if you could call it that, was beginning to be convinced that maybe just possibly she was actually concerned about him. And chiding him for being an ass.

"Wyatt!" She shouted. So much for feigning ignorance. With an almost inaudible sigh he paused and pivoted round with the minimal amount of movement required. Precision. Perfection. Conservation of energy. It defined his life. Down to his movements.

He waited for the small, black haired historian to catch up with him, much more nimble in her favored, worn tobacco brown leather boots and blue jeans with her fuzzy ivory sweater then her Edwardian froth of a dress of an hour ago. Though somehow, Lucy always managed to pull off whatever costume she worn as if she was born into it. The memory of her in it, made him smirk just before she spoke again, throwing her somewhat offguard.

Lucy stopped dead right in front of Wyatt, wondering if she had her hair sticking up or something, What else would make him smirk like that?

"Yes Ma'am?" He queried, bringing her back to present.

"I-I was wondering what your plans were for Christmas?" she asked in a small voice, unconsciously patting down her hair. He has no family, and with memories like his. He shouldn't be alone. Of course, how I'll explain this to my mother I have no idea.

His demeanor shifted, ever so slightly, like she knew it would. Like all the other times she'd tried to reach out to him only to be rebuffed. The movement of his left foot, a few centimeters further to the left. Unnecessary movement was a tell of his. The down-shift in his eyes before he met hers again. He opened his mouth to say no. She steeled herself for it. And she could feel the red flush of rejection racing to her cheeks even before he'd said a word.

"Lucy. I-" he started then stopped. "I'm flying to Texas tonight." His blue eyes bored into hers. Asking her not to ask him why. But at the same time, asking her to ask anyway.

"On Christmas Eve?" was her bewildered response, "Why? How are you getting there, most flights have already left by now, it's nearly midnight."

He looked away, "All the regular flights have left, yes." And then he turned back to her. "But there are still MILAIR flights, and I'm scheduled for one at 0200."

She took a step towards him, "Are you going to see family then?"

His eyes grew brighter, if possible and he looked away again, "You could say that."

She took another step towards him, and laid her chilly fingers on his shoulder, gently tugging him around, "Wyatt," she began softly, "there's no shame in saying you have nowhere to go. You don't have to make up an excuse." She wanted so desperately to hug him and wash away the pain that was so clearly written on his face in those short seconds.

"I'm going to visit Jessica's grave." He said suddenly, trying to maintain his composure. Let me go. Please, just let me go.

Lucy stepped back feeling as if she were slapped even though he hadn't touched her, she sensed it was not her place. How could she contend with a dead woman? Nomatter how selfless her intentions were.

"Please be safe Wyatt. And the invitation still stands." She swallowed her words, barely audible and turned to leave him alone in the parking lot, heading defeated once again towards her car.

He might have lost certain audio ranges in his hearing according to the Army doctors, but he'd heard her softly mumbled words. He stared after her slowly retreating figure. What he couldn't tell her was that there was a very good reason he avoided her except on their missions.

The thought had first occurred to him in Castle Valar. But he'd brushed at away as pure distrust of the clear womanizing man who had inspired the iconic James Bond. He watched over her, motionless as she closed the door to her small little blue Corolla. Should he run after her and apologize? But for what? Wanting to see his wife, making sure she wasn't alone on her favorite holiday?

It had become a definitive force when she shook sense into him at the Alamo, when she forced him to realize that perhaps, just perhaps, he actually meant something more to someone than just being a number on a sheet of paper.

Her engine revved and the lights flicked on. He watched as she reversed and turned out of the lot. She tried to hide it from him, even though she knew he was watching. But even she couldn't hide her flaming red face in the rear view mirror and the tears starting to run down her cheeks. Why do I even try? She asked herself angrily.

But that reason, which had seemed so rock solid to Wyatt in the past; his compartmentalization that had saved him for so long seemed hollow. Since when was saving himself of such paramount importance that he should cause hurt to another human being? Especially one so selfless as Lucy?