Well, I was going to post the one-shots that I had written during my spoiler-free hiatus in episode order.

But then... Well, you all know what happened. And this was the most fitting one to post given how upset and bitter and despondent I feel right now. And I needed an author's note to be able to just say, fuck you, fucking NBC. Weeks upon weeks of stringing along not only us, the fans, along but the actors and crew too. And for what? A patronizing pat on the head of "sure sure, maybe we'll make you a teeny movie".

The worst part? They've left us in a catch-22. What are we supposed to do? Beg for the measly movie, which will never do the show justice, or dare hope for someone like Netflix to pick it up for some semblance of a real season? Beg NBC, and all we may get is 2 hours. Beg some other network/service and no one bites, only to have NBC pull the plug on the movie too? And we're left with dead Rufus and two sets of Lyatt but no answers?

I used to be all NBC, all the time. ER, Friends, West Wing, Law and Order, Will and Grace, and many others. Not to mention the Olympics (when promos for a certain little time travel show first caught my eye) and other sports. Now? Screw NBC shows, and if I'm feeling Olympic, I'll get a Canadian VPN and watch CBC.

It's no coincidence that I watch less and less TV every year. Gems like Timeless get tossed away like moldy leftovers and fucking 'reality' shit thrives.

Fuck.

I'm so upset.

Anyway, here's Wyatt and Lucy being upset. About something else, but trust that they're upset about cancellation too.

(Aside: I've been tweeting, but am enough of a twitter outsider that I have no idea about any organized efforts there or elsewhere in social media land. If you are in the know and have strategies to share that are more productive than random tweeting, which is my current strategy, please let me know via PM or review here.)

She lifts her head cautiously, peering over her shoulder, down towards her feet.

Flynn. Sitting at the end of the bed, back against the wall, hunched over in what looked like a terrible position to have spent the entire night. And a significantly depleted bottle of vodka on the small table at the foot of the bed next to him.

She squeezes her eyes shut and rests her head back down. With a sigh, she runs her hands over her face.

She hadn't meant to stay there all night. Really, she hadn't meant to show up at his room at all, never mind with a bottle of liquor. But... everything. Amy, Wyatt, her mother, Rittenhouse, Jessica, Rufus and Jiya taking over her room for what she's not likely to get to do herself again for a good long while… It's a lot.

So for a minute there, it had seemed like maybe Flynn, the only one in the bunker who could possibly sympathize with the full slate of loss and emptiness she's been feeling, just made sense.

Apparently he also already knows everything about her from that damned journal anyway, so it's not like he can really judge anything else she might say if he knows it all already in the first place, right?

It had started as just sharing silly anecdotes about Amy, or Lorena, or Iris. But by the time the bottle dwindled to nearly empty, as hard as she fought to keep them inside, regrets and laments about Wyatt had begun tumbling out of her mouth as quickly as the tears had slipped from the corners of her eyes.

She doesn't remember much beyond Flynn's arms around her shoulders as she'd pretty much cried herself to sleep. Between that, the rather large drool spot on the pillow, and the headache she could just barely feel starting to grab hold to the edges of her consciousness, Lucy is well aware that she's not going to be having a good morning.

Water. Tylenol.

She's just going to ignore everything else that constitutes the mess her life has become of late and focus on those two things. And then she's going to crawl into her own bed to sleep until noon, whatever Rufus and Jiya are doing be damned.

Slipping out from under the scratchy blanket, Lucy gingerly pulls herself to a sitting position. The cement floor is chilly through her thin socks as she stands. The room sways a little around her, proof that she's still in that gray area of still somewhat tipsy and not quite fully hungover. Her fingers clutch the bedframe as she crouches down, wobbly, fishing for her boots from under the rickety cot. She manages to snag them, but her head is starting to spin a little too much to justify bothering to put them on. Gripping them both in one hand, she takes a deep breath and wills her head to settle.

When she's convinced she's steady enough to make it to the kitchen and then her room, she runs a hands through her disheveled hair and pads quietly to the door. A quick glance confirms that Flynn is still asleep, still in that horribly awkward slouch. So she slips out, carefully re-closing the heavy metal door behind her.

Only to turn around and end up face-to-face with Wyatt.

At first she's just startled to see anyone, never mind him, awake and roaming the bunker that early, and her alcohol-fogged brain doesn't allow for much more than surprise yet.

He looks equally as startled to see her, stammering, "Hey, uh, I wanted to…" He swallows hard, then continues, "…talk, but you weren't out on the couch and-"

Lucy sees the exact second that Wyatt registers where exactly he's seeing her come from. It's only another half a second before she sees his expression harden, more wheels turning in his brain, and she winces. Wrinkled, rumpled clothes from the night before? No shoes on? Hair a mess? Coming from another man's room? It doesn't take a Ph.D. to know that Wyatt could well be adding two and two and getting five.

Her suspicions about his suspicions are confirmed when he narrows his eyes and whispers furiously at her, "What are you doing with him?"

And, oh, Lucy is so not in the mood to do this right now.

All she's wanted since she'd sent JFK back to '34 and Jessica back to Wyatt is space. Distance. Separation and ignorant bliss. Anything to just not be around him – or her – so she can just try to pick up the pieces alone and begin some semblance of healing. She doesn't want to hear him laughing about his nightly exploits, and she doesn't want him practically (and perplexingly) begging to be regaled with tales of the last jump, and really doesn't want to have to deal with him accusing her of what she's pretty sure he's accusing her of when it's roughly 6am and a hangover is fast approaching.

"Uh, nothing," she hurries to say, keeping her voice flippant and shaking her head as much as her headache will allow as she tried to brush past him toward the kitchen. "Don't worry about it."

But he stays right with her, chastising incredulously, "Seriously? Lucy, you can't just-"

"Wyatt," she cuts him off sharply, "it's none of your business."

He has the nerve to scoff in her face and go right back to giving his very much unwanted opinion. "Like hell it's not, he's-"

Lucy doesn't let him finish this time either. "Stop," she snaps, turning back around to face him. "Just stop. You don't get to do this." You don't get to leave me like this and then act like you still care. Ok, well, that last part she doesn't say out loud. But she thinks it.

"What?" he snaps right back, apparently undeterred by what she feels has to be visible discomfort with the confrontation written all over her face. "Look out for you? Tell you what a stupid move that is?"

And now he's judging her for something she didn't even do. Jesus. Not that he has a right to an opinion even if she had. He doesn't get to care anymore. "Yeah," she challenges, pinching the bridge of her nose as the headache looms, "that. I can take care of myself. You have Jessica to look out for."

He snorts, wearing that infuriating smirk of his as he eyes the door to Flynn's room again. "So this was to get back at me for being with my wife?"

Lucy shakes her head in disbelief, barely able to believe that he's the same man she'd let herself fall for, somehow intent on selfishly making her own misery about him. "News flash," she jeers bitterly, "not everything is about you."

Even if she had slept with Flynn – and she's not going to lie, somewhere in there last night, the thought had crossed her mind – it wouldn't have been revenge. God… His current dickish behavior notwithstanding, she does just want the best for Wyatt. She just doesn't want a front row seat for his happy ending. Anything that could have happened with Flynn would have just been a desperate attempt for some sort of superficial comfort, an attempt to feel something, anything, besides the horrible empty ache that had set up shop in her heart since that fateful phone call before they'd left for Salem. Not an attempt to replace him. Not revenge.

Wyatt looks a little taken aback by that comeback.

Good.

So when he doesn't have a comeback of his own right away, Lucy seizes the opportunity to confront him further, driving her point home. "You got your wife back," she reminds him tersely, adding, "That is great for you. Honestly. It is. But what," she demands in exasperation, "am I supposed to just sit there pathetic and alone? Poor, sad Lucy, hopelessly pining for happily-married Wyatt forever? I'm not allowed to ever be with anyone else even though you get to be with Jessica every night?" She chuckles wryly, not willing to miss the opportunity for a little passive aggressive dig given how much of a selfish ass he's decided to be right now. "And loudly, I might add. Who knew how much a bunker could echo? Thanks for that enlightening lesson."

Something must hit home, because, where he'd just looked a little stunned when she'd started in on him, now his expression darkens and he frowns silently.

"You don't get to judge me," Lucy finishes flatly, turning once more to walk away from him. Over her shoulder, she adds, "Go back to Jessica."

Maybe she shouldn't be surprised when he lashes out – reckless hothead and all that, she reminds herself with a sad wistfulness. But she is surprised at the words he chooses to lash out with.

"He has a wife too, you know," he calls after her spitefully. "What happens when she comes back?"

Lucy barks a bitter, incredulous laugh, and whirls back around. She's completely fed up and frustrated, and has just enough vodka still flowing through her veins. "Fuck you, Wyatt," she hisses bitingly. "Oh wait," she adds, forcing a mirthless snort, "I already did. And now Flynn too, right?" she spits out, indignant. "Since that's obviously what you decided."

She catches the hint of guilt that tinges his shocked expression, but she doesn't give a rat's ass. And when it looks like he might be trying to say something, she doesn't give him the opportunity, instead shrugging and throwing the answer to his question right back in his face.

"So I'll just whore myself out as a placeholder for every other guy out there with a dead wife." A hollow laugh slips out and she shakes her head in resignation. "Guess I'm getting good at it. At least I've got that going for me, right?"

His face falls, and he looks so remorseful and contrite that she almost gives in when he takes a step toward her, plaintively whispering, "Lucy…"

But she stands her ground, steeling herself. She utters an icy "Go back to your wife, Wyatt."

And she walks away.

Of course, the whole way back to her room, she's willing herself not to break down and cry until she's hidden away under the covers of her bed, and hoping beyond hope that Rufus and Jiya are still asleep and will stay asleep through the gut-wrenching, snotty, sobs that are sure to come.

The worst part? She is pathetic and alone, poor, sad Lucy, hopelessly pining for happily-married Wyatt.

But at least he doesn't think that anymore.

Wyatt stares, stunned, at Lucy's retreating form. She gets more and more blurry by the second as tears of regret and shame sting his eyes.

Trying to hang on to any shred of pride he has left, he scans the area around him, grateful when he confirms that no one else had been there to witness that. And, not knowing what else to do, he hurriedly ducks into the bathroom. He shoves the chair in front of the door, then barely makes it to the toilet in time to retch up the remnants of the dinner he'd picked at last night after Lucy refused to talk to him.

When the dry heaves slow, the tears that had built up earlier finally spill from his eyes and he just sits there on the bathroom floor, head in hands, as the hiccupping, gasping crying takes over.

How had he screwed everything up so badly?

Jessica showing up alive should have been the best thing that ever happened to him. And it would have been, had it been any time in those first five years. But not now.

It took walking away from Lucy to get him to realize that she is the best thing that ever happened to him.

It's not working with Jessica; no matter how hard he tries to salvage things, no matter how hard he tries to force it, to ignore Lucy, to re-build with this Jessica, to throw himself into the physical side-

Wyatt gags, retching again, cringing as Lucy's words echo in his mind. He'd never meant for her to hear him with Jessica. But it had had to be all about the physical intensity or he'd never have been able to get that night with Lucy out of his mind and actually do anything with Jess.

God, he wouldn't blame Lucy if she never speaks to him again.

Talking was all he'd wanted to do this morning. Early, away from prying ears, and finally come clean and admit to her how much he misses her and that he doesn't think he can keep up the farce of a marriage with Jess.

But then she'd come slinking out of… that asshole's room at the crack of dawn and his own stupid jealous pride got the best of him, and was quickly joined by embarrassment and frustration as he'd kept digging his hole deeper.

Honestly, he doesn't even care what she did or didn't do, it just sickens him how he'd spoken to her and her to him, and her about herself.

It had already been miserable to have Lucy so distant, but now? To hear brilliant, beautiful, confident, amazing Lucy talk about herself like that? To call herself a whore in any sense of the word? Implying that's all she's worth? It nearly killed him.

And it's killing him that he's the one who broke her. He's pretty sure he loves her, but he did this to her, when she'd already been half-broken and he'd promised her that he'd be there for her.

And now she hates him.

Not that he blames her.

He hates himself too.

FIN

And I hate NBC. Fuck you, NBC.