#@qqueenofhades let me know if you want me to take this down!! i know sometimes ppl are iffy abt fanworks of their fanworks lmao

[spiaem]

from of misery make thy use (chapter four) by @qqueenofhades

i final got time to draw my favorite part of the fic thus far!! very excited to see what comes next :)

[extasiswings]

The Best Laid Plans

Right, so I’ve watched 6 seasons of ER in about 2 weeks. No, I don’t have a problem. What I do have is a need for Goran to stop interacting with small children and/or babies and/or pregnant women, because it’s ruining my life. This is a sort of sequel to take a breath (dive in), mixing in some details from (take me) back to the start because the world needed more Ethan Flynn. Also because @qqueenofhades asked for it. On ao3 here. 

Lucy Preston had a plan for her life. A good plan. A solid plan. She was going to get her degrees, become a professor, work her ass off until she got tenure, and then maybe, maybe fall in love, get married, and have children. Her plan did not involve losing her sister and her mother, finding out her entire life was a lie, and having to travel through time to save history from destruction. It also definitely did not involve Garcia Flynn.

But then, the universe has never cared a whole hell of a lot about Lucy’s plans.

When Lucy gets pregnant, she starts making plans again. She goes to doctor’s appointments, sometimes with Flynn, sometimes alone. She schedules a c-section because the finality of it on the calendar is more comforting than a due date that may or may not be when she actually goes into labor. She fills out all the right forms that will let her be out on maternity leave in the fall and makes arrangements to teach over the summer instead.

(She makes plans because it’s easier to do that than think about the fact that she’s having a child. Because that? Is terrifying.)

“If you ask me to marry you because of this, I may hurt you.” “What if I asked you to marry me because I want to marry you?” “I suppose I might have to at least consider it.”

“Marry me.”

Lucy’s three months along when it happens, and it must be another one of the universe’s little jokes because it’s not the kind of proposal anyone plans for. Not that she had any grand dreams of horse-drawn carriages or rings hidden in champagne glasses—she’s not one for fuss and an over-the-top proposal wouldn’t be Flynn’s style anyway—but she certainly never expected to be asked while sitting on the bathroom floor in her pjs after spending fifteen minutes dealing with morning sickness.

“What?”

Flynn presses a glass of water into Lucy’s hand while she stares as though she’s seriously considering having him committed, and lays a damp towel across the back of her neck immediately after.

“You said to distract you,” he replies.

“And you thought you’d do that by proposing?”

Flynn’s lips quirk up as he shrugs.

“Yes? It worked, didn’t it?”

Lucy shakes her head. “I should turn you down just for that.”

“Probably,” Flynn acknowledges. “Marry me anyway?”

And God help her, she says yes.

The wedding itself is nothing fancy—just the two of them at a courthouse with Wyatt, Rufus, and Jiya as witnesses. Lucy doesn’t wear white, they write their own vows, and she tries not to think about Amy. When she slides the ring onto Flynn’s finger, she can’t help picturing his other ring, Lorena’s ring, now in a box in their bedside table.

(Lucy knows Flynn loves her, and she’s not jealous of a ghost, but it’s so hard not to wonder and to worry that she won’t measure up.)

Flynn is a good husband. That should maybe be less surprising than it is—after all, Lucy’s already spent months living with him, an official piece of paper saying they’re married doesn’t change anything—but given how their relationship started off, she forgives herself for being startled by how easy things seem for him.

He cooks and he cleans and he puts up with her ridiculous mood swings and yes, sometimes he disappears for a few hours without advance notice, but he’s getting better at talking to her when he inevitably comes home with red eyes.

(She doesn’t push because she has her own demons to sort through, her own times when she needs to be alone to think, or cry, or scream, because they were forced to go through so much that they never should have and they all have scars.)

“Garcia.”

Five months along and Lucy’s used to waking up in the middle of the night, either from having to pee, from being kicked in unpleasant places, or from needing to eat. Usually, she slips out of bed and returns before Flynn wakes up, but tonight he’s wrapped around her like an octopus. It’s all she can do to turn in his arms and shove lightly at his chest.

“Garcia, wake up.”

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Flynn mumbles, still half-asleep. Lucy presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“I’m hungry,” she explains. “You have to let me get up.”

“What are you hungry for? I could make something…”

Lucy considers that. “Ice cream.”

“How about a vegetable?”

“How about extra fudge sauce?” She counters.

Flynn cracks an eye open, fixing her with an exasperated stare as Lucy musters her most innocent smile.

“It’s what the baby wants.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says, letting go of her and sitting up. “I’m making you something healthy anyway. To eat after the ice cream.”

“I can just take a vitamin!” Lucy laughs as Flynn swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Garcia, it’s 3AM, you don’t have to get up.”

“I’m already awake,” he replies, giving her a wry grin over his shoulder. “Come on.”

“Ice cream first?” She clarifies as she slips out of bed.

“Well, if it’s what the baby wants…”

6 months along and Lucy wakes up alone, stuck wondering what pulled her out of sleep before muffled speaking from the next room answers that question. Well, speaking is relative. It’s in Croatian, so she can’t be sure, but she’s pretty sure swearing would be more accurate.

Sure enough, when she stops in the doorway, Lucy finds Flynn in front of a half-assembled crib surrounded by assorted pieces for the rest of it. There are wood shavings in his hair — not laughing takes a herculean effort.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Flynn starts, but relaxes when he realizes it’s just her.

“Nightmares,” he admits, hands fiddling with the assembly instructions. “I wanted to—but this stupid thing won’t—” The words trail off in another smattering of Croatian and Lucy moves to him without thinking.

“It’s okay,” she says, dusting the shavings away as she runs her fingers through his hair. “There’s plenty of time. He still has three more months before he’ll be needing a crib.”

Flynn wraps his arms around Lucy’s hips, pressing his ear to her stomach. Neither of them say anything, but she doesn’t stop stroking his hair even when the baby kicks hard enough to make her wince.

“Hey—” Flynn descends easily into a series of foreign murmurings directed at the apparent future soccer player occupying her insides, his tone scolding at first and then simply soft. She’s never sure if he doesn’t use English with the baby intentionally or if it’s habit—she can imagine him with Lorena, with Iris, just as he is now. Gentle. Sweet. Kind. It’s probably habit.

(It’s beautiful, regardless. And Lucy wants to cry when he gets this quiet, this soft, because by all accounts he shouldn’t be capable of it anymore, not after Rittenhouse tried so hard to strip that away. But he is, and God, she loves him.)

“He?” Flynn asks a while later, finally looking up at her.

Lucy shrugs. “I know we decided not to find out, but it felt weird calling our child an it.”

(What she doesn’t say is that she can feel in her bones that it’s a boy. She can’t explain it, but she knows.)

He kisses her stomach and lets her pull him to his feet.

“Fair enough.”

“Back to bed?”

“Back to bed.”

Seven months along and the universe decides to teach her a lesson about making plans again.

It’s July and Lucy’s standing in front of a classroom of senior undergraduates who all waited until the last minute to get their history elective out of the way. The room is stifling because the air circulation in her classroom is shit and facilities has told her they’re working on it, but that doesn’t help her when she’s sweating through her blouse and her head is swimming.

“Dr. Preston?”

She remembers turning her head to call on the student. She wakes up in the hospital.

“Lucy? Luce!”

Wyatt’s face swims into focus amidst the white walls and dull beeping of machines. They were supposed to have lunch after her class…

“What happened?” She croaks.

“You passed out,” he says, reaching past her to press the call button for a nurse. “You were talking one minute and then you just...dropped like a sack of bricks. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Garcia?”

“On his way.”

“And the—” Lucy’s hand drops to her stomach, a frisson of fear prickling over her skin.

“He’s okay, Luce,” Wyatt replies, covering her hand with his. “They want to run some more tests because it was a hard fall, but everything looks good so far.”

The reassurance and a few deep breaths push down her rising panic enough that her head is clear when the nurse comes in.

“How are you feeling Mrs. Logan?”

Mrs. L— Lucy chokes. Wyatt clears his throat and flushes red.

“Preston,” she manages. “Wyatt’s not—we’re not—”

“We’re friends,” Wyatt finishes. “I was there when she fell, that’s why I brought her in.”

“Oh!” It’s the nurse’s turn to flush. “I’m so sorry, I just assumed—”

“Lucy?” Flynn bursts through the door, terror written in every line of his face. He only calms a little when he realizes she’s sitting up and alert.

“I’m okay,” Lucy says, holding out her hands to him. Wyatt steps back from the bed as Flynn crosses the room in two strides to take his place at her side. “At least, I think so.”

“The doctor will be in soon,” the nurse says. She makes a few notes on Lucy’s chart after looking at the monitor, then leaves, clearly electing against dealing with Lucy’s actual worried husband.

(Lucy...can’t really blame her for that.)

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

Seven months along and the doctor wants to keep Lucy overnight for observation. Seven months along and she gets a shot of something that’s supposed to help the baby’s lung development just as a precaution, which isn’t comforting no matter how calmly it’s explained to her.

Seven months along and she wakes up in her hospital bed to a sharp pain and rush of liquid between her thighs. Lucy only has to see the look on Flynn’s face to realize it’s blood.

It’s too early, she thinks as people snap into action around her, explaining rapid-fire that she needs an emergency c-section. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, but she’s frozen with fear, crushing Flynn’s hand with her grip as nurses wheel her to surgery.

It’s too early.

(She’s never thought of herself as particularly maternal—it’s one of the reasons she’s been so scared—but she would give anything, anythingto not deliver, to give their child the last two months he needs to develop properly. To keep him safe.)

Lucy’s awake for the surgery—only her lower half is numbed. She wanted to be awake in case...in case…

In case it’s the only chance I have to see him alive.

She doesn’t watch the doctors. She watches Flynn. And he watches her.

I love you.

“Okay, the cord is cut,” the surgeon says, and both of them look over to see her pass off the too-small form to residents from the NICU. “Dr. Preston, Mr. Flynn, your son is in excellent hands, don’t worry.”

“Doctor, we’ve got some bleeding—”

Lucy tunes out the personnel working on her, staring at the incubator in the corner, the preemie-sized intubation kit, the two doctors hooking her son up to wires and tubes to take his vitals and help him breathe, help him live.

When they start to wheel him out of the room, Lucy squeezes Flynn’s hand.

“Go with him.”

Flynn’s face twists with indecision as he looks between the surgeons, Lucy, and their son.

“I—I don’t want to leave you.”

Lucy blinks hard against the tears that threaten to fall.

“I don’t want him to be alone,” she says.

“Wyatt—”

“Garcia. You’re his father. Please.”

Flynn presses a kiss to her forehead and goes to meet his son.

When Lucy focuses on the surgeons, she hears snippets of conversation about too much bleeding, about DIC, whatever that is. She hears a call for another transfusion.

She closes her eyes.

In a perfect world, Ethan Flynn would have been born in September, fully developed with no complications. But it’s not a perfect world.

Lucy does have to hand it to the universe though—given how much worse things could have been, it at least knows when to quit. Or maybe doesn’t have it out for her quite as much as it could.

(That’s what she tells herself at any rate, once she recovers from surgery and Ethan is released from the NICU on September 6th, as healthy and happy and perfect as he could possibly be.)

Three months after they bring Ethan home, Lucy starts thinking she might be better at parenting than she expected to be. Of course, it helps that she has good assistance.

“Lucy?”

“Hm?”

“You fell asleep again.”

Lucy opens her eyes and takes in the zoo animal wallpaper, the stars and planets mobile, and of course, the crib that Flynn finished the week before Ethan was born, their son inside and curled around a stuffed lion.

“I just sat down,” she insists. Flynn shakes his head.

“That was two hours ago, love. Come on, you should sleep in a real bed, not an armchair.”

“But what if he—” It’s a half-hearted protest even before Flynn kisses her, but Lucy melts into him at that. From there, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to carry her to their room.

“He’ll wake up,” she murmurs, already half asleep by the time Flynn lays her down.

“If he does, I’ll sit with him. You’re exhausted.”

“‘M not.”

“Sleep, love.”

That, at least, is one plan Lucy doesn’t think the universe can argue with.

[what-is-sibling-test]

from 'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless https://ift.tt/2EOLy9H via Istudy world

the alchemical wedding: chapter eight

Summary: Discovery of Witches AU. When Dr. Lucy Preston, historian and reluctant witch, stumbles on an enchanted alchemical manuscript, Ashmole 782, in Oxford University’s Bodleian Library, she crosses paths with the mysterious vampire Garcia Flynn. They must work together to discover its secrets, their conflicted family legacies, and the shadowy enemies who want to claim it. As they do, they are increasingly and unwillingly drawn to each other, but that may be the most dangerous and forbidden magic of all. Rating: M Status: WIP Previous: Sept-Tours

Chapter Eight: Fantômes

“Ah. Wyatt.” Whatever Michael Temple is about to say next, given the ultra-sleek tone, the murder eyes, and the bared teeth barely describable as a smile, can in no possible way be good. “Do you know, exactly, what your brother appears to have done now?”

Wyatt takes a moment to curse under his breath – profusely and imaginatively, though there is absolutely no purpose it will serve, not even making him feel better. “Should I?”

“You would think.” Temple leans on the wall, staring out at the sleeping silhouette of the city as if sizing up where to take his next bite. “My instructions were very clear, and I should hope, achievable even by an immortal of your modest abilities. Call your brother Garcia and oblige him to transport the witch here, to Venice. Not squirrel her off down the de Clermonts’ bolthole. Would you like to tell me what went wrong in that execution?”

“I called him,” Wyatt snaps. “I told him of the Congregation’s decision that he should bring Lucy here. And considering you blackmailed me into it, Michael, that was clearly an upstanding and legitimate political decision that had nothing to do with – ”

Temple chuckles, as if it’s adorably naïve of Wyatt to think that any political decision, ever or anywhere, is upstanding and legitimate. “You will be familiar with a certain son of Venice’s great rival?” he asks, looking out at the moon-scattered water of the canals. “Florence? It was such a pity for our kind that Niccolo Machiavelli never received the gift. He would have been an invaluable asset to us. Then again, he would surely have passed it to Il Valentino, and that could pose considerable difficulties.”

Wyatt starts to say something, then stops. He’s not surprised that Temple idolizes Machiavelli, especially in that twisted “total sadism is fine if you win!” interpretation favored by fuckboys everywhere, rather than Machiavelli’s actual point, which is that while a truly effective ruler cannot be encumbered with empty appearances of morality, a regime built on nothing but cruelty will eventually crumble like sand. (Ever since Wyatt got this seat on the Congregation, he has been valiantly trying to familiarize himself with some political philosophy, especially of the Italian variety.) There’s another pause. Then Wyatt says, “What makes you think I can make my brothers do anything? Exactly?”

“Well, you could. If you had the stomach for it.” Temple drums his fingers on the baroque railing. “You do sit on the Congregation. By all rights, you have the authority to demand Garcia’s compliance, not as a matter of private family drama, but as one of inviolable creature law. But you’re the youngest son, you’re – let us be frank – not as talented or as smart as they are, you’re not used to asserting your authority, and when you do, it backfires. You aren’t ordering Garcia to obey because we both know very well that you’re right. You couldn’t make him do anything. And once you realize that, you’ll face the fact that you’re still the most expendable member of the de Clermonts, that nothing you do will matter to them apart from out of pity, and that can’t be comfortable, now can it?”

Once more, Wyatt is on the brink of an answer, but that catches him like a brick. He turns away, trying to affect nonchalance, even as he wishes that he could chase Temple’s words out of his head. They match up a little too well with his own fears about himself, the voices that whisper that he could have been a lot more forceful about making Flynn bring Dr. Preston here, and of course he wimped out. It’s always difficult with brothers, especially older brothers, and Gabriel and Garcia were very close for centuries, even after Wyatt joined the family in 1179 (sometimes it feels like especially after). Then, well. They weren’t. But the breaking up of that fraternal alliance didn’t result in a new one, in any combination. The three of them just blew in their own directions, and…

[read the rest on AO3]

[onlymorelove]

Fic: I See Fire (1/2)

For @gwennieliz , who gave me this prompt: “You can’t keep it all inside, you know? Bottling it up won’t do any good,“ from this list of sentence starters. Thank you for prompting me, sweetness! If anyone else sent a prompt, I promise I haven’t forgotten you; I’m just a painfully slow writer when it comes to fiction. <3 If anyone else wants to send me a prompt from that list, feel free.  Happy Pride month, everybody!

Title: I See Fire (½) Fandom: Timeless Ship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan (garcyatt) Rating: PG-13 Summary: Lucy has a nightmare.  [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a relationship. Yes, all three of them.]

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @grey-haven , @gwennieliz , @extasiswings  , @inbetween-the-moon-and-you , @nevergrowupnevergrowupnotme & @qqueenofhades . (Happy to untag or tag you; just let me know.)

If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcomed.

Lucy’s eyes opened on the wild current of a nightmare: trapped in her car, she watched it fill with water cascading through windows that were cracked open several inches but wouldn’t respond to her frantic grip. Already her body quaked from the chill of the freezing water, which was now up to her chin. Her head thrashed left and right, panic grabbing hold of her and shaking her like a rag doll in its inexorable grip.

To her right, in the passenger seat, sat a partially decomposed skeleton wearing a cowboy hat tipped at a rakish angle. Empty black eye sockets winked at her above ruined cheeks where the some of the flesh, warped and raw, dripped like melted plastic, exposing the bright gleam of ivory bone beneath. As she watched, the jaw dipped open and a swarm of maggots bubbled forth from the gaping maw.

Her head and her ears pounded with laughter that built and built, climbing until it climaxed in a shriek. She swore her ears were bleeding. Slammed by the grotesque image and the terrible laughter roaring in her head, on instinct Lucy inhaled, sucking river water into her mouth and deep into her lungs, coughing and choking on the burning scream that wanted to rend its way out of her tender, pink throat with razor-tipped claws.

The skeleton raised a bony hand, fingers rolling in a beckoning gesture before they reached out and stroked her cheek, shooting bolts of ice down her spine. As blackness swirled and whispered on the edges of her vision, Lucy slammed her car window—once, twice, three times—with the sharp point of her elbow. Pain echoed through her arm….

"—Ow! Damn it.”

Someone screamed. Loud and shrill as a whistle blast, the piercing cry penetrated the bony plates of Lucy’s skull and burrowed into her brain.

The terror and grief layered in the cacophony clawed at Lucy, drawing hot tears from her eyes. They spilled, scalding, in rivulets down the sides of her face and into her hair. Her eyes shot open to find Garcia leaning over her, straddling her hips. She tried to move her hands only to find they were pinned. “Garcia?” she asked, her voice like two thin, dry sticks rubbing together, and Garcia immediately released her hands and moved aside, sitting back on his haunches next to her. “What happened?” Her hand flew to her chest, where her pulse thundered loud and unpleasant, echoing in the marrow of her bones as her gaze searched the dark room. A single lamp on a bedside table cast an anemic circle of light and a plethora of eerie shadows. Lucy gasped. A hard shiver reverberated through her, making her teeth clack together.

Garcia frowned and pulled at the puddled blanket, pulling it up until it lay over her chest. Then he swept his thumb through the wetness on her face before he responded to her question. “You tell us, Lucy. You were screaming and thrashing around. Did you have a nightmare?” Worry inscribed deep furrows on his forehead.

Bits and pieces of what she’d seen floated back to her. Being trapped in her car again, like in her sophomore year of college, with water pouring in… A gruesome skeleton next to her… Just flotsam and detritus from the depths of her mind and her personal history. A nightmare. Yes.

“—Either that or I did something to piss you off,” Wyatt said from his perch on her other side, a wry note pealing in his voice.

She snapped her head in his direction. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, stretching his jaw.

“What?” she asked, frowning in confusion.

“You got in a couple good shots at me,” Wyatt said with the barest hint of a smile edging his lips. Wincing, he fingered his cheekbone gingerly, eyes squinted in discomfort. “Nobody warned me I’d need protective padding if I slept with you.” He stroked her hair back from her forehead. “I thought I was the reckless hothead in this relationship.”

Lucy groaned and started sitting up. Garcia lifted her pillow upright against the headboard and helped her settle back against it. Dread curdled in her stomach. “Oh no.” She shook her head and stretched a hand toward Wyatt, stopping just short of touching his face. “Tell me I didn’t hit you.” Her fingers wavered near Wyatt’s cheek until he caught them with his own and lifted them to his mouth for a soft kiss.

“It’s fine, Lucy. Don’t worry so much,” Garcia said, tucking the blanket around her hips. “Knowing Wyatt, he had it coming.”

“Ha ha, asshole,” Wyatt said, brandishing his middle finger in Garcia’s direction. “Real funny. Ladies and gentlemen, Garcia Flynn: comedian and douchenozzle extraordinaire.”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“Sorry, didn’t realize you couldn’t take a joke, Logan,” Garcia said, emphasizing Wyatt’s last name.

“Oh, I love jokes, Flynn.” Wyatt grinned in challenge, flashing a lot of teeth, and Lucy braced herself for whatever absurdity was about to charge out of his mouth. He waggled his eyebrows. “Let me tell you the one about your mom—”

“Guys. Come on,” Lucy said, cutting Wyatt off before things completely disintegrated. Garcia’s mother was a sore spot for him, even in the context of ludicrous banter.

“No no. Please, Wyatt,"—narrow-eyed, Garcia climbed off the bed and stalked toward Wyatt—"why don’t you finish your joke?” Hands balled into fists at his side, Garcia stopped mere inches from where Wyatt still sat on the bed and tilted his head to look down at the other man. His lips twisted into a thin-lipped and insincere facsimile of a smile. “Then I can give you a bruise on the other side of your face. You deserve a nice, matching set.”

Wyatt rose from beside Lucy and advanced on Garcia, rolling his shoulders, back straight and sharp as a knife edge. “You could try,” he said with a pugnacious tilt to his chin and a smirk that made the fine hairs on Lucy’s arms stand on end.

The atmosphere zinged and snapped, teeming with livewire tension. Pregnant with the threat of violence. Lucy tugged at the scoop neck of her nightshirt; their bedroom felt ten degrees hotter than it had five minutes earlier. A bead of sweat skipped down her body and pooled uncomfortably at the small of her back.

The two men stood toe-to-toe, an air of waiting hovering over them, coiled energy vibrating from their tensed muscles. They looked like nothing less than two fighters awaiting a ringing bell to signal the beginning of their bout. They appeared to have forgotten she was in the room; the entirety of their attention focused, laser-like, on each other. Their chests rose and fell on a synchronized cycle of breaths. Each man’s exhale ricocheted off the man standing opposite. Their bodies cast hulking shadows on the gray-blue walls they and Lucy had agreed upon. Blue is peaceful and calm, she had told them when it was time to pick a paint color for their bedroom walls. They had shrugged and agreed that it was a nice enough color.

Lucy had to stop this—whatever nonsense was about to explode in their bedroom.

Bedrooms were meant for sleeping, cuddling, sharing secrets under cover of darkness, and fucking. All of that, yes. But not brawling.

The thing was—the thing was, Lucy loved Wyatt and Garcia. This life they shared, it wasn’t anything like what she’d expected to have when she’d been a girl imagining a future love. But it was real and hers and true. She knew they loved her, and she knew they loved each other, too, the same way she knew the sun would rise every morning. With that love came an intimate dossier replete with ways to bore under each other’s thin skin and cause an itch that would just have to be scratched.

A blind, deaf, and mute person could see neither Garcia nor Wyatt was going to back down from a direct challenge. (Lucy Preston was none of those things.) Garcia and Wyatt, on the other hand, well, they were idiots. But they were her idiots, and she wasn’t going to watch them follow each other like two lemmings sailing off a cliff into a valley of flaming refuse.

Wracking her brain for a solution, Lucy came up empty-handed. Not to be deterred, she grabbed the pillows on either side of her and launched them at Garcia and Wyatt, nailing them both in the face. Take that, she thought. It seemed her aim was better than she’d thought.

Both men swiveled to face her.

“What the —?”

“Lucy!”

With a nod of satisfaction, she threw off the blanket Garcia had snuggled around her with such care, hopped off the bed, and marched over to her idiots. She schooled her face into as severe lines as she could manage, then skewered both men with a diamond-hard glare. Neither held her gaze, choosing instead to stare at the floor as if it held the secrets of the universe. Their faces folded into identical expressions of sheepishness.

She tapped Garcia on the arm to get his attention. When he looked up from the floor, she crooked a finger at him, beckoning him down to her level. He acquiesced, and she stood on tiptoe and grasped his earlobe with her thumb and forefinger. Giving it a good tug, she pulled him toward the bed.

“Ah!” Garcia said, grimacing. “Is this really necessary, Lucy?”

“Yes, it is,” she said, releasing her grip on his ear and pointing to the bed. “Sit,” she added, and there was titanium in her voice.

Garcia sagged down on the bed, arms crossed in front of him, expression distinctly pouty. All the belligerence and swagger had left his posture, siphoned out like air from a leaky balloon.

Wyatt snickered behind Lucy. She rounded on him so fast his eyes widened. Though his hands shot up in front of him in a placating gesture, Lucy still took him by the ear and tugged him to the bed. She wasn’t going to treat him any differently than she’d treated Garcia.

“Ow. Luce.”

“Don’t you ‘Luce’ me, Wyatt Logan,” she said, releasing him and tilting her head toward the bed. “Sit,” she said. Her voice was a one-word command Wyatt dared not disobey.

Her blue-eyed lover sat poised on the very edge of the bed, his hands folded demurely in his lap, while the green-eyed one curled his body into a question mark, his upper body slumped and his bare feet flat on the floor. They so resembled naughty school boys facing a stern headmistress that Lucy fought a mighty battle not to smile. Marshaling her defenses, she set her hands on her hips and pinched her mouth into a thin line.

What, she thought, looking at their bowed heads, am I going to do with these two drama queens?

[onlymorelove]

Fic: Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (2/4)

Title: Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (2/3)  Fandom: Timeless  Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan  Summary: Lucy thinks lazy Sunday mornings are the best thing ever. [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.]  Rating: T Warning: Nothing graphic so far, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @grey-haven , @gwennieliz , @extasiswings  , @inbetween-the-moon-and-you , @nevergrowupnevergrowupnotme & @qqueenofhades . Thanks for enabling me. (Let me know if you’d like to be untagged or tagged.)

If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcomed.

[Part 1]

Sunlight pours through the bedroom window, warming Lucy’s bare legs and turning the dark hairs on Wyatt’s forearms red-gold. They lie on their sides on the bed, facing each other. Lucy tucks one hand under her cheek and snuggles into her pillow with a sigh. Garcia’s in the shower; she can hear the water pounding. With her eyes closed, she imagines him standing under the spray, water rolling over his skin and catching in his eyelashes, transforming them into jet-colored spikes.

Her eyes open, and Wyatt leans in, bridging the short distance between them. His hand finds a section of her hair that’s spilled forward over her shoulder and coils it around his index finger like a spring. He inadvertently brushes her breast—at least she thinks the movement is inadvertent—and she inhales sharply. Beneath the worn cotton of Wyatt’s shirt that Lucy’s wearing, her nipple tightens. She blames it on the fact that she’s been a little on edge, a little keyed-up, ever since they danced.

His gaze dips to her chest, then rises again to meet her eyes. Lucy’s cheeks heat at the knowledge that he saw her involuntary response to his casual touch. Wyatt’s lips twist in the suggestion of a smile, and she wrinkles her nose at him before slipping her hands into his hair and kissing him.  

She does it intending to distract him from her own embarrassment. But her eyes slip shut and their mouths move against each other, sure and unhurried, as if there is nothing else they need to do; nowhere else they need to be. There is only this moment. There is only this kiss. Lucy melts into it by slow degrees, body going languid and liquid. A sigh tumbles out of her, and Wyatt captures it, nibbling on the fullness of her bottom lip. Their breath mingles, and Lucy catches crisp hints of mint that linger from his toothpaste. One of her hands glides from his soft hair to his jaw, and as the terrain she’s mapping changes, her palm tingles from the faint scrape of his stubble. The stark contrast makes her shiver.

When Wyatt pulls back, his mouth gleams, wet and glossy, and the smile he turns on her is molasses-slow and twice as sweet, starting with his blue, blue eyes. For a heartbeat Lucy’s thoughts turn whimsical; she wishes she was a painter, so she’d know exactly what to label that particular shade. But she’s not, so she doesn’t. What she does know is they remind her of cornflowers; of cloudless skies; of the ocean when the tides are calm. What she does know is that when he smiles at her like that, with those eyes, he holds her beating heart in his callused hands.

Those eyes soften as they search her face. “I want us to try something, and I want you to say yes without knowing what it is.”

Her curiosity and suspicion thus piqued, Lucy laughs and rolls her eyes.  “Come on, Wyatt. How can I say yes if I don’t know what it is I’m saying yes to?”

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his expression shifting into serious lines.

She smiles. “Yes. Of course. You know I do.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He presses a kiss to her forehead, making her stomach flutter. “Then humor me. Just this once.” He sits up and holds a hand out to her. “Please.”

Lucy stares down at it for a few seconds before nodding and setting her hand firmly in his. He gives it a reassuring squeeze before helping her to her feet and leading her to the bathroom. Garcia left the door closed but unlocked. After Wyatt pulls it open, he motions for Lucy to go first.  They step inside and are immediately hit by a wall of warm, humid air and the sound of water pelting the tub—and presumably Garcia.

The bathroom mirror is completely fogged over. Wyatt leans past Lucy and uses a finger to scribble a silly message in the moisture gathered there: Lucy + Wyatt + Garcia, complete with a giant heart around their names. She steps back, eyes tracing over the inscription, a laugh bubbling up when she takes in how “Garcia” has been written in noticeably smaller letters than the other names. She smacks Wyatt on the ass, trying—and failing—to give him a severe look.

“Can’t a man have some privacy while showering?” The words float out from the shower.

“Privacy,” Wyatt scoffs. “What the hell do you need privacy for, Flynn?” He puts his hands on his hips. “Man, are you jerking off in there?”

Garcia sighs, the exasperated sound loud enough for Lucy to hear over the water. “What does it say about you that you think the only thing one might need privacy for is masturbation?”

“It says I’m honest.”

Lucy laughs again, louder this time, and is rewarded with a grin from Wyatt.

“No,” Garcia replies in a patient tone, “it says you’re a small-minded man with a small imagination.”

“Hey! I am in no way small.”

Lucy stifles a laugh when she notices how Wyatt has folded his arms over his chest and drawn himself up to his full height. He’d never forgive her if she laughed.

“You’re shorter than me.”

For a minute, Wyatt is silent. “OK. Fine. But I make up for it with my—”

Lucy knows exactly where this conversation is heading, so she slaps a hand over Wyatt’s mouth.

“As I was saying, a person might also require privacy for thinking,” says Garcia.

Lucy moves her hand away from Wyatt’s mouth and narrows her eyes at him. Behave.

“Yeah, you think too much.” Wyatt coughs and winks at Lucy. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you haven’t answered the question.”

At that, the shower curtain is yanked back, and Garcia sticks his head out, a scowl painting his handsome features. “No, Wyatt, I am not jerking off in here.”

“Oh. Too bad. By the way”—Wyatt points downward—” you’re dripping all over the floor.”

Garcia slams the curtain shut.

Lucy buries her head in Wyatt’s neck, clutching his shirt, and laughs until tears come out of her eyes.

“I can hear you laughing at me, Lucy,” Garcia says, outrage evident in his voice.

“Oh, sweetheart”—she wipes her eyes—”I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”

“But I’m not laughing.”

“I’m laughing for all of us, Garcia.”

[onlymorelove]

Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (4/4)

Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (4/4) Fandom: Timeless Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. Notes: This also takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise and Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning). These stories are all set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together. Rating: T Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

@extasiswings , @qqueenofhades , @grey-haven , and @gwennieliz , thank you for your friendship, and for letting me know you were interested in this story and this very-non-canon ‘ship. If at least one of you hadn’t spoken up, I don’t know if I would have posted anything after the first chapter. I’d have written more, but it probably would have languished on Google Docs.*hugs you all*

@nevergrowupnevergrowupnotme Thanks for your interest; here’s Part 4 of the story. :)

If you read this, thanks. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcome.

[Part 1]    [Part 2]    [Part 3]

"I hope you find someone who knows how to love you when you are sad."

- Nikita Gill

"Can we see it?" Wyatt scratched the corner of his mouth. "I mean the drawing Iris made for you."

"I…" Deep creases bloomed on Garcia's forehead, and Lucy felt a bolt of certainty that he would refuse. He moistened his lips, and the gesture was so precious to her in its familiarity that her stomach curled in an odd little dip. "Yes. It's in my wallet," he finally answered, after a brief pause. At this additional glimpse of vulnerability he'd allowed her and Wyatt to see, a swell of gratitude and tenderness washed over Lucy. "It's nothing exceptional. Just a child's drawing. But if you're sure you want to see it…?"

Wyatt's blue eyes softened as he gazed at Garcia without blinking. "I'm sure."

Garcia's chair clawed at the kitchen floor as he rose. Lucy's regard lingered on his back as he left the kitchen. She knew it was only her imagination—a trick of the light, perhaps—but his tall, rangy frame seemed less upright, more stooped than usual: Atlas, supporting the weight of the boundless sky on his broad shoulders.

Wyatt cleared his throat, drawing Lucy's attention. A smile brimming with wistfulness curved his lips and lifted his cheeks. "What makes you put up with either of us, Lucy?"

Lucy stroked her chin and furrowed her brow, pretending to consider his question with utmost seriousness. Because you two are my home. "Honestly, the sex," she said, delivering the quip in a crisp, champagne-dry tone she had probably picked up from Garcia.

Wyatt's eyes widened in surprise. Then he threw back his head and laughed, loose-limbed and easy, exposing the graceful lines of his throat. He shone so brightly it was like staring at the sun; she had to look away. When their gazes meshed again, Wyatt grinned, shaking his head fondly. Lucy just flashed him a wink.

A minute later Garcia returned. His eyes tracked from Wyatt to Lucy, a speculative expression unfurling on his face as he took in Wyatt's wolfish grin and the mischief still scrawled on Lucy's face. "I missed something."

"Nope," said Wyatt, "nothing important."

Lucy merely shrugged, attempting to look innocent.

Garcia clicked his tongue and shook his head, skepticism flaring in his narrow gaze. "You're both terrible liars, but I'll let it go for the moment." He laid a small rectangle of folded paper on the table in front of Wyatt. "Here you go."

All traces of laughter fled from Wyatt's face, leaving it somber. He cocked his head, a question gleaming in his light eyes.

"Yes." Garcia nodded. "You can look at it."

Wyatt unfolded the paper with great care, fingers moving slowly until it lay spread open on the table.

Lucy scooted her chair closer to Wyatt's so she could see the drawing more clearly. The paper seemed thinner and more delicate along its creases, though it hadn't torn yet. It was just as Garcia had described it, three crayon mermaids done in bold, broad lines, obviously drawn by a child's hand. All wore similar lopsided smiles. One had short, rainbow-colored hair, while the other two had long hair with flippy, upturned ends.

Nothing exceptional, as Garcia had said.

But to look at the naked lines of Garcia Flynn's face while he watched one of his lovers stroke the colorful page, was to know that this simple drawing was his heart laid bare.

"Thanks for showing it to us, Flynn," Wyatt said. "It's...Well, 'beautiful' doesn't seem like the right word, but it's all I've got. I get why you kept it."

"It's all I have left of her," Garcia said in a voice like cold ash, both hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table. The significance of the day, combined with the remembrances they'd each shared had left Garcia uncharacteristically shaky. The sun's hot kiss on the glacier of his grief had started the melting process; now he was left mopping up all the water.

"We know." Wyatt tilted a look at Lucy. Sighing, he stood and settled his hand on Garcia's back, sliding it down and then back up again in a hypnotic motion, gentling Garcia like he was a skittish animal. Which he was.

When Flynn finally eased his white-knuckle grip on the table, Wyatt squeezed his shoulder. "Better?"

Garcia only nodded in answer.

"Good." With a final pat on Flynn's back, Wyatt walked away. "I've got something for you guys," he called over his shoulder.

Collapsing into one of the kitchen chairs, Garcia closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Lucy got up from her seat and stood behind him. With her arms curled around his shoulders, she rested her chin on his dark hair. "I'm proud of you, you know," she said.

"Proud? Why?" he asked in a smoky rumble. His warm, slim fingers slotted into the spaces between hers.

"Because you talked about them, and I know that was difficult for you. Because you showed us Iris' drawing."

"And that's important to you."

"It's important to me that we know you," Lucy said, correcting him lightly. "That we all know each other," she added. "Iris and Lorena are a part of who you are. Just like Amy's a part of me, and Jessica's a part of Wyatt."

"Are you so certain I'm a person worth knowing, my Lucy?"

Lucy blinked and dipped her head, nose brushing Garcia's silky hair as she feathered a kiss to the soft hollow behind his ear. He shivered in her hold, causing her lips to fold in a secret smile.

"Yes, my Garcia, I am."

When Wyatt returned, Lucy and Garcia sat side by side, hands linked. With a smile warming his face, he laid something on the table in front of his lovers. Lucy laughed in delight and released Garcia's hand, reaching out and stroking a finger over the matte silver picture frame Wyatt had brought with him. "Where did you get this?" she asked, tipping her chin toward Wyatt.

Wyatt's shoulders rose and fell in a lazy shrug. "Jiya took it a few months ago. I just blew it up."

The frame held an enlarged photograph of three of them sitting at a black restaurant table, clutching their stomachs and making ridiculous faces. Colorful lanterns dangled from the ceiling, and baskets of spring rolls and fried sticky rice decorated the table. They'd had dim sum for Sunday brunch at Great East, stuffing themselves with baked pork buns, shrimp dumplings, and steamed chicken feet, though Lucy hadn't been adventurous enough to eat the latter. Jiya had snapped the picture near the end of their meal, when they were too full to do anything but be silly.

"I love it," Lucy said. "It's a great picture. Thanks, Wyatt."

"Yes, thank you, Wyatt," said Garcia. "Where should we put it?"

Wyatt cracked his knuckles, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Actually, I was thinking that we could find another frame for the picture of us. Maybe we put Iris' drawing in this frame instead. You know, where we can all see it. But if you don't want to, Flynn..." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "You know what, just forget I said anything."

"No. No," Garcia said, and Lucy was surprised at the vehemence in his voice. He shook his head, worrying his lower lip as he stood and moved toward Wyatt. "Just…" His hands lifted in a signal for Wyatt to stop. "Give me a minute."

"OK."

His hands flexed, then fisted at his side. "I don't want to forget this." He spoke the words so quietly Lucy had to concentrate to make them out. "I don't want to forget your kindness." His head tipped down, and his arms folded across his chest. "But I'm not good at this," he said, voice rising with his frustration. "I don't know what to say. I just…" He shrugged, voice trailing off. But he crossed the remaining distance to Wyatt, hands reaching until they found a home on either side of the other man's face. His hair, dark as a raven's wing, fell forward as he leaned down toward Wyatt, who stood several inches shorter. Their lips finally met, in a kiss slow and sweet, and Lucy exhaled.

Wyatt's hands slid over Garcia's back, pulling him closer. Garcia made a low noise in his throat, his fingers drifting into Wyatt's hair before he stepped back. "Thank you, dušo moja. "

"You're welcome," Wyatt replied, and though it was only two words, his face spoke many more. "You called Lucy that earlier, and now me. But you still haven't told us what it means. How do we know you're not cussing us out in Croatian?"

One of Garcia's eyebrows arched. "Does it sound like I'm cursing at you?"

"I don't know," Wyatt said with an impish grin. "You tell us."

"You're not going to let this go, are you, Logan?"

Wyatt's grin widened. "Not a chance, Flynn."

Sighing, Garcia folded his hands together. "My soul," he said, his tone lofty. "That's what dušo moja means."

"Huh. So what you're saying is, you called me and Lucy your soul."

"Mmhmm."

"So do you still want us to let you walk away, so we can be happy without you and your blackened soul, Lucifer?”

"I'm old, Logan. And selfish. Too selfish to let either of you go if you're foolish enough to keep me. Though I've learned I can get used to living without anyone, I don't want to learn to live without you both."

"Oh thank god. Now can we please go back to bed?"

"I'm not sure I can fall back asleep now, Wyatt."

"An orgasm should take care of that."

"Are you offering to give me one?"

"You did call me your soul. I figure it's the least I can do. I'll blow you, if you ever stop talking, Flynn. You'll come so hard you'll see stars, and then we can all pass out for a couple hours."

"You do say the sweetest things, Wyatt Logan."

Lucy laughed, trailing her boys back up the stairs to their bedroom.

A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you feel like sharing them. :)

[onlymorelove]

Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4)

Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (3/4) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed. Notes: You can read Chapter 1 here. You can read Chapter 2 here. This also takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise and Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning). These stories are all set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together. Word Count: 4574 Rating: T Chapter Title: Bring your secrets; bring your scars. (From Phillip Phillips' Unpack Your Heart.) Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @extasiswings, @grey-haven, @gwennieliz, @qqueenofhades, and @uglybusiness. (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)

If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured; constructive criticism is welcome.

[Part 1]    [Part 2]    [Part 4]

A Google search for a simple chocolate chip cookie recipe turned up a five-ingredient one Lucy was confident even their sleep-deprived, emotionally-drained threesome could handle. Butter, flour, sugar, eggs, and chocolate chips. Today they’d be eating the sweet and chocolatey breakfast of champions. It would be worth it because all of them still had healing to do, and this, acknowledging Iris Flynn’s birthday, was another tangible step in that process.

She’d just pulled a stick of butter out of the refrigerator and set it out to soften on the kitchen counter behind her when two sets of footsteps sounded—one slow and measured, the other pounding down the stairs at a rapid clip. Garcia and Wyatt rejoined her in the kitchen. Wyatt wore a long-sleeved tee. It had seen better days; the cuffs were frayed, and the shirt clung to Wyatt’s back and shoulders after too many trips through clothes dryer. It was an aesthetic she deeply appreciated.

Lucy tapped Wyatt’s shoulder with her index finger and bumped him with her hip. When he focused on her, she turned a mock pout on him. “Excuse me.” She arched an eyebrow.

Wyatt’s forehead crinkled in consternation, and his eyebrows drew together. “Yeah?”

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

“Agreed? Ha. You're a funny woman.” Wyatt smirked. “More like you tried to give me a direct order, and I took it as a suggestion.” He gave an exaggerated shiver, causing her to roll her eyes at his dramatics. “It’s chilly down here, Doc. Besides”—he winked and stepped into her space, his body radiating delicious heat, and wound his arms around her—“I’m still gropeable with clothes on.” His words were followed by his hands, which proceeded to knead the curve of her bottom with gratifying enthusiasm.

Tilting her head to the side, Lucy flashed Garcia a questioning look. “What do you think, Garcia?” She traced nonsensical doodles on Wyatt’s shoulders while she waited for a response.

Flynn leaned back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other, slanting a considering glance at her and Wyatt. Only a few feet separated them. Amusement flared in the depths of Flynn’s moss-green eyes, chasing away some of the shadows that still lingered there. “I think opening a thoughtfully-wrapped present is half the fun of receiving a present in the first place.”

Though Wyatt’s busy hands stilled, Lucy was grateful he kept his arms looped around her. “So, in this metaphor of yours, am I supposed to be the present?” Wyatt asked. She leaned into him, a cat searching for a good scratch; he responded by running his nails over her back through her thin nightshirt. Pleasure sparked through her, chasing Wyatt’s sure fingers, until Lucy nearly hummed from it.

Garcia’s observant gaze tracked the path Wyatt’s hands traveled over Lucy's back, and his lips ticked upward a millimeter. “You, Wyatt Logan,” he said, sidling closer to them, his voice lit by humor but lacking any sardonic edge, “and all that West Texas charm, are the gift that never stops giving.” He finished with a smacking kiss to Wyatt’s cheek.

“Damn straight,” Wyatt replied. “About time you figured that out.”

Garcia’s full-throated laugh rang through the kitchen. For a second, Lucy forgot her exhaustion. Instead, she focused on the warmth that fizzed in her chest as Garcia bent and kissed them—first tilting Wyatt’s face up with one long finger on his chin—and then her.

Warm lips grazed her temple; strong arms surrounded her. Lucy’s eyes slid shut, and she inhaled deeply. She couldn’t catalogue the individual scents that filled her nose, though she dearly wanted to. Was it Garcia’s deodorant? Wyatt’s skin?

All Lucy knew as she tried to freeze the moment, to preserve it in amber for eternity, was that those scents signified something important to her. Comfort. Them. Home.

“I’ll tell you what, Lucy.” Wyatt nodded and folded his arms over his chest. I’ll make a deal with you.”

The mischievous expression that rolled over Wyatt’s face immediately put her on guard, but she decided to humor him anyway. “Okay…I'm listening. What are your terms?”

“Since you seem oh-so-interested in me being shirtless right now, I’ll agree to that, but—”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“ —only if you take off your shirt, too.”

A beat passed. Lucy blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing several times, but no words came out. Finally, she reached out and thwacked Wyatt on the forearm. “Wyatt!” Lucy knew both men were very aware that she rarely slept wearing a bra. Though she was pretty comfortable in her own skin at this point in her life, that didn't mean she wanted to bake while topless.

“What?” He cringed away and slung her a look that was all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re not the only feminist here. It’s all in the interest of equality and fair play.”

“I think you mean foreplay,” Garcia chimed in, dark eyebrows raised. He curled an arm across Wyatt’s shoulders and pulled him closer.

“You would take his side.” She narrowed her eyes at him, silently promising Garcia future retribution.

Garcia lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not taking anybody’s side,” he protested, his eyes doing that twinkly thing that made her insides feel loopy and effervescent.

“Ready, Luce?” said Wyatt. His hands gripped the bottom of his shirt and started inching upward, revealing a sliver of skin at his stomach.

“No. Stop. Let’s all just...keep our shirts on.” How had their morning taken such a turn for the absurd?

Garcia’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. Oh, he might be laughing now, but she would remember this moment and make him pay later.

“Deviants,” she said under her breath.

“Hey! I heard you,” said Wyatt. “Just so you know. That is unfair.” Looking not at all put-out, he wagged his finger at her. “And inaccurate. Yeah. You’re the one who started it. So pot, kettle, black.”

She heaved a gusty sigh. “Fine, Wyatt.” With a shrug, she clapped her hands against her legs. “You win. You’re right.”

“Sorry. I couldn’t hear you.” Wyatt cupped a hand to his ear. “Could you please repeat that?”

Her lips twitched, but she bit back the smile that threatened to appear. She would not encourage his theatrics. “I said, ‘You’re right.’”

“Thank you for admitting that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.” He paused and lifted his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “It's about as rare as a unicorn sighting.” Wyatt and Garcia exchanged telling looks.

It made her skin itch to imagine letting him have the last word. But she would let his very last comment slide. “So I guess we’re equal opportunity perverts.”

“Lucy, there is nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty of the human body.” Garcia rubbed his hands together as if warming up to the current subject. “It is, after all, a marvelous creation.” With his hands tucked into the pockets of his pajama pants, he strolled the length of their small kitchen. Then he reversed direction, ambling back toward them, studying her and Wyatt in turn, an air of deep reflection about him.

Sensing the beginning of a world-class lecture, Lucy caught Wyatt’s gaze and made a face. He grinned and shook his head. “You are such a brat,” he mouthed.

Lucy widened her eyes at Wyatt and casually scratched the corner of her mouth...with her middle finger.

He snickered at the vulgar gesture and shook his head at her antics. Though his mouth didn’t form any words, Lucy easily parsed the naked affection on his face.

“Consider da Vinci’s exploration of geometry and proportion in his Vitruvian Man drawing—”

Wyatt turned toward Garcia. “You mean the naked guy?” He drew a circle in the air. “With the circle around him? And the square?”

Garcia nodded in approval, a wide smile tempering the otherwise severe lines of his face. Lucy instinctively wanted to smile back, though her stomach tightened painfully at the knowledge of how isolated this man, who had become utterly irreplaceable to her, had been for so long, with no one to talk to about his thoughts. No one to share the minutiae of daily life with. No one to ask him, “How was your day?” and care enough to listen with full attention to his answer.

“Yes! Exactly, Wyatt. I wasn’t sure if you'd catch the reference.”

“Always happy to live down to your expectations, Flynn.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to underestimate you. Did I hurt your feelings?”

“Nah. Okay, maybe a little. You can make it up to me.”

Wyatt hooked his fingers in the waistband of Garcia’s pants. “So how about we all get naked. In honor of da Vinci?”

Garcia’s face twisted in a rather quizzical expression. “While I appreciate the sentiment, that is altogether convoluted logic, Logan.”

As much as she appreciated their good-natured banter, she knew they had gotten sidetracked from their original objective. She rolled her eyes and yanked Wyatt’s hand away from Garcia. “For the love of... Listen, we’ve gotten completely distracted. We are supposed to be baking.”  She clamped one hand over Wyatt’s mouth and one over Garcia’s. “And no, don’t even say it: We are not going to be doing naked baking.”

Bracketing a hand around her wrist, Garcia tugged her hand away from his mouth. “Half-naked, to be precise,” Garcia said, eyebrow quirked. He gave her fingers a playful nip before releasing them.

Wyatt and Garcia both laughed, deep smile lines radiating out from the corners of their eyes like little sunbursts. The combined effect dazzled Lucy with its radiance. Her breath stuttered in her chest. A second later she blinked, and the spell was broken. “Oh my god,” she said, recovering her voice. “Please, I beg you, both of you. Just forget I said anything about being shirtless.”

“So what'll it be, boys? Dark or milk chocolate chips?”

“Milk,” said Wyatt.

“Dark,” said Garcia.

“But Lucy,” Wyatt said, tugging at her sleeve, “dark chocolate’s gross. It’s too bitter.”

Garcia aimed a scathing look in Wyatt's direction. “No, you're mistaken: milk chocolate is too sweet. Too cloying. Too much of a good thing. In dark chocolate, however, the sweetness is balanced by the hint of bitterness. Balance, Wyatt.” He made an expansive, sweeping gesture with his arms. “In all things, seek balance.”

“Yeah, okay, Jedi Master Flynn.”

A startled laugh flew from Lucy’s mouth. When Garcia cut her a glare to rival Medusa’s stony stare, the laugh morphed into a cough. “Okay, well then.” She cleared her throat. “We’ll compromise and do half and half,” she said, her tone placating. “Happy now?”

“No,” Garcia and Wyatt replied in unison.

Lucy smiled.

“Here,” Lucy said, and handed Garcia a worn wooden spoon. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and they shared a glance, neither speaking. Gentle heat spread from that point of contact, eventually settling in Lucy’s cheeks. She curled her hand around Garcia’s upper arm. “Make good use of those muscles and beat the flour and sugar together.”

“Whatever you say...ma’am,” Garcia said, a hint of mischief glimmering in his smile as he applied himself to the task she'd set for him.

“Uh uh. No way.” Lucy folded her arms across her chest and shook her head decisively. “I refuse to have you both call me that.”

He nodded in acquiescence, hair slipping over his forehead. “Then I will have to think of something else.”

“Anything but ‘ma’am.’”

Garcia continued stirring, eyes distant, expression thoughtful. The spoon tapped the edges of the steel mixing bowl with every turn and made a dull clanging sound. “Yes.” He looked at her with a half-smile, then nodded. “Whatever you say, dušo moja.” His voice altered on the unfamiliar words, deepening, the tenderness in the foreign syllables nearly tactile. A brush of velvet against her skin...  

“What does that mean?”

His gaze flicked away from hers. “Perhaps I’ll tell you...someday.”

To her surprise, Lucy swore she saw a hint of pink in his cheeks.

“Garcia…” She knew she sounded whiny, but she didn't care. “Tell me now.”

He paused in his stirring to pat her hip. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy.”

An unfortunate side effect of intimacy was that they all knew a thousand and one ways to infuriate each other. “Patience is a virtue, Lucy,” she retorted, mimicking him.

He smiled broadly, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Insolence will get you nowhere.”

Wyatt sniggered; Lucy kept her features blank but added him and Garcia to her mental shit list.

“Hey, I’ve got muscles, too.” Wyatt flexed his right arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and placed it on his biceps. “Check out these guns.”

“Very impressive,” she said, pressing a quick kiss to Wyatt’s mouth.

“Don’t think I can’t tell you’re humoring me.” “I’m not humoring you, Wyatt.” “Are too.” “You’re right: I am.”

“Your honesty is killing me, Lucy.”

“My honesty is one of my finest qualities.” His eyebrows quirked in confusion. “You have qualities?”

“Smartass. Just for that, you get to take the cookie sheets, and everything else, out of the oven. Then preheat it to 350.”

Wyatt opened the oven door, bending to retrieve the items stored inside that black hole of kitchenware. “Holy shit.” When he stood up, his hands held a mountain of baking sheets, muffin tins, wire cooling racks. Moving slowly so as not to drop anything, he stepped to the right and placed everything on the small square of counter space next to the stove. That done, he turned to look at her reproachfully.

“Don’t you look at me like that.”

He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. “Lucy, you promised us you’d organize this crap.”

She swallowed, feeling a little guilty. Okay, a lot guilty. Her packrat tendencies and general messiness were a sore point between the three of them. “I meant to...I mean I will…” She wrung her hands. “It’s just, we don’t have space for it all.”

“Exactly. So get rid of some of it. Donate it.”

“But I need it.”

“You need all of it?” Wyatt shot back, skepticism evident in his voice.

“Well…”

Lucy’s attention shifted as her eyes caught movement. The wire rack that had been perched at the summit of the mountain of items Wyatt had just hauled out of the oven, crashed to the floor. “Oh no!”

The three of them leapt to catch the remaining objects before they went the way of the rack. A few items still clattered to the ground in a cacophony of sound, but they were able to salvage most of the stuff. Disaster thus mostly averted, Wyatt and Garcia simply looked at her, irritation so clear on their faces that they didn’t have to say anything.

She deserved that; she’d attempt to be graceful. Lucy gave a sheepish shrug. “Um...Sorry?”

“OK, Wyatt, now it’s your turn. You add the egg and mix it up completely,” Lucy said.

She checked the recipe on her phone, then pulled a canister out of the freezer. “Garcia,”—she pointed at the canister—“we need 1 and a ¼ cups of flour. Don’t pack it too tightly, and level it with a dinner knife.”

Garcia rummaged in a lower cabinet, then stood up, holding a glass measuring cup.

Wyatt cracked a large egg on the edge of the mixing bowl and poured its contents in. He walked to the trash can and tossed the broken shell pieces in there. “So tell us something about your daughter,” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “What was she like?”

Lucy pulled a container of salt from the pantry and brought it to the counter, eyeing Garcia without comment. Would he answer Wyatt’s question? Garcia froze in the act of pulling a spoon from the cutlery drawer, blinking rapidly. Pin-drop silence surrounded them. “She...I…” He sighed and shook his head, hand trembling as he dropped the spoon in the measuring cup and closed the drawer with a soft click.  

Something inside Lucy twisted. “We could take turns. Share one memory—talk about our...Talk about the people we’ve lost.” She slid her hand over Garcia’s, squeezing gently. “Um. I’ll go first.” She released his hand and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. A deep breath. She could do this. “Amy is...I mean...Amy was…” A laugh escaped her lips, and Lucy cringed at her own nervous behavior. “Wow, this is hard.” She stared down at the counter in front of her, vision blurring, until an arm closed around her shoulders.

When she looked up, blinking back tears, she discovered that it was Garcia who’d wound his arm around her. His eyes met hers unflinchingly, and the silent compassion she saw there gave her the strength to continue. She closed her hands into fists, then concentrated on loosening them slowly. “Amy’s seven years younger than me. When she was little, Mom would put her in my lap, and I’d read to her. I’ve always loved books, and my parents, they fed that love. So we had a ton of books at home. At first, I used to decide what to read to Amy. But when she got to be two, maybe three-years-old, she started pulling books off the shelf and bringing them to me to read.

“She loved this series of books about a giant dog. Clifford the Big Red Dog. He was twenty-some feet tall, and...Anyway, at one point, her absolute favorite book was Clifford’s Kitten.” An ache started in Lucy’s chest; she pushed it away and continued. “I think I read it to her every day for like a month straight; I basically had it memorized. I got so sick of that damn book, but Amy would bring me that book, plop down in my lap, and say, ‘Read.’”

The ache increased, widening its geography, and stretched to her throat. There it sat, like a malignant growth. Lucy shook her head, once, clutching the locket that still cradled her sister’s picture, and allowed Garcia to fold her in his arms. Eyes shut tight, she pressed her cheek to his chest until the ache receded enough that she could breathe freely again.

After they put the cookies in the oven to bake, Lucy set a timer for nine minutes. Turning to Wyatt and Garcia, she took them each by the hand and pulled them to the living room. “Let’s sit while we wait for the cookies to bake.”

Lucy snuggled into one corner of the larger sofa; Wyatt claimed the other one. Though Garcia moved to sit on the small sofa adjacent to the one they sat on, Wyatt shook his head and motioned him closer. “Sit here,” he said, patting the empty spot between him and Lucy. Garcia perched on the edge of the sofa. Wyatt sighed in exasperation. “Like this, genius,” he said, and pulled Garcia down until he lay flat on his back with his head in Wyatt’s lap. They must have made a comical picture. Garcia was so tall that his butt pressed against Lucy’s hip, and his legs bent, bridging her lap, his feet tucked next to her other leg.

Lucy smiled, watching Wyatt card his fingers through Garcia’s dark hair. She knew just how hypnotic that resulting sensation could be, given that Wyatt had done the same to her earlier that morning.

Careful to keep her touch gentle, Lucy worked her hand under the hem of Garcia’s sweats and pressed her fingertips into his calf. Garcia sighed, and Lucy’s smile widened.

“If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep,” Garcia murmured, eyes closed, voice curling in the air like a wisp of smoke.

Wyatt chuckled, then stopped abruptly. Lucy turned her head to look at him, curious. His hand continued to glide through Garcia’s hair. “Jessica loved to knit, especially when I was deployed. She said…” He cleared his throat. “She said it helped, especially when she missed me, knowing that she could fill a need for someone else. She had needles in all different sizes, and she made all kinds of stuff—scarves for soldiers and vets; blankets for homeless shelters; little hats for newborns at the hospital.

“I think she was always working on a half dozen projects at a time.” He smiled, and it was just a little one, but it was real. Then the smile seeped away, and his hand stilled in Garcia’s hair. “After she was killed, I was sitting on the couch one night, just nursing a beer, and I felt something poke me. It was one of her knitting needles, sticking out from between the cushions. I went a little crazy then. Threw out all her stuff. Her knitting needles, her half-finished charity projects, her huge stash of yarn. All of it. I wish...Now...I wish that I hadn’t done that.”

Lucy’s eyes met Garcia’s; he laced his fingers together with Wyatt’s and laid them over his heart.

Silence reigned until the kitchen timer buzzed.

Once the cookies had cooled, Lucy scooped them all onto a pretty platter and set them in the middle of the dining table.

Wyatt grabbed one and raised it to his mouth.

Lucy snatched it away from him and put it back on the platter.

“Why’d you do that? You promised me chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Lucy.”

“I did. But not until we sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ Let me see if I can find a candle.” After rummaging around in various cabinets and drawers, Lucy finally found one in the junk drawer. “A-ha!” she said, holding it up in triumph. She also found a pack of matches in the same drawer.

“How many candles are there in total, Lucy?” said Garcia.

“Let me look… I see three. How come?”

“Oh. Well, I was thinking, maybe we could light one in honor of each person we’ve...lost. But if there are only three…” His voice trailed off.

Lucy nodded. “I think that’s a lovely idea. We’ve only got three candles, but we’ll light all three. It’s supposed to be the thought that counts.” She couldn’t very well stick the candles in a cookie, so she grabbed a small bowl, filled it with salt, and placed the candles, one red, one blue, and one purple, in there until they were all standing, albeit a bit crookedly. She stepped back, tilting her head to admire her handiwork. It wasn’t perfect, but the effect was charming. Somehow it worked—just like their patchwork family.

“Here,” Lucy said, handing the matchbook to Garcia. “Why don’t you light the first one?”

Garcia accepted the matches with a nod. He tore off one match and drew it across the striker. The odor of sulfur hovered in the air as the match head flared to life, glowing brightly in his hand. He held it to one candle wick until the flame caught. With a brisk shake of his hand, he put out the lit match and handed the matchbook back to Lucy.

She did as Garcia had moments before, and when her candle flame flickered merrily, she passed the matchbook to Wyatt.

When all three candles were lit, Lucy reached for both Wyatt and Garcia’s hands. She started the song. “Happy Birthday to you,” she sang, and if her voice was a little shaky, no one commented on it. Two baritones joined her on the next line. “Happy Birthday, dear Iris. Happy Birthday to you.”

They all seemed to hold their breath as the last few notes hung in the air, fading by slow degrees even as the trio of flames still danced.  

“Why don’t you blow them all out for us?” Lucy whispered, face turned toward Garcia, loath to disturb the fragile peace that encompassed them.

“Do you mind?” Garcia asked. His eyes lingered on Wyatt, not Lucy.

“Not at all. You do it.” The candlelight reflected in Wyatt’s eyes. “Please,” he added.

With a silent nod, Garcia closed his eyes. After perhaps a minute, he opened them again, then leaned forward and blew out all three candles.

Lucy released both men’s hands, smiling when Wyatt seized four cookies, two in each hand.

He bit into one cookie. “Oh my god,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. “These are so fucking so good.” He groaned, the sound simultaneously filthy and exquisite. “Guys, I think we’re going to need to bake about three dozen more.”

Lucy snatched one cookie out of Wyatt’s hand, quickly taking a nibble before he could protest.

“Hey, no stealing! That was mine.”

She munched on her cookie until she realized Garcia was standing there, silent and cookie-less. “Don’t you want one?” she said.

“In a minute. First, I wanted to say thank you. Both of you. For all this. For being you. For putting up with me. I know I can be...difficult.” Wyatt snorted. “Massive understatement there.”

Lucy used her free hand to swat him on the butt.

“I’m a prickly bastard, aren’t I?” said Garcia.

Wyatt lips curled up in a megawatt grin that could have melted a glacier. He winked and tossed Garcia a wry look that clearly said, “You don’t actually want me to answer that, do you?”

Garcia laughed, long and hard. When he finally quieted, he pulled out a chair and sat down. His hands came to rest on the table in front of him, fingers threaded together tightly. “I should probably talk about Iris now. You both shared a memory. I should do the same.” Lucy brushed her hands together, clearing off cookie crumbs, then squeezed Garcia’s shoulder. “There is no ‘should.’ You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“The thing is, I think...I think maybe I want to. Perhaps it’s time.”

“Then we’ll listen,” Lucy replied.

“I don’t believe in God anymore, but...” His voice trailed off. “My daughter, she...” He paused again to clear his throat. “My daughter was magical. To me. To my wife. And she believed in magic—fairies, mermaids, dragons, and all those mystical things we adults sneer at. There’s this drawing she did for me years ago. A drawing of three mermaids. I’ve carried it with me, in my wallet, all this time, everywhere I’ve gone. After every horrible thing that I’ve done, I’ve taken out that tattered drawing and looked at it, reminding myself why I had to do those things. And for what? I’ve paid my pound of flesh—and then some. And for what?

“Do you know she wanted to change her name?” he said, abruptly changing topics.

He laughed quietly, and the sound hurt Lucy because it echoed with the vast ocean of longing, grief, and dusty dreams that each one of them held for their dead loved ones.

“She wanted to change her name to Arabella Sweetwater,” Garcia continued. “That, according to Iris, was a name fit for a mermaid like herself. We promised her, Lorena and I, that if she still wanted to change her name when she grew up, she could do so. She's never going to grow up, though is she?”

Neither Lucy nor Wyatt answered, recognizing the question was rhetorical.

“She's gone. Really gone. They both are. And the part that scares me the most, is that I think I’m starting to move on. Wyatt...Lucy... I don’t want to give them up. I don’t want to forget them.”

“Oh, Garcia,” Lucy said. “You don’t have to forget them. Neither of us would ask you to do that.”

Author’s Note: So, I think these guys had more to say than I initially expected. That means there will be one more part after this, and then we should be done. The last bit will be short.

[onlymorelove]

Fic: Baby, I'm a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (1/4)

Title: Baby, I’m a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (1/3) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan Summary: Lucy thinks lazy Sunday mornings are the best thing ever. [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.] Word Count: 1238 Rating: T Warning: Nothing graphic so far, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @gwennieliz , @extasiswings and @qqueenofhades . Don’t feel obligated to comment just because I’ve tagged you! (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)

If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured.

[Part 2]

Lazy mornings are the best, and Lucy gets far too few of them. So before she falls asleep one Saturday night, she slaps a sleep mask over her eyes. Just once, she’d like to sleep until she feels like waking up, so that’s what she does. 

Rolling over in the enormous bed she shares with Garcia and Wyatt, first she pulls off her sleep mask, then she throws off the cotton blanket. She stretches her arms, wiggling her fingers. Next come her legs. Her back cracks along the way, and she laughs. Slivers of golden sunlight dance through the closed blinds. Her body feels light and well-rested.  

A quick glance at the clock tells her it’s after 9:30 on Sunday morning. Garcia and Wyatt might be out for a run. Lucy’s stomach grumbles. Or maybe they’re picking up fresh bagels and hot, sweet coffee for her. A girl can hope.  

The sleep mask did its job faithfully, and she wants to be able to find it again, so she tucks it into the nightstand drawer. Given that she’s the last person out of the bed; she should be the one to make it, but she really doesn’t feel like it right now. She’ll just have to take the inevitable scolding she’ll get from both Wyatt and Garcia. A little bickering won’t kill any of them.

The bathroom door opens, followed by a cloud of steam. Wyatt steps out, head lowered, eyes focused on his phone. “Work, work, work, work, work, work,” he sings along with Rihanna. Lucy’s eyes widen, and a giggle bubbles up from somewhere in her chest. She claps a hand over her mouth, but it’s too late; he stiffens and glances up.  

“Oh, hey, Lucy.” He clears his throat. “Didn’t realize you were up.” The phone still sits in his left hand, while his right hand scratches the back of his neck. He ducks his head. A distinct flush creeps up over his cheeks.

“Clearly,” she says, moving toward him, not even trying to hide her smile. “Good morning, Wyatt,” she sing-songs. Her lips drag a kiss over his cheek, catching a little on the faint stubble peeking out there.

“Morning.” One arm pulls her close against Wyatt’s t-shirt covered chest.

“I have to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Ugh. Morning breath.” Her hand squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t move,” she says, strolling toward the bathroom, “I’ll be right back.”

When she returns to their bedroom Wyatt’s phone is silent, and he stands by the window with the blinds open.

She crooks a finger at him, beckoning. “Come here.”

His lips quirk up in that mischief-tinged Wyatt Logan grin that always makes her want to smile back. “Yes, ma’am.” He lifts a hand in a mock salute; she puckers her lips and blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then ambles toward her, sunlight catching highlights in his shower-damp hair.

“Nice singing.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Why not?” She takes his hand, savoring the slide of her fingers through his. “I thought it was cute.” Touching Wyatt is easy, and it feels good; she does it as often as possible.

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m serious.” She eases closer to Wyatt and runs her fingernails over the short hairs on the back of his neck. A shiver moves through him. “Turn the song back on.”

“Lucy…” He sighs.

“Do it.”

“OK. Fine.” He sounds exasperated, but Lucy knows better. His hands lift in a gesture of compliance.

The opening bars of the song start to play. Lucy takes the phone from Wyatt and sets it on the nightstand. “Work, work, work, work, work, work,” she sings to him, flashing a tiny smile. He smiles back, eyes warm and soft, and in that moment she loves him. She loves him in all moments.

She tugs him closer by the waistband of his shorts. Feet apart, knees bent, she rocks her hips into Wyatt. The music weaves around them, tension charging the small space between their bodies.

His blue eyes go dark. His lips part. He matches her move for move, hips rolling forward, loose and easy, in a perfect echo of hers.

Wyatt’s shirt bunches in her grip, soft fabric covering skin she’s touched too many times to count.. The steady thud of his heartbeat under her hand makes her own pulse pick up speed. Her eyes slip shut. When his hand skims her hip and claims her lower back, pressing her closer, heat spreads outward from that one point of contact into all her limbs, warm, thick, honey-sweet. The air in the room grows heavier, hotter. She nuzzles his neck, inhaling deeply, absorbing the faint scent of his soap. It’s as familiar to her as her own skin, but it sends a shiver down her spine; creates a pulsing ache down low inside her.

The hand on her back slips under her shirt, traveling down and cupping her bottom. (Actually, it’s Wyatt’s shirt, and she slept in it the night before.)

“I like you in my shirt.” His words stir the hair over her temple.

“Hmm…” One of Wyatt’s hands strokes the hair back from her forehead; the other squeezes her ass. She’s not wearing shorts—just panties—and he palms a lot of bare skin. They move together, trancelike, and each rotation of Lucy’s hips has her grinding on Wyatt’s thigh, setting fires all over her body. Her breath soughs in and out faster than before. Her eyes open to find him unsuccessfully biting back a self-satisfied grin. Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

She flicks him on the nose.

He chuckles and wraps his arms around her in a hug.

“You have terrible taste in music,” says a dry voice behind them.

Lucy gasps and turns around. Garcia stands in the doorway, hip cocked in a casual pose, watching them with a knowing glint in his green eyes.

“Eh. That depends on what you’re using the music for.” Wyatt drops one hand to her upper back, pressing down gently, and the other to her hip, guiding her to lean forward a bit. She does so, her gaze never leaving Garcia as she turns her hips in a circle, feeling Wyatt rub up against her from behind.

“I go out for one hour”—Garcia clicks his tongue and shakes his head in mock disapproval—”and this is what I come back to.”

“Well maybe you shouldn’t have left.” She arches an eyebrow.

The song ends and Lucy stands up. Wyatt’s fingers dip just under the waistband of her underwear, stroking lightly.

Garcia palms the visible bulge in his running shorts, and Lucy licks her lips. He shakes his head, smiling faintly. “I went for a run.” He gestures at a patch of sweat on his shirt. “I need to shower.” He straightens and walks to them. He places a hand on top of Wyatt’s, where it still rests on her skin. “Wait for me,” he says, his eyes promising a reward if they obey him. He tugs on her earlobe with his teeth, making goosebumps break out all over her body, then heads to the bathroom.

“We’re not making any promises, man.”

“Remember, Wyatt, good things come to those who wait,” Garcia calls over his shoulder, his tone chastising.

“Yeah, fuck you, too.”

Garcia laughs and shuts the bathroom door behind him.

[onlymorelove]

Fic: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (1/4)

Title: I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (1/4) Relationship: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston/Wyatt Logan  Summary: Sometimes love is found in unexpected combinations. Lucy wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed.  Notes: This takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise. You DO NOT have to read that first in order for this to make sense. All you need to know is that this is set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.  Word Count: 2259 Song Suggestion: Walnut Tree by Keane  Rating: T Chapter Title: Your sorrow, your beauty, your war—I want it all (From Phillip Phillips’ Unpack Your Heart.)  Warning: Nothing graphic, but don’t read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved. 

Read under the cut, on AO3, or at FF.net.

Tagging @gwennieliz and @qqueenofhades . (If anyone else wants to be tagged for future updates, just let me know.)

If you read this, thank you. Feedback is treasured.

[Part 2]    [Part 3]    [Part 4]  

I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (1/4)

“Aren’t we all waiting to be read by someone, praying that they’ll tell us that we make sense?” - Rudy Francisco

When her eyes first opened, Lucy didn’t know what had woken her. Soft snores rumbled next to her, and she stifled a laugh. “Wyatt,” she whispered in the dark, “roll over onto your side. You’re snoring.” Her words were met by another snore, this one significantly louder than last. Shifting closer to the warm man sleeping next to her, she nuzzled the curve of his bare shoulder, then skimmed a hand over his stomach. “Honey, you’re snoring. Turn over!”

The man slept like he’d taken horse tranquilizers. “Mmmph. Luce,” he murmured, sleep slurring it all into one nonsensical word. He exhaled a snuffling sort of breath she vowed to tease him about in the morning and then turned onto his side so they now lay with her chest pressed to the steady heat of his back. His skin invariably ran hot, so he usually slept in just a pair of boxers on the left side of their bed. That way if he felt uncomfortably warm, he could stick an arm or leg out from under their blankets without subsequently freezing Lucy, who always felt cold.

Come to think of it, her back felt chilled. Frowning, Lucy turned onto her back and reached out her left hand to pat the bed. On that side the sheets were cool to the touch, as if they hadn’t been slept on for hours. She moved onto her elbows and peered at the bedside clock, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The clock read 3:35 - far too early for any of them to be up for any good reason.

Moving with as much stealth as she could muster at that early hour, Lucy slipped from their bed to go search for the other man who should’ve been asleep behind her, playing the big spoon to her little spoon. A faint sliver of light gleamed from under the closed bedroom door. Their room enveloped her in a pre-dawn chill; goosebumps prickled on her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and tiptoed out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. It squeaked loudly. In the morning stillness, the sound blared like a siren. Lucy winced and made a mental note to oil the hinges later that day.

Yawning so wide she felt her jaw crack, she padded downstairs, making sure to avoid that one spot on the fifth step that always creaked. She followed the glow of light like a trail of breadcrumbs. The lights shone on a dim setting, casting unsettling shadows in the room. Lucy shivered.

He sat at the kitchen table, facing away from her, body hunched, head bowed, leaving the back of his neck bare and vulnerable. “Garcia,” she said, voice hushed, not wanting to startle him. Her whisper cracked the surface of the early-morning tranquility. The muscles in his back stiffened, the sudden tension there the only sign he’d heard her speak. His silence and tense posture worried her, but she forced herself to remain calm and not smother him with an excess of concern - concern he might not welcome.

The three of them loved each other, true, and Garcia had lost most of that desperate- wild-animal-caught-in-the-jaws-of-a-steel-trap look that used to be de rigeur for him. Still, sometimes his thoughts and feelings remained as opaque to her and Wyatt as they had in the past. Fortunately, she liked puzzles; he was her favorite.

She touched the back of Garcia’s chair. “Is it OK if I sit with you?”

His head dipped nearly imperceptibly.

She pulled out an empty chair to his right and sat with her feet tucked under her, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. She snuck a glance at Garcia from under her lashes, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he seemed to be completely focused on the paper napkin he was tearing - first into long strips, then smaller pieces. His hair hung loose and ruffled over his forehead in an inky fall, longer than he usually let it grow. It shone black in the dim kitchen; she knew sunlight, however, would coax forth a dozen shades of brown and even red.

His lips twisted down in a faint frown she ached to kiss away. She clenched her fists in her lap and inhaled deeply to avoid reaching for him. He would talk when he was ready. They’d all had too much stolen from them already; she would not be the one to steal one more thing from him - choice. Vulnerability was still difficult for Garcia. For all of them, really.

A small, white pile of napkin confetti grew in front of him. A tremor shook him, and Lucy noticed the dark hairs on his arms standing up. He must be cold. That she could fix. She shuffled to the living room, trying not to stumble over anything, and snagged the fuzzy, gray throw draped over an arm of the largest sofa. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Garcia still tearing up napkins and showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. Without a word she tucked the throw around him, letting her hand linger on his neck for a half-second longer than it strictly needed to.

“Your skin feels like ice,” she said, starting to move away. “I’ll make some tea to warm you up.”

His hand shot out to capture hers. He brought it to his face and held it so her palm curved over his cheek. “Thank you, Lucy.” The steel-string rasp of his voice made her shiver.

“You’re welcome, Garcia.” She smoothed her free hand over his hair and cleared her throat. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you? You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but-”

He nodded and brushed a kiss over her knuckles before releasing her hand with a soft sigh. “I’ll tell you. Do you mind making tea?”

“Of course not.”

Five minutes later she handed him a steaming mug of chamomile tea before sitting down next to him with her own cup. Garcia turned his mug so the writing on it showed. He huffed a little laugh. “I don’t have an attitude. I have a personality you can’t handle,” was stamped in large black bubble letters. Wyatt had given the novelty mug to Garcia a month or two ago. They’d all had a long laugh over it. “Are you trying to tell me something?” Garcia had asked with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows and a teasing lilt in his voice.

“Hell yes,” Wyatt had retorted, laughter gleaming in his blue eyes, taking any sting out of his words with a hearty clap on the other man’s back and what probably would’ve been a quick kiss to his lips - if Garcia hadn’t twisted his hands in Wyatt’s shirt to hold him in place, chasing his mouth with such diligence that Lucy felt her body heat. She’d smiled so hard her cheeks had hurt, then let loose a piercing wolf whistle. They’d broken apart at the shrill sound, both panting, a hectic flush painted high on their cheeks.

She loved Wyatt and Garcia all the time, but those moments were among her favorite: when their sharp edges were filed down to kiss-dazed eyes and soft, swollen lips.

Garcia’s fingertips drumming an irregular beat on the tabletop brought Lucy back to the present. She stilled his hand with one of her own. “Tell me, please.” The words rang out as a plea, not a command.

His gaze dropped from hers, shuttering - and Lucy let it - but she kept her hand where it was, skimming her thumb over the top of his hand, anchoring him while he composed his thoughts.

“My daughter would be ten today…If she’d lived.” His voice wavered on the last word; he pulled his hand out from under hers and wrapped it around his mug. “It’s Iris’ birthday - October 19th.”

“Of course. I’m so sorry.” The words sounded hollow. Lucy leaned back in her chair and shoved her hair behind her ears. “Oh, Garcia, I should’ve known.” That certainly explained his middle-of-the-night melancholy.

He shook his head and waved off her apology. “Why would you?” he countered with a quizzical smile that didn’t reach his shadowed eyes.

“I’ll remember next year.” Disappointed in herself, she sighed. “I promise.”

“I believe you. If you say you will, you will.” He patted her knee. “But Lucy, you don’t have to.”

“I want to.” She shrugged and bit her bottom lip. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”

The throw around Garcia’s shoulders gaped open, exposing the plain, white v-neck he’d worn to bed. Lucy’s gaze flicked to the simple gold chain he never took off; he’d bought it to hang his wedding ring upon when the three of them had finally admitted their relationships were changing. Now Garcia worried the gold band with his hand - until their gazes met. When he seemed to realize what she’d been looking at, he tucked the necklace and ring underneath his shirt, shielding them from her view.

“You know, you never talk about them.” Lucy pitched her voice low and calm. “Either of them.”

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What is there to say? Rittenhouse murdered them.” His tone sounded placid and unruffled, but his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. “The rest,” Garcia continued, and his mouth, the same mouth she kissed every night before she slept, twisted in a sneer that made her stomach hurt, “as they say, is history.”

“Don’t do that.” She didn’t bother concealing her frustration.

“What?”

“Don’t minimize what you’ve lost.” She stabbed a finger in the air in his direction. “Who you’ve lost.” She scrubbed a hand wearily across her face. “Own your grief.” This time the words came softer.

“Own my grief,” he repeated, eyes widened almost comically, and disbelief written across his features.

“Yes.” She nodded once. “Own. Your. Grief,” she got out through gritted teeth.

Garcia slammed his fist on the table.

Lucy jumped in her seat, hand flying to her throat, and heart pounding so fast she could almost taste it. Though she knew he would never hurt her, the sudden movement and noise had startled her.

“They fucking murdered my family,” he said, his accent growing thicker and heavier, as it always did when he was stressed or emotional. “They stole everything from me.” He tunneled both hands into his hair. “My beautiful girls…slaughtered…” He bent nearly double in his chair, arms folded over his head as if he was shielding himself from something. “Their blood,” he moaned, “there was so much of it. So much blood…”

His voice broke on the last word, and so did Garcia Flynn.

The sobs came then - great, heaving sobs that tore through him with the force of a bullet. Cowering in his chair, he rocked back and forth like a child trying to comfort himself. Lucy shoved her chair back and enveloped him in her arms. Seeing this formidable man brought so low by his grief made tears spring to her own eyes, but she sniffed them back, determined not to make this about her, and held on tight as he shuddered and cried through a storm of mourning.

She didn’t bother shushing him. “Own your grief,” she’d told him. He’d probably never even had a chance to properly grieve his wife and daughter, since he’d had to run as soon as Rittenhouse had framed him for their deaths. He didn’t need to be quiet; he needed to grieve, even if seeing him this way made Lucy feel like she was being flayed alive, one tender strip of skin at a time. She swore she would bear the weight of his suffering ten times over if it helped him.

He clutched her like he was afraid she’d leave him if he didn’t. He clung to her like his world was rupturing all over again.

His tears soaked Lucy’s sleep shirt. Her back and arms cramped from bending over and holding him so tightly for so long.

Still, she held him, saying nothing.

Except her hands stroking up and down his back said, “I’m here.”

And the kisses she feathered over his hair said, “Let go. I’ve got you.”

Minutes or maybe hours passed. She had no idea. Her world had narrowed to the man fracturing in her arms. Muted footsteps sounded on the stairs; Lucy glanced up to meet Wyatt’s concerned gaze. Before he could speak, she lifted a finger to her lips, gesturing for him to stay silent.

With a nod of understanding, Wyatt settled on the second to last step, leaning an elbow on his knees and propping his chin in his hand. “I love you,” he mouthed. “Both of you.”

Lucy smiled and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. He’d just gotten up from bed and stumbled on this scene in the kitchen. How did he know just the right thing to say?

Garcia wasn’t sobbing anymore, but his breathing was still choked and uneven. She knew he was trying to wrest back control of himself when his arms and hands loosened their grip and then finally released her. He inhaled and exhaled slowly through his nose, avoiding her gaze. She let him go but retreated only a few inches.

“You should let me go, Lucy,” he said in a voice like gravel. He sniffed hard and stared at the floor. “You and Wyatt, you know, you could be happy together. Without me. You both deserve better than me.”

“Hey, man,” Wyatt called, standing and waving from the stairs. “I’m right here.” In five strides he stood with them. “Want to fill me in on what I missed before you start making major life decisions for me?”