#and it might be a way to make sure that nobody takes the lifeboats early too

[lutiaslayton]

Professor Layton and the Eternal Diva

ＰＡＲＴ　０８

〚ＦＩＲＳＴ〛〚ＰＲＥＶ〛〚ＮＥＸＴ〛

Disclaimer: This is a fan-translation for the Japan-exclusive novellisation of the movie Professor Layton and the Eternal Diva. The original novel was written by Aya Matsui under the supervision of Akihiro Hino, and belongs to Level-5.

This translation only aims to be a pleasant read for non-Japanese fans, nothing more: I made a few deliberate changes while translating in order to get the writing style closer to what is usually found in English fanfictions, as the Japanese storytelling can sometimes be different than what we are used to.

＊ Puzzle n°001

“Let’s get going. Puzzle n°001: ladies and gentlemen, please take a good look around you, and assemble under the oldest thing you can find.”

The man’s voice had just told us the first puzzle.

“Now, do note that there is a time limit.”

Spotlights were switched on and a long, narrow box-like object was raised up. A music box.

The paper containing the score, rolled around a cylinder, slowly unwrapped and ended up swallowed into a slit. Soon, the machine began to play a tune.

“You have until the music ends… so there is no time to lose.”

The audience had been stunned by the unexpected turn of events; but everyone soon rushed out of the hall. Their one and only goal was simple: to find this ‘oldest thing.’

We could not afford to stay idle. I stood up in a hurry.

“Professor, let’s go find it!”

The professor replied with a calm nod, and slowly walked towards the door.

“I’m coming too,” Janice said as she rushed to catch up with us.

I glanced… sideways at her. Even in normal clothes, without her costume as the Queen of Ambrosia, she was still a very beautiful person. And even though she was now back to being Janice Quatlane… Her lively sparkling eyes and the impression of dignified strength that she radiated had remained exactly the same.

I wanted to protect her. But I was a child, wanting to protect a famous adult opera singer… if anyone could hear this, they would surely laugh at me.

Still, I was very serious. I couldn’t let Janice suffer the same fate as those who had disappeared under the floor earlier. And the only way to do that was to keep winning this game.

I was going to become a gentleman too. It was only natural to help a lady in need.

I decided to focus my thoughts on the puzzle. The Crown Petone was decorated here and there with fossils, rough crystals, and antiques, all looking very old. We had to find the oldest item out of all of these… My eyes would scurry here and there, all around, but I only felt like our limited time was being wasted.

Janice looked very worried. I had to do something… The sound of the music box playing made me feel even more impatient.

“Professor, there are way too many things on board that could be the right answer! Which one could be the oldest?”

The professor did not respond. I stopped asking.

I had soon learned that when he was silent and had this kind of expression on his face, it meant that his mind was moving at full speed. I did not want to disturb his thoughts by talking about unnecessary things.

Suddenly, he looked up with a start. He must have solved it!

“It’s alright, Luke. Now, let’s hurry back to the theatre.”

And there it was. I was glad I hadn’t bothered him.

When we returned back to our starting point, I noticed that quite a few other people were already here.

Suddenly, the professor said:

“The clue was in the puzzle itself.”

“Huh?”

I quickly pulled out my notebook, reading again the mysterious man’s exact words. I had written them down as soon as he had announced the puzzle.

“Try to remember,” the professor continued. “The host said ‘take a look around,’ but at no point did he say ‘look on this ship’…”

I ran my eyes hastily over my notes.

“He certainly didn’t use the words ‘on board.’”

“This is because the ‘oldest thing’ we are supposed to find is not on this ship.”

Janice asked with a surprised look on her face:

“But if it’s not on the ship, then where is it?”

“The oldest thing we are supposed to look for…”

The professor suddenly looked up. Janice and I did the same. Above us was a clear, starry sky.

“…are the stars that have existed for tens of thousands of years,” he soon concluded.

The oldest things were the stars! This was not an answer I had considered. But now that I had heard it, it sounded obvious. All the fossils and other objects that had been placed all over the Crown Petone were simply decoys meant to mislead us.

“You did it again, Professor!”

As I just finished saying this, the music box fell into silence.

“Your time is up. The oldest things were the stars in the sky that still shine in the night to this day… Congratulations to all that stand in this hall. You have earned the right to try your hand at the next puzzle.”

Many contestants around us breathed a sigh of relief. But at that moment, dozens of screams reached my ears from outside.

I was reminded of all the people who had disappeared when the floor collapsed earlier.

If we could not solve the puzzle, then we had to offer our life… This was a terrifying game of life and death. Once again, fear was palpable.

“Let us now move on to Puzzle n°002. Ladies and gentlemen, please gather this time around the place ‘from which you can see the largest crown.’”

The man’s voice sounded to me like a death sentence…

　⇚　　　　　　　⇛

[mst3kproject]

Planet of Dinosaurs

This movie is blessed with some pretty cool stop-motion dinosaurs and absolutely nothing else, and it’s got a Rifftrack.  That’s… that’s it, really.  Press play.

The spaceship Odyssey suffers a reactor meltdown and blows up with only just enough warning for the crew to launch a single lifeboat shuttle.  Luckily, there’s a life-bearing planet nearby where the spandex-suited survivors can land, but unluckily, it turns out to be inhabited by giant reptiles, not unlike the prehistoric fauna of Earth!  There’s also a spider the size of a Yorkshire terrier, for no particular reason.

There’s not really any plot from there, it’s just bad actors shooting toy laser guns at plastic dinosaurs, interspersed with Rock Climbing. At last the characters manage to kill the inevitable T-rex that’s been threatening them, whereupon they declare themselves to have conquered this planet.

There are a few attempts at human conflict but they’re pretty watery.  The first possible b-plot has to do with the vice president of the space-shipping company, Mr. Baylor, who was along on this trip for some reason and is among the survivors. So they’re not just stranded on Dinosaur Planet, they’re stranded on Dinosaur Planet with their boss.  He’s a jackass and his secretary quickly gets fed up with him and quits, which doesn’t do her a whole lot of good since they are, as I mentioned, stranded on Dinosaur Planet.  The writers run out of things to do with Baylor about halfway through the movie and kill him off, to everybody’s relief.

The second involves the bearded guy, Jim, who’s starting to take issue with Captain Lee’s command style.  Lee is trying to keep them all alive and uninjured until help can arrive.  Jim doesn’t think help is coming and wants to go full caveman and start slaughtering things. It starts to look like he’s gonna foment a mutiny, but eventually he and Lee overcome their differences and come up with a plan to kill the T-rex.

Finally, of course, the survivors inevitably pair off in heterosexual couples.  Sure is lucky there weren’t more men than women or vice-versa.  Very fortunate nobody’s left with no-one to bone but someone they’ve never gotten along with.  Quite improbable that nobody on the entire command crew was gay.  When one member of one of these couples becomes a dinosaur victim, the other thoughtfully dies a few scenes later, not because he commits suicide out of guilt or something, but just by coincidence.

One thing the movie actually does pretty well is day-for-night.  It’s not great, in that you can still tell it was shot in the daytime through a filter, but they chose the right filter to cool down the warm tones of the sunlight, and had the sense to keep the sky out of shot.  It never looks like somebody just turned the brightness on your screen way down and called it ‘night’, and I’ve seen so much worse that I want to at least acknowledge their competence.

The other thing Planet of Dinosaurs does well is the actual dinosaurs, which are a lot of fun. They’re lumpy and out of date, but some real care seems to have gone into building the detailed puppets and their movements are fluid and sometimes very lifelike.  There’s a nice variety of them, too.  As well as the T-rex there’s a smaller therapod that might be intended to be an Allosaurus, a couple of little Ornithomimus­-like animals, a Brontosaurus complete with the wrong head, a Stegosaurus, a Centrosaurus, and some kind of ankylosaur.  In real life these are a jumble of Hell Creek and Morrison dinosaurs who never met each other, but eh, it’s supposed to be another planet, it’s cool.

Unfortunately, there are several points where the effects people try to show us something they probably should have implied instead.  I commend their ambition, but knowing your limits is a big part of making special effects work.  In the first episode of Walking with Dinosaurs, the Postosuchus attacks a Placerias… but we don’t see as much of this as we think we do because our view is blocked by the body of the prey animal.  They knew their CGI wasn’t up to making the attack look good, so they tricked us into thinking we saw more than we did.  In Planet of Dinosaurs, a character stabs an injured Ornithomimus with a spear, and it’s painfully obvious that the stop-motion creature was just superimposed on top.  They could easily have set up the shot so we didn’t have to actually see it go in, but they didn’t.

The dinosaurs are clearly what they spent their budget on, which was wise – as I said in my review of Twelve to the Moon, if you can only afford to show us one cool thing, best make it the one in the title. Sadly, when I say spent the budget I mean the entire budget.  The rest of Planet of Dinosaurs looks like it was made in somebody’s backyard using stuff from the garden shed.  The spaceship that briefly appears in the opening had a previous career as a vacuum cleaner.  When it ‘explodes’ it just flickers red and vanishes with no further attempt at an effect.

The costumes look kind of like if they made the original Star Trek series ten years later but on the same budget, with producers who didn’t think they wanted this to be a porno but preferred to keep the option open.  The designated Himbo, Chuck, doffs his shirt within the first few minutes of the film and never gets it back.  The blonde who goes for a swim and is eaten by some water monster was wearing a bikini under her uniform for some reason.  By the end, they’re all dressed in cartoon caveman garb and Chuck is still shirtless.

Besides the dinosaurs, the main effect we see is the laser guns, which are among the most ineffective sci-fi weapons ever committed to screen.  They fire a beam of very slow red light which does absolutely nothing to any of the dinosaurs, even when the characters observe that one has been injured.  I think this is supposed to show us that the animals are tougher than the technology, but for that to work we would have needed to see a laser used effectively, perhaps to destroy something blocking the path. Without that, we have no basis for comparison.

If this were all Planet of Dinosaurs did wrong, it would be a bad movie classic.  Even the abysmally bad acting has its funny moments. What ruins the enjoyment is the movie’s lack of a proper story.

Planet of Dinosaurs is supposed to be a Cast Away or Robinson Crusoe sort of a film, about unprepared people thrust into the wilderness and forced to survive as best they can.  Such a narrative doesn’t need an overarching conflict per se.  It can be a series of smaller survival stories strung together, but Planet of Dinosaurs doesn’t manage to do that.  The ‘plot’ with Baylor depends on him being a petulant fool, and the characters are not sufficiently well-developed for us to have any interest in the ‘love stories’ that don’t affect the overall course of events.

The rivalry between Captain Lee and Bearded Guy Jim turns on how to keep the rest of the survivors safe from the large predators in the area, particularly the T-rex.  Lee wants everybody to hole up on a rocky plateau behind a ridiculously flimsy stockade to keep the animals out, while Jim wants to hunt down and kill the dinosaurs, to teach them to fear humans as wolves do on Earth.  The main problem with this is that we just don’t see enough of the predatory dinosaurs to justify this treatment of them.

We see the T-rex fairly early in the film, and it fuels the humans’ decision to see high ground where they hope such a large animal will not go. The much smaller Allosaurus shows up at one point to make a woman scream, is ‘injured’ with a laser, and the T-rex then eats it.  And just before the climax, the T-rex breaks through the stockade to chow down on Baylor’s secretary.  In between these incidents, we do not see and rarely even hear about these animals.  If we’re supposed to imagine them constantly lurking around outside, the movie makes no effort to reinforce that impression.  The T-rex is treated as the Final Boss, but the movie just hasn’t earned that.

At the end we see the survivors a few years later.  They’re building a farm, making their own clothes, living off the land, and raising their children.  One of the women asks the other if she thinks they’re ever going to be rescued, and the other replies that she doesn’t think it matters anymore. The implication is that they’re now happy here.  This is really not a bad little denouement, and ends the movie on a warm, optimistic note.

If you want to see some ridiculous 70s mustaches and ugly 70s dinosaurs, you’ll probably have fun with Planet of Dinosaurs.  Unfortunately, the movie was a little too ambitious in some places and not ambitious enough in others.  If I’d seen it at the age of six I probably would have become immediately obsessed with it for the dinosaurs alone, but as an adult I’m afraid my standards are just a little too high.  Unable to afford to be good, and unable to commit to being bad, it’s just another meh.

[scullysexual]

What was originally just going to be a simple epilogue turned into a full blow sequel. Halfway through this a multi-chapter format began and I can’t see this being posted just one big final chapter so now it’s just a sequel which might or might not be a good thing but I guess we’ll see.

@today-in-fic @purrykat @baronessblixen @suitablyaggrieved @sarie-fairy Tagging you guys cause I know you’d want to be tagged haha. Anyone else wants tagging let me know. @kittydurs

I hope you enjoy this as much as you did Jewel.

Sunlight streams through the gap in the blinds. A small bedsit positioned perfectly that the first rays of light are bright enough to wake him up.

Mulder should be grateful for it, really. The first to wake means he’s the first to find a good spot on the pier, leaving the night owls to fight for the remaining places.

It’s been almost three months and this humble life has already proved to be much of a trial. He had underestimated it his whole life. Sympathy for those who lived this kind life he’d always had but the empathy had been lacking. Only now can he truly understand just how hard they had to work.

Beside him, Scully stirs, muttering something that sounds a lot like What’s the time? eyes struggling to open.

Mulder smiles, a hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face as she twists and turns to face him.

“It’s early,” he mumbles into the quiet room. “Go back to sleep.”

He watches as she settles, eyes falling shut once more.

The months passed since the disaster hadn’t been easy on either of them. When they had finally arrived at New York, the world had held its breath- maybe not directly for them but Mulder and Scully had felt it all the same, parting the ship, the miraculous survivors of a ship that couldn’t sink.

His dreams were still plagued with that night; icy water and chilling screams. When he slept, he had no escape- he was back there, clinging onto that rail, watching people drop to their deaths all around him. Sometimes he even saw Scully fall and those dreams had frightened him the most.

He never fell, though. Even when he was in the water, he could never die. Only those around him could die.

Scully fared no better. Sometimes she would just stop, get lost somewhere in the memory of that night. They never spoke about it, it was an unspoken agreement they had made stepping onto the docks. Nobody was aware they had been on the ship at all. After all, Fox Mulder had died and Dana Scully had never stepped onto the ship. It was easier that way, or so they told themselves.

With time wasting away he climbs out of bed. Their mattress in the corner has him scrambling over Scully to actually get out. His efforts to not wake her fail and, as he’s fumbling with his clothes, her eyes open for the second time.

“The pier doesn’t open until later,” she croaks. “Why do you need to leave so early?”

“Got to get the best spot on the pier, Scully,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. His attire had changed in the months that had passed. Gone were the handmade tailored suits he’d wear to dinners, now it’s just a simple shirt and some trousers. Even his shoes had taken a turn for the worse.

“You need new shoes.”

There’s a hint of worry in her voice, they barely have enough to pay their rent and eat.

He ignores the way the leather rips away from the sole.

“They’ll be fine,” he says, reaching over to grab his sketchbook- the only expensive investment he’d made after he lost his original in the sinking. He tries not to focus on that. There’s only a few drawings in this book, mostly personal stuff for when business is low and his hand aches to draw something real aside from the cartoon portraits of people willing to waste their cents.

Now ready, he walks the short distance back to the bed.

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

Scully nods and Mulder presses a kiss to her forehead and then her lips before he grabs the keys and heads out.

The hallway is littered as always, even this early in the morning, people sit on the stairs trying as best they can to sleep. They don’t live here but the landlord does nothing to prevent them from entering, he’ll just go round with a cup and a silent request for money.

“Good morning, Leif.”

It still takes him some time for realise that he is Leif, not many people call him by that name and he’s Mulder to Scully regardless. No, only one person calls him Leif.

Mulder turns to see Susi standing in the doorway of her studio, scantily clad as always.

He smiles, intending on continuing with his journey before Susi’s speaking again.

“You know if you ever get bored, my door’s always open,” she tells him, with her cracked-teeth smile.

Mulder awkwardly nods and smiles, saying nothing. He tries to keep his conversations with Susi brief after their first night here and she had gotten a little too friendly with him in the communal area, much to Scully’s dismay. He had only tried to make friends.

He leaves Susi where she is, unlocking the front door and making his journey to the pier.

 Scully spends her days counting coppers. Better with numbers than Mulder, they agreed that she would handle their funds and that’s how it had been for the past four months.

Yet her heart drops when she’s finished adding and subtracting the money away to find that there isn’t enough to pay the rent and feed them.

In the early days, when they’d discussed what they would do about jobs, the price of Mulder’s drawings had been brought up a lot. He’d argued that the drawings were worthless and if he was selling them at a ridiculously high price nobody could come to him. She, in turn, had argued that maybe the price should be decided on the work put in and the work produced.

It doesn’t work like that, Scully, Mulder had told her afterwards. People pay for what they get, they don’t care about how much effort has been put into it.

Scully could only scoff. How would you know? she’d asked. Everything you wanted has been handed on a gold plate. All Little Fox would have to do is throw a temper tantrum and Mammy and Daddy would cough up.

Perhaps it had been a low-blow but his words had only made her angry. He knew nothing of this, of trying to find a good-enough job to pay the bills. Once upon a time, he’d have inherited some big company, his wealth sealed in that outcome and until then he’d been all nice and cushy.

After a while, after what Scully had said had fallen to the floor, Mulder said, Perhaps it’s best we get away from each other for a while. We’ve been cooped up too long in this room. With that he’d left, leaving Scully to figure it out.

Just like she has to do now.

She stares at the numbers, maybe hoping they would magically change to the right number but no, they don’t, they stay as they are.

She can owe, she thinks. She’ll have to.

He hands the stupid drawing to the woman as the man drops the money into the pot.

The third person. The third person in five hours.

Despite it being August, despite it being lunchtime, the sun high in the sky and pier packed, nobody was interested.

Mulder cracks his back, already sore and aching. Still six hours to go, still a chance to bring home some real money.

“Business not going well?”

Mulder internally groans at the sound of a familiar voice.

“What do you want, Fuller?”

He tiredly looks over to the weasel-faced man casually poking around his stall, his face lacking stress, his hands in his pockets, and a cocky demeanour reminding him all too well of Alex Krycek.

“Just looking around,” Fuller says. “Seeing how the competition is doing.” He picks up Mulder’s money jar and pulls a face. “Ooh, not well I see.”

“You not got your own stall to man, Fuller?”

Fuller laughs. “I’m on a break. See, unlike you, I can afford these little luxuries.”

Mulder had met Fuller very early on. They both fought for the same spot on the pier- the spot Fuller now occupies- and since then it had been a race to see who could get there first. Fuller always beat him, regardless.

“Why don’t you have your little break somewhere else then?”

He goes to push Fuller out of his stall but the little weasel man is quick, hopping out of the way just before Mulder can grab him.

“Careful, Brevik,” he says. “Otherwise you won’t be around much longer to pay that rent.” He gives a sideward glance to the jar again. “Not that you’ll be paying it this month anyway.”

Fuller saunters off then, back to his own stall.

Mulder sits back down on his stall, wipes the sweat off his forehead and looks wearily at the jar himself. He thinks it’s rent day today and just hopes there’s enough at home to cover it.

“It’s Mulder, isn’t it?”

Mulder pauses. His real name being uttered by somebody else…He chances a glance up at the person, not really sure what to think.

“Christ, they said you were dead.”

Mulder frowns at the man who stands before him. He looks familiar but Mulder can’t for the life of him replace him.

The man chuckles. “You don’t recognise me, do you?” he says and holds his hand out. “John Byers, we met on the Titanic.”

Realisation sinks in as Mulder remembers him. He smiles, jumping up from stool and shakes hands with Byers.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says. “A lot’s happened recently.”

“Yeah,” Byers agrees. He looks at the sign next to the stall. “First class suits on the Titanic to selling cartoons on Coney Island. What happened?”

“A lot,” Mulder says. “A lot happened.”

 They’re meeting lands them in a bar just off the pier. It’s still early, Mulder guesses it’ll start to pack up later.

“Didn’t think you’d survived,” Mulder says.

Byers laughs. “Yeah, Suzanne wouldn’t get on a lifeboat without me. The officer just looked at me and shrugged. What about you? They say you’re dead but you’re here in front of me.”

Mulder chuckles slightly, picking the label off his beer bottle. “I didn’t marry Phoebe Green,” he says.

Byers nods. “Yeah, your father put that in the papers. Said his son had died a dignified death, sacrificing himself to save women and children.”

“Of course he did,” says Mulder, begrudgingly. He hadn’t touched the paper. The headlines were everywhere, the story plastered on every newspaper being sold. He had lived the tale, he didn’t need to read some exaggerated version of it.

“So, you didn’t marry Phoebe because you died, what was the other reason?”

He looks up to the ceiling, trying to figure out the way best to explain it.

“I met someone,” he says. “Someone from the third class.” He hears Byers breathe out heavily but ignores it. “And after a day I knew I didn’t want to marry Phoebe. I didn’t want to marry her at all, I didn’t want to get on the ship but there was nothing I could do about it.” He shrugs, smiling. “Then I met Scully and I didn’t want to be anywhere else after that. I decided I was getting off the ship with her and the only way to do that was to change my name and pretend I died.” Mulder sits back in his seat and looks towards Byers, holding out his hand again. “Leif Brevik, by the way.”

Byers laughs, shaking Mulder’s hand again. “That’s quite the conspiracy,” he says and Mulder shrugs again.

“Listen,” Byers tells him. “I have some friends who have been looking into the sinking.” Mulder’s ears piqued up at that. “We think it might have been an insurance scam.”

Mulder frowns. “What makes you say that?”

“There’s just some evidence that seem to point towards it being a possibility. We have a base not too far away from here, if you want to see.”

Mulder looks from his pitiful jar of money, to the window where he can see Fuller’s long line of people queuing for their portrait. With one final decision, he nods.

 The dreaded knock on the door finally comes. Scully jumps slightly, taking her head out of the medical journals Mulder sometimes brought back with him.

Her stomach squeezing with nerves, she grabs the bag of money and with a deep exhale, opens the door.

Mr Roth stands on the other side, his arms already full with other tenants’ rent.

“You’re rent, Mrs Brevik.”

Cautiously, Scully hands the bag to the landlord. He snatches it- ever one without manners. As he begins counting, Scully’s fingers begin to nervously fiddle with her necklace.

Mr Roth shakes his head, muttering. “Where’s the other $9?” he asks.

“That’s all we have,” says Scully.

Roth looks at her for a moment and Scully waits.

“I want $35 next month,” he says and with that limps off down the corridor.

Scully lets out a breath.

“Better be careful.”

Scully looks up to see her neighbour hanging out of her front door.

“Last tenant who couldn’t pay the second time was out on the streets.”

Scully smiles, saying nothing and retreats back into her house. Maybe it was a time she got a job also.

[potterandpromises]

Oblivion

Fandom: Timeless

Pairing: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston

Summary: The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Word count: 1,986

Notes: Takes place between 2x05 and 2x06. Slight canon divergent in that Lucy started sleeping on the couch a day after 2x05 instead of at the beginning of 2x06. 

Content warnings: Intrusive thoughts, injury, medical stuff (stitching up of a wound), mild language, references to self-harm, and mentions of alcohol.

Also on AO3.

The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Judging from the sounds that had stopped only a matter of minutes ago; Wyatt and Jessica are very happy together. And she should be happy for the her friend, and she is, really (really!). But it doesn't seem too unreasonable to dislike having to listen to their very loud 'happiness' into the early morning. Not when time for sleep, let alone a mind for sleep, is already an unstable commodity.

But bringing that up to the couple isn't an option. And she has the silence she wanted right now, and she should be taking advantage of it. Except her ancestors created an actual evil cult in order to secretly control America. And her mother groomed her for said cult's purposes. And—

Screw it.

Lucy rolls off the couch and walks to the kitchen. She'd seen Mason undeniably drunk just yesterday. Even if he keeps his stash in his room he must get it from somewhere. So she searches every semi-plausible hiding place the metal pantry has to offer. Even pulling up a chair for a better vantage point.

Nothing.

Maybe she should just watt it out until Mason leaves his room for more than a few minutes at a time. Then she can—

Somehow, she manages to fall on her dissent from the chair in such a way as to hit her recently-stabbed arm on the counter, than catch the entirety of her weight upon landing. Typical, really, can't even stand on a damn chair right.

"Lucy?"

She's too preoccupied writhing in pain to turn to look at him; but notes the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, go back to bed." she marriages to say, despite searing pain.

Not ready to get up, Lucy clutches her arm, squirms fully onto her back and squeezes her eyes shut. If she ripped open her stitches she'll have to tell Agent Christopher and— Flynn's hand covers her own, tugging slightly at her fingers in a gentle attempt to move them off the offending injury. Peeling her eyes open, she gives him a questioning look.

"I need to see if you ripped out any stitches." He says matter-of-factly. 

She considers telling him that she can handle this herself. That he should go back to bed and pretend this never happened. But she's tired and re-bandaging her upper arm is a struggle. (And it does not hurt that his abnormally gentle demeanor makes for a compelling distraction.)

Lucy nods and sits up, nearly flopping backward. Flynn steadies her with a hand between her shoulder blades. "Wash your hands first."

"I'm just looking."

"But you are touching," she points out. He removes his hand Immediately, as if just realizing his mistake. “And I can't risk another infection." she's barely heeled from the last one. She can't deal with another, ever.

He gives a tight-lipped smile, "Fair enough." How much of that ordeal had he been around for? She doesn't remember him being there, but she doesn't remember much of anything.

He washes his hands. She attempts to stand, only to hiss in pain when she puts too much weight on her injured arm. Yup, definitely ripped out some stitches.

Flynn's arm is around her in an instant, lifting her to her feet, done and over with before she can even process it. He then delicately pulls her cardigan off her shoulder, just enough to reveal the freshly bleeding wound. His gaze flickers briefly to her other, newer bandage, courtesy of Emma; which mercifully doesn't show any blood— unlike it’s predecessor. He removes the covering from her stab wound and carefully probes the area with a wet cloth.

He's always like that, she realizes, purposeful in his touch. Ever since he came to the bunker; when he had to touch her it was always careful, practical, never lasting longer than necessary. 

Why? (She has the absurd thought that she would not mind his touch in very different circumstances, if it wasn't for the possibility of having to live and work with multiple one-night stands.)

Slouching, he visibly takes a moment to choose his next words. "You might be able to get away with butterfly stitches, but I think it would be best if you got replacements." Lucy cringes inwardly at the idea of attempting to explain the predicament she got herself in to Agent Christopher. What happened was silly; would she judge Lucy for it? And her injury couldn't be that bad, did she really—

Flynn licks his lips in that unconscious, thoughtful way. "If you would prefer, I could fix it."

"You know how to do that?" He probably learned during one of the wars he fought in, or his time on the run. But she feels the need to clarify, telling herself she isn't yet at that level of uncaring.

"Learned on the job." He confirms. “You'll let me stitch you up then?" He searches her face for an answer, expression artificially neutral.

"Better you then—" anyone else. She doesn't wish to examine what that means. "Yes."

"Are there medical supplies someplace around here?" She catches a note of criticism. She'd heard from Rufus how he'd insisted they add a first aid kit to the lifeboat after Salem, when she had to use a dirty rag to keep from dripping.

"Maybe in there?" She gestures in the direction of the spare room where they'd kept teenage JFK a few days prior. Flynn nods and leads her toward the space. She stops just outside the doorway. 

He rummages around industrial shelving units. "is there a reason you ware— ah," he pulls out the not-so-recently-acquired med kit and gestures to the cot. Lucy doesn't move.

"Having second thoughts?" 

"No, just... not in here." It isn't even that small of a space, but her claustrophobia doesn't care; not tonight.

He seems to consider her, before nodding and starting toward the couch.

Lucy sits awkwardly, awaiting farther instruction. Flynn puts the kit on the table and empties some of it's meager contents. Soon making a disgusted, disapproving noise that turns into a sigh. "Looks like I can't numb you." he turns to her, gauging her reaction.

Lucy feels nauseated, momentarily. But she's sure she'd felt worse upon the initial stabbing, and her desire to not have to explain this injury to anyone else is a powerful one. She tries to shrug, but fails on account of needing to hold the cloth over her damaged skin. Instead she mutters "it's fine."

He grabs a pill bottle, shaking a few into his hand. "Swallow these, we'll do it in 15 minutes." She takes the pain killers without comment, and watches him lay out his tools in a neat row on the table. So unlike him, she thinks. 

"The supplies in this place are abysmal. How is it that Wyatt and Rufus have both been shot and nobody thought 'hey maybe we should keep a first aid kit in that thing?'" He gestures with vague frustration in the direction of the lifeboat. She can’t be sure if the hints of worry amongst the annoyance in his tone are reel or imagined.

"I think Christopher said something about putting one in the lifeboat."

"About time," he mutters.

Watching him prepare a curved needle with alcohol, she thinks of having an actual conversation with him. Like they're normal human beings, who aren't caught up in a real-world conspiracy, living in a secret government bunker; just two people enjoying each other’s company. But it feels out of reach, like another timeline entirely. (Right next to the one with her sister, across from the one where she and Wyatt had a relationship lasting longer than one night.) And nothing good comes from dwelling on those.

"I think it's been long enough, are you in less pain that you started in?"

it takes her a moment to perceive the question. "Um, yeah, I guess so." A lie, given that over-the-counter hardly works on her anymore (saying so wouldn’t make this any easier).

"Lay on your side, it will help with the bleeding." 

And so Lucy gracelessly half falls onto her side, painfully jostling her arm in the process. She takes a moment to psych herself up, and withdraws the damp rag. She trusts him not to hurt her anymore than necessary, but she feels the loss of control anyway.

He begins by wiping away the blood that had begun to pool under the cloth. Then douses the area with hydrogen peroxide; which stings, but is perfectly expected. And she manages to barely react, only wiggling her foot as a distraction—

She stifles a yelp into a sharp intake of breath. He pierces her skin, than quickly pulls her it beck together. The first time this was done to her she’d been numb to the intimacies of digging into and altering flash, first by adrenaline than by lidocaine; now all the details are revealed. Her breathing becomes rigid; it screams for a more severe physical response. 

Flynn hesitates only a moment. "It will be over soon.” he reassures. And she wants to tall him to stop, to let it be over now. But the logical part of her brain wins out and she stays excruciatingly still for five more stitches. Reminding herself that this is instead of bothering Agent Christopher and having to deal with a doctor; because, for reasons she doesn't care to examine, he is the best person to do this.

"I'm done with that part, Lucy." He says softly, spreading ointment over his handily work. Than wrapping it.

Her pain, now a dull throb, is replaced by an enveloping calm, one she recognizes from her junior year of high school. It had scared her so much she'd never done it again. But she'd seen more, done more, a few small cuts meant nothing. And It did help, if she just—

It's not a coping mechanism she can afford to adopt. Being semi-undressed in front of her team is inescapable, even if she cut somewhere no one would theoretically have to see— ending up stranded without access to clean water or fresh bandages is always a possibility, and another infection isn't an option.

Flynn is still standing by her couch, his expression unreadable. He cleans up and returns the medical supplies. Than walks away only to come back a minute later, handing her a glass of water and her cardigan.

Lucy accepts the glass. "Hey thinks for—" she gestures to her newly re-stitched arm. 

He nods and stays another few moments, watching her drink, than her put her cardigan on. He has no reason to do so— unless he just wants to; or he’s delaying the return to the most intense of his own internal battles. That seems more likely. 

"Goodnight, Lucy." He says, voice nearly too soft to hear, it feels all too meaningful. She says it back, even knowing it isn't like that for him either.

People will be up in a few hours, and she will have gotten just as much sleep. But her thoughts aren't as relentless as before, and she's finally tired in a way that will let her rest. - When the alarms sounded for her first mission post-stabbing, Lucy wasn't anticipating her first challenge to be getting out of the lifeboat. She'd done this dozens of times and it wasn't like it was particularly difficult, but the last time she tried to step off of any remotely high surface—

"Care for a lift?" Flynn looks up at her, apparently having seen her dilemma and wanting to help. He always wants to help lately, it's sweet.

Nodding, she gives him a half smile and he lifts her safely and easily — which does not go unnoticed by her — onto the ground.

(And If his hands linger on her side a moment longer than necessary, she does not mind the contact.)

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Ack those prompts. 6 or 24 or both for Flogan?

Happy (early) Thanksgiving everyone! Non-Americans, Happy Wednesday!

6. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

Flynn was heading to bed, basically forcing himself to sleep even though he still felt annoyingly wired. He had to find some way to be sharp tomorrow as they undoubtedly jumped again. Lately it felt like they weren’t just one step behind Rittenhouse, but five steps. Everyone was feeling the strain of it, especially Lucy, who he’d literally carried to her bed an hour ago after she’d fallen asleep at the table, faceplanting in a pile of notes.

He opened the door to his room–and froze.

…someone was in his bed.

At first he thought it was Lucy, since she’d been sleeping over about every other night, curled up on his chest like a spoiled kitten, but when he flicked on the lamp he saw that it was–

“Wyatt?”

Wyatt stirred, eyes opening, bloodshot, the blanket sliding down to reveal that he had not only climbed into Flynn’s bed, he’d shed his clothes while he was at it.

“Flynn?” Wyatt slurred.

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

Wyatt looked down at the bed like it’d betrayed him. “This is yours?”

“How much have you had to drink.”

Wyatt tried to count on his fingers and failed.

Flynn sighed, walking over, picking up Wyatt’s trail of clothes along the way. “C’mon, let’s get you to your room.”

He hauled Wyatt up to sitting, but Wyatt shook his head and grabbed onto Flynn’s shirt with clumsy fingers. “Can’t I just…” He tipped his head forward, resting it against Flynn’s stomach and making a contented noise.

That did… dangerous things to Flynn’s ability to breathe. “Wyatt. You’ll want to wake up in your own bed in the morning.”

Wyatt shook his head. “No, your bed smells nicer.”

“It what.”

“Like you.” Wyatt buried his nose in Flynn’s shirt.

…wow this room was warm. “Wyatt. C’mon.”

“Can’t I just sleep with you?” Wyatt looked up at him, his eyes blue and big and pleading, his mouth turning down into a pout. “It’s all… y’know. Big.”

“Big.”

“The bed. My bed. Wondered why this one felt nice.” Wyatt pulled away and stretched back out onto the bed, burying his nose in Flynn’s pillow, practically nuzzling it. “Can kinda smell Lucy too… y’know…” Wyatt eyed him, then pronounced, “I know why she spends the night.”

“Oh? Do you now.”

Wyatt nodded, like he’d made an important scientific discovery. “You’re big. So you make the bed feel not big. You take it all up. And… and you give warmth back.”

“Right.” Flynn wasn’t going to forcibly haul Wyatt back to bed, the guy was way too heavy. He stripped, changing into his sleep shirt and flannel pajama pants. “You snore, or kick me, back to your bed you go.”

Wyatt looked absolutely delighted. Flynn slipped into bed and Wyatt immediately plastered himself to him, tucking his head under Flynn’s chin.

“Wyatt?”

“Mmm?”

“If you wake up in the morning and have some kind of straight man freak out about this, I will leave you behind on the next mission. Is that clear.”

Wyatt snorted. “’m not straight.”

“What.”

Wyatt patted Flynn’s shoulder clumsily. “Don’t know what I am but it’s not that. You bent me.”

“I what.”

“Bent me. Y’know. ‘Cause it’s not straight? Made me not straight. Something. You’re very handsome.”

“…Wyatt…” What the absolute fuck was going on and why was his heart pounding so loudly?

Wyatt didn’t answer. Flynn looked down.

The asshole was asleep.

Great. Now he had two people getting drunk and ending up in his bed with only cryptic drunken slurs about him to explain their presence.

Flynn wrapped an arm around Wyatt, if only to keep them secured together so neither of them would fall off the bed, and resigned himself to staring at the ceiling and thinking about literally anything except a) the very attractive body pushed up against his and b) what the hell Lucy was going to say when she heard about this.

24. “You’re the only one I trust to do this.”

The gunfire finally stopped.

Wyatt looked back. “Everyone okay?”

Rufus gave a weak thumbs-up. Lucy nodded, pale, her lips pressed together.

“I’ll take rear,” Flynn said. “Run for the Lifeboat.”

Wyatt didn’t even think about why Flynn was taking rear, or about the odd strain in Flynn’s voice, until they’d gotten back to the bunker safely and Flynn grabbed him as they started to exit.

“Come with me,” Flynn whispered. “Act natural for Christ’s sake.”

Wyatt swallowed, trying not to panic and also trying not to let the dark gutter-dwelling part of his brain go on a rampant saw-this-in-a-porno-once scenario marathon. Inappropriate crush on Flynn acknowledged and ignored, thanks, and that was how it was going to stay.

Flynn led Wyatt into his room and shut the door–and then took off his jacket.

Wyatt could feel his eyes bugging out. “I thought–I asked if–” Jesus that was a lot of blood. That was–that was an insane amount of blood.

Flynn lurched and Wyatt grabbed him, helping him lie down on the bed. “I think you’ll have to dig it out.”

Digging bullets out actually wasn’t as common a practice as the movies made it seem. Oftentimes it would cause more damage to take it out than to leave it in. But Flynn had been in battle, so if he said Wyatt had to get it out… then Wyatt trusted him.

“Hold on.” Wyatt went out and got a handtowel and a jug of water, trying to avoid being seen. He had to clean up the wound first so he could see what was going on and not just a sea of awful red. “Jesus, Flynn, why didn’t you say anything?”

“There wasn’t time.” Flynn grunted in pain as Wyatt quickly wiped at the blood.

“You could’ve died running for the Lifeboat.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“Just get the damn bullet out and sew up my liver or whatever it is, would you Logan?”

“If you’re going to be so cranky about it, maybe I should go a little slower,” Wyatt shot back, swallowing down the panic in his throat. “Why you came to me instead of Lucy or Rufus or literally anyone–”

“You’re the only one I trust to do this,” Flynn admitted.

Wyatt stared at him. “What? Why?”

Flynn gave a hollow little laugh. “Because you’re the one who’ll tell me if there’s nothing we can do.”

Wyatt looked down at the wound, trying to see. Flynn was still bleeding heavily, too heavily, he had to find a way to make it stop– “Wh-what makes you think that?”

“The others’ll… try and say no, no we can… we can fix this…” Flynn snorted. “But I think we know where we stand with each other. Hey, at least you’ll be rid of me, right?”

Wyatt’s hands were shaking uncontrollably, his hands were covered in Flynn’s blood, fuck. “I don’t–I really don’t think–Garcia that’s not–I wouldn’t think that at all.”

Flynn wasn’t looking at him, just staring up at the ceiling. “Look, just take a look at it, see if you can get it out and sew me up, and if you can’t, just tell me and… just clean me up so Lucy doesn’t… I don’t want her to see the mess. When you tell them.”

“What about a hos–”

“Hospital’s too far away and you know it, and how are we going to explain the gunshot wound. And oh, that’s right, I’m a terrorist.”

“Garcia–”

“Wyatt just do it. Or sit here quietly and let me die in peace, Jesus.”

“You’re not dying!” Wyatt snapped. He grabbed the supplies, tried to remember everything from the battlefield, tried to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m not fucking letting you. Stubborn, selfish bastard…”

“I’m the selfish one?”

“Yeah, idiot, can’t even see–I don’t hate you. Asshole.” Wyatt parted the torn skin and sterilized the tweezers, then started to work. “Kind of the opposite, actually, not that you’ve bothered to notice.”

Flynn was very, very still and very, very silent, although that might also have been because Wyatt was digging around in his intestines. “…I see,” he said after a long silence.

“Just hold still, then Lucy can fuss over you and you can go back to making googly eyes at her.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There it was, there it was. Jesus fucking H. Christ. Please no shattered bones please no shattered bones please…

Wyatt dropped the bullet to the side and started the terrifying process of sewing up all of Flynn’s various parts. “You’re gonna live,” he said gruffly, his voice thick. “Um, I’m a universal donor, so I can hook us up, replace whatever blood you lost. Nobody has to know.” Nobody has to know you almost bled out under my hands.

“Lucy will kill you if she knows you helped me hide this.”

“Probably. She’s ready to kill me anyway.” Wyatt dropped the supplies to the side and wiped at his forehead. At least he hadn’t had to do this in Iraq this time, no sand and shit to get in the wound and make it worse. “You should stay in bed for a couple days.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

Wyatt nodded, not daring to meet Flynn’s gaze, cleaning off his hands. Out damn’d spot and all that. “I’ll–”

Flynn reached up, his fingertips trailing down the side of Wyatt’s face, his hand cupping Wyatt’s cheek. “Hey.”

Fuck. Fuck he was not going to start crying, he wasn’t, he wasn’t–

He looked at Flynn, and dammit a few tears slipped free. At least Flynn wouldn’t tell on him. “Gonna need some company. It’ll be boring lying here all by myself.”

Wyatt snorted, unsure if this was a kind rejection or an offer of friendship or both or something in between. Flynn’s thumb brushed away a couple of tears. “C’mere.”

He tugged at him, and Wyatt leaned in, following because that was what he did but unsure as to why, until he was only an inch away from Flynn and thought oh, and then Flynn was kissing him, incredibly soft, but sure and steady.

“I kind of opposite of hate you too,” Flynn informed him with an amused uptick at the corner of his mouth.

Wyatt exhaled shakily, resting their foreheads together. He had an insane amount of questions, about them, about Lucy, about all of it, but adrenaline and fear were being replaced with exhaustion, and Flynn looked about ready to pass out.

So he just let Flynn guide him into lying at his side–the uninjured one–and rested his head on Flynn’s shoulder, their hands tangling together on Flynn’s chest.

And they rested.

[qqueenofhades]

Prompt idea if you want to write it? What if, Flynn’s daughter Iris comes from another timeline in the future to find the time team. She is in her early twenties, and has taken on time traveling like her father to take down Rittenhouse. However in her timeline, instead of dying that night with her mother–both her parents died protecting her.

It’s very late, and the team has just gotten back from Philadelphia, 1787 (Rufus still humming “My Shot” under his breath) a few hours ago, when the klaxons go off. Lucy groans and rolls away from Flynn; they have moved to a new safe house, and she could go back to her rooming arrangement with Jiya, but it’s just seemed more appealing to stay here. He swears, fumbling for the clock. “Did they really jump again now?”

“That’s not the Mothership alarm.” Lucy sits up, frowning. “That sounds like the invasion alarm.”

They glance at each other once more, then jump straight out of bed, as Flynn grabs for his gun and clicks in a fresh magazine, and Lucy looks around for something she can use to hit someone over the head with. If it’s not yet another visit from their future selves, it’s not anybody they expected or will welcome, and they meet up with Wyatt, Rufus, Jiya, and Connor in the hall outside. Denise isn’t here for the night, since she’s trying to erase their tracks from the grid, so they’re one gun down. Wyatt and Flynn push the other four behind them, advancing carefully down the hall to the Lifeboat bay, and then stop short, guns poised, just in time to see – what is this, Grand Central Station? – the distinctive bend and twist in the air that means an arriving time machine. What the hell? Did their future selves forget to pick up the milk? Or is this a Rittenhouse trick to –

Wyatt and Flynn stand tensely shoulder to shoulder, raising their guns, as the new machine lands. It isn’t the Lifeboat, and it doesn’t look like one of theirs. The door hisses, then cycles open, and they see someone moving inside. A young woman’s voice says, “Don’t shoot.”

There is a pause as Wyatt and Flynn clearly decide whether or not to listen, but there’s something to be said not to start spraying bullets before they know what the sam hill is going on. They wait as the young woman steps out, one long leg and then the other. As she straightens up, it’s clear that she stands close to six feet even without her combat boots, and she has guns strapped to both thighs, a leather belt slung with several more dangerous-looking items, and a long braid; her hair is dark except for brief, lighter streaks of honey. Faint freckles spatter her nose and cheeks, and her eyes are cool and piercing. She does not appear to be here to fuck around in the least degree, but as her gaze falls on Flynn, she blanches. “What are – ” She stops, trying to control herself. She’s maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, but at that, she looks much younger. “Wh – what are you doing here?”

Flynn goggles at her, clearly inclined to ask the same question, thanks. Lucy stares between him and the young woman, as if this might be another mysterious time-traveling future acquaintance he’s neglected to mention. A brief, totally unnecessary prickle of jealousy stirs in her stomach, but she pushes it away. The young woman is still staring at Flynn in disbelief, raises both hands to her eyes and rubs them. Her voice trembles as she says, “Aren’t you dead?”

“Aren’t I – ?” Flynn stares at her, completely uncomprehending, as she continues to stare at him. “I’m sorry, do I…?”

“It’s me, Daddy.” The young woman bites her lip hard. “Iris.”

All the air visibly goes out of Flynn’s lungs, as if his chest has been crushed. He takes a staggering sideways step, has to put his hand on the desk for support. “No,” he says in a croak. “No, you’re dead.”

“Sorry to break in here,” Rufus interrupts. “But should we maybe sort out who thinks who is dead, and why? You, hi. What’s your name, exactly?”

“It’s Flynn.” The young woman lifts her chin and stares at him in a way that makes Rufus take an inadvertent step backward. “Iris Flynn.”

“Wait,” Rufus says. “I’m with him. You are dead.”

“No, I’m not.” Iris moves closer, glancing at Flynn. “That night in 2014, when Rittenhouse attacked us. You and Mama – both of you were shot protecting me. How can you be here? Unless… I knew I was traveling back to something, some time that could be different, but I didn’t think you could possibly be alive.”

To judge from the look on Flynn’s face, and as anyone could have guessed, the feeling is thumpingly mutual. He continues to stare at her, even as his shock and disbelief is colored by something darker. After all, the last time a lost loved one conveniently turned up from the blue, it wound up being a Rittenhouse trick, a plant, a different version of themselves that was unlike the one they had known. He clearly does not believe that Rittenhouse is not once more responsible for this, is trying a tactic that worked with considerable success last time. How that would involve finding a woman able to convincingly pose as his daughter, or even salvage her existence in another reality, who knows, but Flynn does not move to embrace her, or even say anything. His mouth opens and shuts feebly, as Lucy moves forward to silently stand at his side. Iris’ eyes flicker to them. If it is her, surely she has some curiosity about finding her father not only alive, but with a new woman. Lucy clears her throat. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to fight Rittenhouse,” Iris says fiercely. “Why else?”

“We have… kind of a bad experience with this recently.” Rufus seems to be doing his best to hold this together, to serve as the spokesperson while everyone else can’t. “How do we know we can trust you, exactly?”

“Fair.” Iris smiles mirthlessly. “I suppose strictly speaking, you have no reason to. I have some intelligence, I’ll get it. Hold on.”

With that, she disappears back into her machine, as a communal stunned silence hangs over the room and nobody says anything, glancing sidelong at Flynn, until Iris reappears. She walks down as coolly as possible and hands Rufus several thumb drives, though of a fancier and sleeker make than anything they have going. It certainly does seem possible that she could be from the future, at least from that, and she says, “I’ll show you how to use them, if you want. The agent I caught didn’t want to talk, but I got him to eventually.”

“Oh?” Rufus manages. “How?”

Iris cracks her knuckles. “Guess he felt like being cooperative.”

There’s another glance exchanged at that, as if to say that indeed, yes, this slightly scary-looking young woman, a half-healed cut slashing her cheek, could definitely be a Flynn. Her hair is falling loose in dark tendrils around her face, and to judge from the indrawn gasp from Garcia’s direction, he has in fact recognized something about her like a photographic negative, a hint of something long-buried but too essential to be forgotten. He wets his lips, glances at her, and then away. It’s certainly also like a Flynn to come marching in with little or no regard for everyone’s feelings on the matter, and while Iris keeps looking at him, as obviously anyone would if suddenly confronted with the father they watched murdered when they were five, she hasn’t rushed to him. They are as wary as an older lion watching the young lioness who might think of challenging him, and there’s a tension in the air both disbelief and distrust. It could be that Iris also thinks he’s a Rittenhouse trick. Stubbornness is, to say the least, a noted family trait. You could wait a while for either of them to break first.

“Are you staying?” Wyatt asks, the first thing he’s said since all of this has started. Obviously, he does not have much leeway to complain about anyone else bringing their loved ones to the bunker, though technically, this one brought herself. “I mean, you must have turned up here for some reason, but – “

Iris glances at him with the slightly nose-wrinkled, oh look you’re talking again expression that could have come directly from her father. She looks at Lucy as she says, “There are plenty of things you don’t know about what they’re doing. I’ll tell you, but – ”

Connor and Jiya exchange a look, as if wondering if this place can accommodate a second Flynn, when a first is already sometimes a bit much to swallow. They can’t exactly throw her gift back in her teeth, though, and Jiya clears her throat. “Should I maybe… go make some coffee? We’re all awake now, I mean. Might as well?”

“Sure,” Iris says. “Coffee would be nice.”

(She glances back at Flynn and Lucy for a long moment, at Lucy’s hand on Flynn’s arm. Her expression is outwardly calm, but there’s a certain confusion and betrayal and anger that burns soul-deep, and suddenly, Lucy isn’t altogether sure if she wants her to stay either.)

[timelessduo]

Run in War

Hey guys! enjoy this chapter! chapter six might be a little later than next Friday, but that’s only because I can’t get a hold of the girl i’m co-writing with, Samantha. I hope everything is okay, but I cannot do this book alone. 

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“On our way,” Lucy was shocked as she hung up the phone. Wyatt awkwardly got off of her and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What’s going on?” He asked as he helped Lucy to her feet.

 “The mothership has been stolen.”

 “What?” Wyatt looked at her wildly. “How? Or the better question, who?”

 She shook her head at him. “They don't know. Get dressed, we're going back to Mason Industries.”

 They both dressed in record time, blowing past the red lights and swerving across back roads to Mason Industries, both avoiding the topic of the ‘almost kiss.’ The moment they stepped through the doors, Christopher was at their side.

 “What happened?” Lucy followed the agent as she walked through the familiar halls.

 “Well, Mason and Rufus seem to believe that it was Emma Whittmore who stole the Mothership, seeing as she would be the only one able to pilot it with Jiya out of commission.”

 Wyatt picked up his steps, turning to face his superior as they reached their destination. “Emma? She told us she was hiding to avoid them. Now you're saying she was a part of it all along?”

 Christopher opened the door to the briefing room, finding the file on the table and sliding it across the table at them as Rufus entered the room.

 “I ran here as soon as I heard,” he huffed. “What the hell happened?”

 “Agent Carlin, please take a seat.” She continued as the trio sat. Lucy flipped through the file on Emma Whittmore. “We decided to do some further digging since we found out about double agents in our midst.”

 “Emma has been lying from the start. She has no known living relatives. Her entrance card was used to access the machine storage, and was never used to open it again. We don't know how far back this goes, or who her contact were, but she has stolen the mothership. We're tracking where she's landing now.”

 “So, Flynn’s plan to use her to help him, actually backfired? Seeing as she was secretly a rittenhouse agent all along?” Wyatt chuckled. “Justice, if you ask me.”

 Rufus nodded his head in agreement. “Talk about betrayal.”

 At about that moment another Mason Industries worker poked his head in. “Agent Christopher? We have Emma Whittmore’s location.”

 Everyone looked at the young man. “Well, where?” Christopher asked impatiently.

 “Sarajevo, Bosnia. 1914.”

 “The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand,” Lucy gasped. “The murders that caused World War One.”

 “Who?” Wyatt and Rufus asked Lucy in unison.  

 “He was the heir to the Austrian throne, a major powerhouse back then. Him and his wife were killed by Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian. Russia defended them, Germany sided with Austria, and so on. It triggered it all.” Lucy motioned with her hands as she walked them through history, Wyatt staring in amazement.

 “You are brilliant..” He muttered under his breath quietly, figuring nobody else heard.

 “Well let’s get going then.” Agent Christopher said. “Get changed and head to the Lifeboat.”

 Wyatt, Lucy and Rufus headed back to the early 1900s era clothing and searched for outfits.

 Wyatt wore a nice suit and jacket with striped pants and shiny leather boots. He also put flat cap and groaned, “I look ridiculous.”

 Lucy smiled as walked over to him and grabbed the collar of his button up suit. “They popped the collar.” She murmured before doing so to his suit. She watched as Wyatt’s face adorned a shy grin. “Thank you ma’am.”

 Lucy nodded to him and picked out her own outfit. She chose a lacy shirtwaist and a narrow blue covering that fell to the top of her foot, flattering her petite body top. Her hair was delicately placed in a padded hairstyle similar to the famous ‘bob.’ She was in the middle of adjusting her bra when Wyatt and Rufus walked by, both looking at her strangely.

 “You okay?” Rufus chuckled, looking at his friend.

 “This was the era bras were invented, and this is an extremely uncomfortable one.”

 “Guys, come on!” Agent Christopher yelled from down the hall. “We’re already way behind. Everyone should be boarded in five.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and tugged at the bra again before hustling after Christopher, the boys quickly following.

 They quickly made their way to the Lifeboat and sat down. Rufus made quick of starting up the machine as Wyatt watched Lucy in amusement try to buckle herself in.

 He leaned over and took control of the situation, taking the belts from her and securing them around her body, not knowing she was watching with a smile on her face.

 Rufus hit a row of buttons and switches on the lifeboat that Lucy couldn't begin to comprehend the science behind. “Okay… 1914 in 3, 2-”

 The wave of nausea. The familiar spins and jolts of their travel. The crash of their landing.

 Wyatt groaned out, pressing his palms into his eyes. “God, I hate that part.” He reached forward to unbuckle Lucy's belt after his own.  He lingered on Lucy for a little bit, trying to piece himself back together after that hit of nausea.

 The three of them stumbled their way out of the Lifeboat and into the surrounding forest of southern Bosnia. This had always been Lucy's favorite part. Seeing the world as it was before her, parts untouched. She took in the sheer amount of green against the deep blue sky, denser than she'd ever seen at home. It was so different from the modern world, everything was filled with life.

 “Okay,” she told her friends, turning away from the scenery. “Ferdinand and his wife were driving to the hospital to visit bombing victims of an attack another member of Princip’s group. An assassination attempt on their way there failed, but on their way back both of them were shot near Latin Bridge and died later in their car.”

 “Wait, hold on,” Rufus shook his head. “What does World War One do for rittenhouse?”

 Lucy lead them through the thinning woods, to a road. She explained as she spoke, quieting her voice when cars passed, walking toward an inn she spotted down the road.

 “Well, it's really responsible for a lot of our technology. The Wars advanced our need for medicine, vaccines, planes, modern warfare, and our modern alliances. It was the Great Depression after the war that caused the communist rise and gave us our current economic structure. Without the war, who knows what level our technology would be at. We could easily be in the sixties or seventies, we'd have no feminism movements largely spurred by women's contributions to the war-”

 “So basically chaos.” Wyatt interrupted, summing up everything Lucy just said.

 “Well, if you really want to water it down, yeah.” Lucy crossed her arms. History deserved respect.

 Wyatt smirked at her comment, “Well c’mon then, we can’t have Emma breaking the damn world.”

 The team headed to a small and quiet hotel to set up a base area where they could pull all their ideas together.

 “So, how exactly do we stop Emma?” Rufus asked his teammates as they got settled in a room, ignoring the look they got from the booker at the three of them sharing a single room.

 “Well I'm all in favor of finding her and dragging her ass back to Mason.” Wyatt shrugged off his jacket. “But I assume we need a backup plan.”

 “Yeah.” Rufus chuckled at his friend, “We all know anything to do with rittenhouse isn’t that easy to take down.”

 “The only reason this assassination happened was because of a wide array of miscommunications between the Archduke’s security and his driver. He wasn't even supposed to take the bridge route after the earlier attempts. We need to make sure those stay in place. And it has to be linked to Serbia, so Russia can join and the alliances we know can form.”

 “So what, we talk to the driver and make sure he stays on the right path? I don’t think that will stop Emma, she’s sneaky. I think it will take more than that.” Rufus said.

 Lucy nodded, and Wyatt watched the gears turn behind her eyes. “Until we figure out how she's planning to stop this, there's nothing we can do except plan around the basics. We know when and how he dies, and all we need to do is preserve that.”

 Rufus glanced at his watch hidden beneath his long overcoat sleeves. “Well, it's seven in the morning here. What time is the bombing?”

 “Around ten,” Lucy did the quick math in her head. “That gives us about three hours. Long enough for a shower, because I'm still covered in popcorn grease.” She raised her eyebrows at Wyatt before walking across the room to the bathroom. The showers weren't great, but they had running clean water and that was enough for her.

Rufus glanced at Wyatt. “Showers? Here? Is that even sanitary?” Wyatt just shrugged. Lucy was the one who studied this kind of thing.

 Suddenly there was a loud scream from the shower and Wyatt took out his gun before breaking through the locked door.

 “Lucy?!” He said panicked, gun out, “What’s wrong?”

 She screamed again and Wyatt slammed the curtain open, seeing a very naked Lucy. In the place of a murder, or bomb, or any imminent danger was… a spider.

 “Oh you've got to be kidding me, Lucy.” He put away his gun, looking at the ceiling. He heard Rufus take one step forward, let out an ‘Oh my God!’ and turn right back around.

 “Wyatt! Do something!” Lucy couldn't even think of the modification as she stared at the spider, unable to look away. If you look away, they strike. Little devils.

 “Oh for the love of-” Wyatt turned around, grabbing a wad of thin toilet paper. He kept his eyes low as he grabbed the spider, trying to look anywhere but her legs, and her hands trying to cover what they could.

 Lucy watched Wyatt pick up the spider and throw it out the window before standing up and closing Lucy’s curtain. “There you go ma’am.” He said before taking a deep breath and walking into the other room.

 He took a seat on the edge of the single bed, leaning to press his forehead against his palms. Rufus, in a chair next to the bed, and chuckled awkwardly.

 “You okay man?”

 “Mhmm..” He murmured, running a hand through his short brown hair, “Just peachy.”

 Rufus just showed a knowing grin. “I bet you are.”

 That comment earned a pretty good glare from Wyatt needless to say, and a mumble of “shut up Rufus..”

 They waited for her to finish, listening to the pitter of the water. She came out in a thin robe, face red, and both men turned so she could change.

 Once she was done, they had to move forward with what they were going to do next.

 “Well, Fernand is staying in a hotel and then is supposed to tour around the city with his wife. I think we should go watch his hotel, make sure that Emma doesn't  mess his original assassination.”

 “Oh, that simple?” Wyatt said sarcastically.

 “Isn't there a bombing we should be worried about?” Rufus looked from Wyatt to Lucy. “I don't know about you guys, but I really don't want to get blown up.”

 Lucy shook her head. “Ferdinand wasn't close enough to be killed by the bombing. If we stick close to his entourage, we should be fine.”

 “We just have to make sure that his death stays the same, if Emma changes one thing, it could change the course of History. Who knows what we would come back to. So that’s why I say we just stick to Ferdinand, make sure he dies the way he’s supposed too, as tragic as it is. It was actually him and his wife’s fortieth wedding anniversary.”

 “Let's go then.” Wyatt muttered, standing up and placing another gun in his holster.

 Rufus raised an eyebrow, “Dude, how many guns do you need?”

 Wyatt smirked slightly, “You’d be surprised. And I always come prepared. Now, let’s go.”

 Lucy and Rufus chuckled as they left the small hotel room. Rufus hot wired a car for them to drive to Ferdinand’s hotel, if course choosing a vintage classic he was too excited to be stealing.

 “Aww man,” he whistled. “Haven't driven one of these yet. Let's see what she's got.”

 He laughed as they drove toward the hotel, distinguishable by the guards at the door.

 They arrived at the hotel about fifteen minutes later, and kept a distance. They couldn't be spotted, to be lurking like that would mean to be arrested if any guards saw them. For nearly an hour they were squatted in the bushes in wait for the heir to load his car but nothing came.

 “Something is off.” Lucy muttered, looking around. There was no guards, the Archduke wasn’t even there. Her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

  “What’s wrong?” Wyatt asked.

 “The prince should be here, ready to leave for the hospital.”

 She looked at Wyatt and Rufus, “But nobody is here.”

 Rufus looked at her, “So what? The bombing never happened?”

 Lucy bit her lip, she had a bad feeling that Emma had already changed history.

 “Have you heard an explosion? It should have happened already.” She looked at the sky, past noon. Lucy looked to Wyatt, a silent question of what to do in her eyes.

 He looked back at her, understanding the unspoken words before standing up. “We should check the group out. You said it was a Serbian terrorist group? You know where they are?”

 Lucy nodded. She picked up the edge of her skirts and began walking with the boys flanking her sides. “It should be…,” they rounded another corner a half hour later to meet a clay and wood cabin, “here.”

 “Each one of them was set up at a different area of the road for the archduke, that way if one of them failed, the other assassins could pick up and carry out the murder.” Lucy glanced around at the silent woods. “We've been passing the others along the way. I thought, since those seemed empty they had all grouped here. But it seems as empty as the rest.”

 Wyatt noticed the partially opened door, and the spots of red along it. Maybe it was rust, or cheap paint, but maybe-

 “Lucy,” he called, pulling his gun and stepping closer. He pulled the second out of his other holster and passed it to Rufus. “Stay here. We're going to check this out.”

 Her eyebrows immediately scrunched, paired incredulously with pursed lips. “What? Why do I have to stay out here?”

 “Because I don't have another gun, and if what I think happened here did, you shouldn't see it. You faint at the sight of blood, right?” Lucy’s eyes widened, he remembered. Wyatt looked to Rufus and nodded at him as they began their treck to the cabin.

 Lucy crossed her arms. When they were out of earshot, she began muttering under her breath. “Bullshit. Stay here, Lucy. You faint too much, Lucy. Hmph.”

 She kept on a for another moment, muttering and pacing. Everything was quiet, too quiet, she turned to follow Wyatt and Rufus, to prove them wrong, when she suddenly felt someone wrap an arm around her, a gun pressed against her head.

 “Don't. Make. A sound.” A gruff and unfamiliar voice ghosted into her ear.

 Her heart beat so fast Lucy couldn't even feel it. Her eyes were wide and wild. She felt as though she were shaking and unable to move at the same time.

 “What do you-” A click. Gun cocked and ready.

 “I said not another word.” The gun felt modern, unlike the wooden under handle of the era. She knew now that he had to be one of Emma's agents.

 “You are going to keep that pretty little mouth of yours shut and listen to my every word-”

 There was another gun cocked, and Lucy shakingly opened one eye to see Wyatt standing there, his face emotionless.

 “I suggest you release her and drop the gun.”

 The guy laughed, and Lucy felt sick to her stomach, she had a feeling that sound would haunt her tonight.

 “You’ll have to kill me, but wait, how could you do that without hurting-” A gunshot went off and Lucy was violently thrown away from the man, she vaguely heard herself scream. She looked over to see the man holding her, dead. He was older, slightly balding and was huge, and also had a huge hole in his neck from Wyatt’s shot.

 The moment reminded her of their first mission, when Wyatt hit Flynn in the shoulder, barely missing her head. It took Wyatt only seconds for him to reach her. Her shoulder burned, and her mind couldn't seem to work, but her body was able to become controlled within his embrace.

 “Lucy? Lucy are you alright?” He had one hand on her neck, putting her face in his shoulder, his other wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her tightly to him until her breath returned to her body and she nodded.

 “F-fine..” She murmured before Wyatt pulled away. She tried to give a laugh, to lessen the tension, but winced.

 “Where does it hurt?” He pulled away to scan her for imminent injuries, before noticed the red at her shoulder. His heart caught in his throat as he gently peeled away the cloth.

 He gave a sigh. “Just a scrape. You'll be okay. You weren't shot.”

 He slowly stroked back her hair from the area to catch a better look at it. “Yeah, you’ll be fine, barely a graze if anything.” He couldn’t stop himself from placing a quick kiss on her head, not thinking much about the action at the time, relief flooding through every cell in his body.

 Lucy could truly say in that moment, despite the burning pain in her shoulder, she felt safe.

 Wyatt gently pulled away from her and helped her stand up. “C’mon, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”  

 He slung her uninjured arm over his shoulder and walked with her to the cabin. Rufus was immediately at the door, concerned and pale.

 “What the hell happened? Are you okay?” Lucy found herself with only enough energy to nod.

 Wyatt helped her sit in a nearby chair, telling her to close her eyes. When she was able to open them again, she was facing a blank wall of wood. “One of Emma's people tried to kill her. He won't be a problem anymore, but her shoulder got grazed. She's still in shock I think.”

 “It was my fault, if I just would have tried to figure out a better aim..” His voice trailed off, he wounded her. The bullet he shot grazed her shoulder. This was his fault. He felt sick.

 Lucy tried to turn around, to tell him it wasn't his fault, that he saved her life. But as soon as she turned a scream burned it's way through her.

 Nine bodies laid across the room, each with a dripping bullet hole in their head. Some held guns in their viced grips but some remained unarmed laying across the furniture.

 She couldn't look away despite the churning in her stomach.  Wyatt was by her side in a minute, practically picking her up and forcing her away from the bodies. “This is why I had you facing the wall Luce..” He murmured.

 Lucy gulped what air she had left, the image of all those bodies burning in her mind. “A-are those the assassins?”

 Rufus nodded, pale as he studied the corpses around the room. “They're all dead. Must have been done right before we got here.” He looked around the room with wide eyes. “What now?”

 Lucy's hands were shaking, and she tried to keep bile from rising as she spoke. “This war happened because of Ferdinand's assassination. And we need to war to push for technology and human rights.”

 Wyatt’s grip turned to ice on her arm. “You're saying we need to assassinate him?”

 She slowly nodded, “I have a pretty strong feeling that Ferdinand isn’t dead, and without his death, who know’s what will happen. We need to kill him. We need to start World War One.” Her voice was grave as she looked at Wyatt and Rufus.

 They didn’t want to, this was the worst outcome. It was assumed that Wyatt would be the one that would step up and do it, but it was actually Lucy. She pulled the gun from his holster as they arrived at the bridge.

 “Lucy, are you sure you want too?” Wyatt murmured. He put a hand over her wrist. This wasn't supposed to fall to her.

 Lucy nodded, holding the gun in her hand. The metal was so cold it burned. They watched as Ferdinand’s carriage slowly started by, him and his wife waving. Lucy took a deep breath, her hands shaking horribly. Wyatt stood behind her, before slowly placing his hands over hers.

 “Aim a little lower than where you plan to shoot.  When you shoot the bullet, the impact will force it a little higher.” He murmured into her ear. Slowly he moved away, but watched as she couldn’t stop shaking.

 “Lucy, we’re running out of time. You have to shoot.” Rufus muttered as they watched the royal couple.

 “I’m trying.” She whispered back frantically, trying to force herself to breathe. In and out.

 “I-I can’t do it.” She got tears in her eyes, she couldn’t end two people’s lives.

 The couple started to go by, the window of opportunity closing, if they didn’t do this, World War One wouldn’t happen.  Wyatt cursed, taking the gun out of Lucy’s hands. He looked at the two targets, took a deep breath, his face turning neutral, then shot.

 There was a scream, Ferdinand’s wife was shot. Rufus winced, but before any of them had time to truly react, Wyatt shot again, hitting Ferdinand. He placed the smoking gun inside of its holster. “We have to go.” His voice was emotionless, chilling Lucy to the bones. Already making his way out of the bushes they were hiding in.

 He was quiet the whole walk back to the Lifeboat, caught up in his thoughts. Rufus and Lucy exchanged concerning looks.

 Lucy gently grabbed his arm, making his eyes meet hers. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry. I should have sucked it up. I was just so-”

 “It’s fine Lucy. It had to happen.” He cut her off, offering her a weak smile that didn’t meet his eyes, “Let’s just get home, yeah?”

 She nodded at him, and they climbed in the Lifeboat. Wyatt, like the gentleman he was, helped her in her seat and buckled her seatbelt. Not another word was spoken in the lifeboat. Lucy was wondering if he was thinking of what his grandpa Sherwin would say. He was Wyatt’s role model, his father figure, a soldier, and Wyatt pretty much just started War World One because she was too scared. She wondered if he felt like he disappointed him.

 Lucy hated when Wyatt was like this. She couldn’t read him, she couldn’t help him. As soon as they got back to 2017, Rufus debriefed Christopher, and they had found out that World War One still happened, but it wasn’t seven assassins. They had never caught the murderer that started the war, but blame arose to the Russians out of anti sentiment from Serbian territories.  

 Wyatt was quiet during this whole process, and it was finally over, he was the first one to stand up and walk into the changing rooms.

 Lucy quickly followed after him, changing out of her own clothes, and then waiting for him by the men’s changing room door. When he came out, he glanced at her, and she tried hard to keep his gaze so she could try to figure out what was wrong with him. But deep down, she knew.

 “Hey, you ready to go? I’ll drive.” She murmured, holding her hands out for his keys. Wyatt quietly handed her his keys as they walked out and got in his truck. Lucy backed them out before going down the road, but she had enough of the silence. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong now?”

 She felt Wyatt’s ice blue eyes on her, then he sighed. “Just thinking about my grandpa.”

 Lucy glanced at him quickly, before returning her eyes to the road, but she grabbed his hand off his lap, and squeezed.

 “He wouldn’t be ashamed of you Wyatt. You did what you had to do. You helped save 2017. Who knows what might have happened if Ferdinand survived.”

 Wyatt nodded, using his free hand to rub his head. “Thanks, Luce. I know.”

 Lucy shot him a smile before slowly taking her hand back and pulling into Wyatt’s garage space.

 “Alright, how about I order some pizza and we could watch um.. Star Wars or something.”

 Wyatt chuckled. “You’ve never watched Star Wars?”

 She shook her head with a smile. “Nope. Bits and pieces with Amy. She loved the fantasy stories. I loved documentaries more. Why don't you go turn it on, I’ll get the pizza.”

 Wyatt smiled at her before heading into the living room. Lucy hurried up and ordered his favorite pizza, cheese with green olives, and walked back into the living room.

 “Alright, it’ll be here soon. Tell me about why I’m going to love Star Wars.”

 Wyatt grinned, not only did he tell her why Star Wars was amazing, he told her how it changes lives.

 Needless to say, they were up till 2:00 in the morning, eating pizza and enjoying Star Wars; all seven movies. Lucy’s head fell on Wyatt’s chest, his own on her head as they slept with pizza crust still clutched in Lucy’s hand. It was paradise.

[loud-yet-silen-blog]

100 Greatest Quotes Of All Time

Quotes are valuable. They are knowledge, and wisdom and insight. Greatest Quotes offer us the opportunity to learn through others. Sometimes hearing the words of a famous or successful person is enough to help us accept an idea and put it into action.

The article: Greatest Quotes Of All Time presents Famous Motivational, Beauty, Life, Love Quotes.

Whenever you feel Down and need a good dose of inspiration from great Legend’s minds, read these Greatest Quotes and feed your brain with inspiring quotes.

These Greatest Quotes about Love, Life, Education, Friendship and much more might motivate and improve your mind. These quotes which are written by Great Legends, Authors, Celebrities will be inspired you. Check Them Out!

“The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.” - Lucille Ball

"If you want to make your dreams come true, the first thing you have to do is wake up." - J.M.Power

"Success is a state of mind. If you want success, start thinking of yourself as a success." - Dr.Joyce Brothers

“No change of circumstances can repair a defect of character.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

“It is possible to store the mind with a million facts and still be entirely uneducated.” - Alec Bourne

“All happy families resemble one another. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” - Leo Tolstoy

“Love is friendship, set on fire.” - Jeremy Taylor

"An idea can turn to dust or magic, depending on the talent that rubs against it." - Bill Bernbach

“Don’t go around saying the world owes you a living. The world owes you nothing. It was here first.” - Mark Twain

“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time, more intelligently.” - Henry Ford

“Everything we do affects other people.” - Luke Ford

“As a child of God, I am greater than anything that can happen to me.” - Abdul Kalam

“Music is the wine that fills the cup of silence.” - Robert Fripp

“Love is, above all else, the gift of oneself.” - Jean Anouilh

"Do first things first, and second things not at all." - Peter Drucker

“Education is when you read the fine print. Experience is what you get if you don’t.” - Pete Seeger

“Never burn bridges. Today’s junior jerk, tomorrow’s senior partner.” - Sigourney Weaver

“It is not beauty that endears; it’s love that makes us see beauty.” - Leo Tolstoy

“The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.” - Lucille Ball

“Always be nice to your children because they are the ones who will choose your rest home.” - Phyllis Diller

“As the family goes, so goes the nation and so goes the whole world in which we live.” - Pope John Paul II

"The only people who find what they are looking for in life are the fault finders." - Foster's Law

“Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.” - Lord Byron

“Love is like a virus. It can happen to anybody at any time.” - Maya Angelou

"Defeat is not bitter unless you swallow it." - Joe Clark

“The only way not to think about money is to have a great deal of it.” - Edith Wharton

“If you don’t make mistakes, you’re not working on hard enough problems.” - Frank Wilczek

“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” - Benjamin Franklin

“It means, people who are in high and responsible positions, if they go against righteousness, righteousness itself will get transformed into a destroyer.” - Abdul Kalam

“A bank is a place where they lend you an umbrella in fair weather and ask for it back when it begins to rain.” - Robert Frost

"There is no education like adversity." – Disraeli

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” - Aristotle

“A happy family is but an earlier heaven.” - George Bernard Shaw

“Never underestimate a child’s ability to get into more trouble.” - Martin Mull

“He who rejects change is the architect of decay. The only human institution which rejects progress is the cemetery.” - Harold Wilson

“It is difficult, but not impossible, to conduct strictly honest business.” - Mahatma Gandhi

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” - Confucius

“No one is so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.” - Henry David Thoreau

"Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats." – Voltaire

“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” - Mark Twain

“Education is like a double-edged sword. It may be turned to dangerous uses if it is not properly handled.” - Wu Ting-Fang

“Before God, we are all equally wise – and equally foolish.” - Albert Einstein

"Positive anything is better than negative thinking." - Elbert Hubbard

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

Get More Quotes:- Mahatma Gandhi Quotes

“Money won’t create success. The freedom to make it will.” - Nelson Mandela

“We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.” - Martin Luther King.

“We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act but a habit.” - Aristotle

"Those who wish to sing, always find a song." - Swedish Proverb

“Life is one grand, sweet song so start the music.” - Ronald Reagan

“Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.” - Mark Twain

“The sole equality on earth is death.” - Philip James Bailey

“Don’t handicap your children by making their lives easy.” - Robert A. Heinlein

“Success is walking from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” - Winston Churchill

“That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.” - Friedrich Nietzche

“Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.” - Benjamin Franklin

“The only rock I know that stays steady, the only institution I know that works is the family.” - Lee Iacocca

“Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.” - Robert Heinlein

"If you're going through hell, keep going." - Winston Churchill

“Love doesn’t make the world go round; love is what makes the ride worthwhile.” - Elizabeth Browning

“Democracy does not guarantee equality of conditions. It only guarantees equality of opportunity.” - Irving Kristol

“You know the only people who are always sure about the proper way to raise children  Those who’ve never had any.” - Bill Cosby

“Children are our most valuable resource.” - Herbert Hoover

"You must be the change you want to see in the world." - Mahatma Gandhi

"To avoid criticism do nothing, say nothing, be nothing." - Elbert Hubbard

“Life is not divided into semesters. You don’t get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you find yourself.” - Bill Gates

“Only the wisest and stupidest of men never change.” - Confucius

“The greatest discovery of all time is that a person can change his future by merely changing his attitude.” - Oprah Winfrey

“We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.” - George Bernard Shaw

“The only true wisdom is knowing that you know nothing.” - Socrates

“Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.” - George Burns

“If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.” - George Bernard Shaw

"The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook." - William James

"Talent is formed in solitude, character in the bustle of the world." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.” - Dorothy Parker

"Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Willing is not enough; we must do." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

“The only stable state is the one in which all men are equal before the law.” - Aristotle

“Change the changeable, accept the unchangeable, and remove yourself from the unacceptable.” - Denis Waitley

"Sooner or later, those who win are those who think they can." - Richard Bach

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better." - Samuel Beckett

"There are only two rules for being successful. One, figure out exactly what you want to do, and two, do it." - Mario Cuomo

“All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others.” - George Orwell

“Nobody can give you freedom. Nobody can give you equality or justice or anything. If you’re a man, you take it.” - Malcolm X

“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” - Mahatma Gandhi

“The secret of business is to know something that nobody else knows.” - Aristotle Onassis

“By working faithfully eight hours a day you may eventually get to be a boss and work twelve hours a day.” - Robert Frost

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” - Margaret Hungerford

“Beauty, without expression, tires.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Success seems to be connected with action. Successful people keep moving. They make mistakes but don't quit." - Conrad Hilton

"There are two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them." - Dr. Denis Waitley

"Setting an example is not the main means of influencing others; it is the only means." - Albert Einstein

"The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra." - Unknown

"Do not let what you cannot do interfere with what you can do." - John Wooden

“Money isn’t the most important thing in life, but it’s reasonably close to oxygen on the ‘gotta have it’ scale.” - Zig Ziglar

“Music in the soul can be heard by the universe.” - Lao Tzu

“Eighty percent of success is showing up.” - Woody Allen

“Eighty percent of success is showing up.” - Woody Allen

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” - Eleanor Roosevelt

“Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” - Henry Ford

“I believe in equality for everyone, except reporters and photographers.” - Mahatma Gandhi

"Life is "trying things to see if they work" - Ray Bradbury

I hope you will enjoy all the Greatest Quotes to inspire yourself.

Read More:- 30 Second Video Status

[qqueenofhades]

bloodsport [fighting in a love war]

requested by @stardustrebelprincess, who wanted angsty first time smut for Garcy in future canon. to which I say, yes. also, yes.

rated explicit.

available on AO3.

Lucy has heard the rain drumming on the roof all evening. It hasn’t stopped since they got back – barely – from November 1884. The Berlin Conference, where the voracious European powers decided how to split up and colonize Africa, the kind of historical event that is already evil enough that Rittenhouse can hardly do much worse. Not, of course, that they have not tried. The delegates of fourteen countries, including the United States, attended the conference, and the American contingent included both Rittenhouse operatives, on one hand, and Flynn, Lucy, and Wyatt on the other. (Rufus, faced with the fact that he, a black man, cannot walk into a room of rich white racist imperialists, had to pose as Wyatt’s valet.) It also included historical Rittenhouse member, Sir Henry Morton Stanley, the explorer of “Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” fame. Or should they say, late historical Rittenhouse member, who never actually got to be a Sir. He was supposed to be knighted in 1899, and die a comfortable death in London in 1904, but during the escape, Flynn, well. Flynn may have shot him in the head.

Lucy rubs her fingers over her eyes. She doesn’t think Stanley had anything major left to do that would significantly alter history, and he was a notorious and flagrant jackass, so it is not as if his early demise is undeserved. Still, though, this isn’t the first of the important people Flynn has taken out. He is the reason they were able to disrupt Rittenhouse’s plans – barely – for changing the outcome of the conference (again, hard to be more evil, but they were trying). He had all the intelligence on how to get them in and who was in the organization. It seems a little ungrateful of Lucy to go telling him off for one extra death now.

(Especially when he wasn’t the only one. Especially when she grabbed a carriage pistol from one of the hansoms outside Otto von Bismarck’s mansion on Wilhelmstrasse, as bullets were flying in all directions, and took down the Rittenhouse operative on the balcony with a shot she will never make again in her life. Is Flynn’s transgression somehow worse, just because history remembered his victim’s name? Especially when Stanley was, as noted, a dick?)

Lucy clenches her fists, still feeling the kick of the antique pistol, the acrid smell of gunsmoke. Can feel Wyatt dragging her away with one hand, firing with the other, as Flynn did the same, as they barely made it back to the jerry-rigged Lifeboat and 2017. They aren’t entirely sure they did stop Rittenhouse, Flynn and Wyatt had a shouting match as soon as they landed, and Rufus is justifiably salty over the whole thing. Lucy is still sitting in her damp, bedraggled dress from 1884, listening to the rain and her racing thoughts, feeling heartsick and tired and angry, and she doesn’t even know at what, aside from everything. She has given too much of her life to this, and she isn’t getting anything back. Not that that is why she signed up for it, or why she has continued. But it still feels like darting around, frantically dousing embers, while the brush fire rages on, uncontained. Only growing stronger, and stronger.

After a moment, Lucy gets up, a lock of hair slipping loose from its elegant chignon and into her eyes. She could go find Wyatt and Rufus, suggest a drink, some kind of de-stress before whatever other ridiculous assignment hits them in the face. And she still might. But not right now. Instead, she heads down the hall and out into the warehouse where they’ve built a makeshift base of operations. She’ll find him in here. He usually is.

Garcia Flynn is still in his 1884 clothes as well, shirtsleeves rolled up and cravat loosened, sitting at the workbench and tinkering with some delicate bit of telemetry from the Lifeboat’s systems. He has been trying to stabilize its rather tenuous modifications for four people, since he’s familiar with the Mothership, which can hold half a dozen, and even if he wasn’t, he would be nowhere near Time Team Happy Hour anyway. He hates them just a bit less than he hates Rittenhouse and the idea of spending the rest of his life in jail, which is why he’s agreed to help them, but he’s made absolutely no attempt to be their friend. The mission today was their new dynamic in a nutshell. They need Flynn, they need his knowledge, they need his skills, they need him on their side, but they can barely control his collateral damage and his loose-cannon nature. Good luck trying to tell him that, though.

Lucy halts by the Lifeboat, not even sure what she’s going to say or why she’s bothered to come here, as conversations with Flynn are generally about as pleasant as an acid bath. He doesn’t look up, dark head still bent over his work, as he carefully rewires something and tests the reboot. Then he says, “Come out, Lucy. I know you’re there.”

“I – ” She bites her lip, feeling like a guilty schoolchild. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Flynn snorts at what is, if not quite a lie, a fairly flimsy dodge – if she didn’t want to disturb him, why come out here at all? “Let me guess,” he says, plugging in another component and then pulling it out again at once with a curse. “You’ve come to yell at me about Stanley.”

“I. . . no.” Even if she was, it’s not like it would do any good. Stanley is dead, as is Cornwallis, and as history hasn’t gone off the tracks, it makes her wonder just how exactly to the letter they need to save it. That, however, is a dangerous line of thought. “No, I just wanted to. . . thank you. We wouldn’t have gotten anywhere close to pulling that off without you, so. . . thanks.”

A faint smile curls the hard lines of his mouth. It isn’t anywhere close to friendly. “You think I need your approval? Your pat on the back, for something I’ve done all this time? Now that I’m doing it with you three around, I get a gold star?”

Lucy is taken aback. She wasn’t trying to patronize him, she was genuinely trying to reach him (for something like the two dozenth time, to no avail – she shouldn’t be surprised that she yet again ran into a brick wall). “Flynn, I – ”

“Or no, you thought I might want to talk about it?” He turns the circuit board and takes out a pair of needle-nose plyers, testing the connections. “Feel guilty, maybe? Why would I? I’m not guilty. I’m angry. I killed another Rittenhouse member. I did the same godforsaken thing I’ve done this whole time, and for what? I’m not any close to having my girls back. I’m not any closer to being able to stop this. All I’ve done is trade in the Mothership, which at least had some space, which was mine, for this broken piece of shit with you three sanctimonious assholes in my face. Do you want comfort, Lucy? Need someone to hold your hand? Want to talk through how things were hard today? Go find your little soldier boy, or Rufus. I’m not interested.”

Lucy flinches. This might be her own fault as much as anything, expecting Flynn to provide any measure of solace at all, but while her frayed nerves and weary heart can’t handle another fight with him just now, she also has enough pride that she isn’t going to turn tail and scuttle, isn’t going to let him see that he hurt her. She’s told him several times by now that she didn’t know about Agent Christopher and the SWAT team following him to their meeting, that she didn’t mean it, she didn’t. She thinks he knows by now that this is the truth. He just doesn’t care.

“Fine,” she says, more or less evenly. “You’re not interested.”

At that, he finally looks up at her, eyes glittering beneath the shadow of his brows. Like the sparkle of a treasure hoard, enticing her to come look for it, but go very wary of waking the dragon. Sets aside the circuit board and spreads his hands on his knees, the sharp pleats of his pinstriped trousers. “But you’re still standing here.”

Lucy swallows involuntarily. She wishes he would blink, when he stares at her like that. The way she can almost feel the air tightening and twisting around them, visceral as a blow to the chest. “There – will be food. If you’re hungry. Later.”

“How magnanimous.” His accent thickens on the word, gives it a slight, mocking lilt. “Den mother of the Cub Scouts, is that you?”

“I’m nobody’s den mother,” Lucy snaps. “I was just letting you know.”

“Feeding the team?” Flynn abruptly gets to his feet, which is quite an imposing thing for him to do. “Because that’s what you have to do? Don’t pretend that you still care about me, Lucy! If you managed to arrest the rest of Rittenhouse, if Emma had never gotten her hands on the Mothership – you’d have just let me rot in jail, wouldn’t you? You didn’t bother getting me out until it was useful for you! Forgive me if I’m not feeling so eager to press flesh with my overseers and my – ”

“Your overseers?” Lucy chokes. She is a foot shorter and probably seventy pounds lighter than him, but she still takes a step forward, bristling. “We’ve tried all this time to be partners. To give you a real shot. We want to work together, we want to – ”

“Yes,” Flynn sneers. “Wyatt really wants to be my best friend.”

“Both of you act like children around each other!” Lucy’s frustration is close to breaking point. “And I would have tried, I would have tried to get you out, but if I hadn’t, would I have been obligated? You spent months trying to kill Wyatt and Rufus and tear apart our team, all of history, everything in your way. If you wanted me to join you and thought we were meant to be together – to do great things together,” she corrects herself at once, cheeks burning – “you had an awfully strange way of showing it. You knew that what you were doing was wrong and you didn’t like it, but you still didn’t stop. What would it have taken to make you stop? Anything?”

“I would have stopped when I got them back!” Flynn whirls around and hurls a toolbox at the wall, a terrifying explosion that makes Lucy cringe, even though it isn’t directed at her. “That was all I wanted, all I ever asked for! Now I can’t, I won’t! I was so close, so close, and you – and they – took it from me! I trusted you! I trusted you with my child! Do you think this is a fair exchange? Do you?”

He braces his hands against the wall, looking as if he’s about to put a hole through it, breathing like a tempest, until he turns and sees her shrinking against the strut of the Lifeboat. Something about her fear seems to get to him, and he drops his gaze, shamefaced and silent. He looks up at the ceiling, clearly distressed over upsetting her and losing control so badly, but still too stubborn to openly apologize. At last he says, “Please go, Lucy.”

She is certainly more than tempted to. Wants to get out of here before the dragon spreads its wings and soars, having already thrashed about in a fiery fit. She wants to mention that she still doesn’t have Amy back. Wants to remind him that her own mother is part of this, that her whole life is a lie, that he isn’t the only one who’s suffered and sacrificed and bled for this. Any of it.

Instead, she says, “I killed the man on the balcony.”

“You what?”

“The man on the balcony, the one firing down at us.” Lucy throws her shoulders back and meets Flynn’s gaze evenly. “I grabbed a pistol and shot him.”

Something in his eyes flickers. “I thought that was Wyatt.”

“It wasn’t.” Lucy feels oddly, steely calm.

“I didn’t think you were – ” A killer hangs in the air between them, audibly unspoken. Instead, his mouth twists bitterly. “Like me.”

“Maybe you don’t know nearly as much about me as you think. Even though you read the journal, even though you think you do.” Lucy takes a step. “Did you know I killed Jesse James? I did. The men were arguing about whether or not they should. I did.”

It’s Flynn’s turn to flinch. He rucks a hand over his face, through his hair, turning on his heel and gripping the back of his chair. At last he says quietly, “You shouldn’t have, Lucy.”

“What? Because you’re the only one allowed to kill? You and Wyatt?”

“No, because you – ” It’s clear at once that Flynn has gotten himself into far more delicate footing than he at all intended. “Because you shouldn’t have to. Isn’t that what you got me out of jail for? To do your dirty work? To kill so you wouldn’t have to have it on your hands, even though you know there is sometimes no other choice? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Once more, Lucy chokes. “And what,” she asks, “do you know, exactly, about what I want?”

Flynn gives her one of those looks that says he might have more than an idea, but if she doesn’t have the gumption to prove it, well, she can just go on pretending she doesn’t.

Lucy’s blood turns suddenly too hot, her head too light, her stomach rioting with butterflies. She is too aware of the way his still-damp shirt is sticking to him, sleeves rolled up and neck open, the air he is consuming, the heat and danger of his presence. In the course of their fight, they’ve somehow steadily closed the space between them, and he is standing just across from her, staring down his long nose at her, near enough to touch if she reaches out. She is not sure, however, that she wants to, for any number of reasons. First because she’s still angry at him, and second because if she sets a spark to the air between them, everything is going to explode. In one way, or another. Neither of which she can control. Neither of which is at all a wise idea.

(Oh yes, her head whispers. Lucy Good Girl Preston, always does the wise thing. Closest she ever came to transgression was when she decided to quit school in her sophomore year of college and join that band with Jake. After which she crashed her car and nearly died, someone pulled her out of the water, and she didn’t think about it again, not when the universe had so clearly punished her for even considering it.)

Flynn continues to stare at her with those smoking eyes, unblinking and unmoving. His tongue darts out to touch his lips, seemingly unconsciously. Lucy’s hand raises, almost of its own volition. Not quite sure if she is trying to hit him, or get him to back off, or to just generally give him what he deserves for being such a pain in the ass, she plants it, palm first, fingers outstretched, on his chest, and pushes.

Flynn doesn’t even rock back on his heels. She might have tried to dislodge a boulder, and she can feel the heat of him burning through the thin cloth. He raises a dark eyebrow at her. Now he’s sardonically amused, which is even more obnoxious than his anger. “Oh,” he says. “Try again. You’ll really get somewhere this time.”

Lucy looks up at him, then does so. With both hands, and hard enough that he, still occupied in jabbing her, actually is forced to take a few steps backward. The look of surprise on his face is enjoyable enough, and she doesn’t feel like stopping. She curls a fist and punches him, this time in the shoulder. Not hard enough to hurt him, as if she could, but hard enough to get her point across. He’s not the only one who can hold grudges.

Flynn utters a surprised whoof, even as the look on his face is close to the one he wore in Harry Houdini’s tent, when his eyes could be replaced by actual heart-shaped cutouts of red construction paper without much measurable difference observed. He clearly likes this just fine, more than fine, if Lucy wants to play rough, if she’s feeling feisty, if she has finally been roused to bridle, to give as good as she’s been getting. “Oh?” he drawls, accent again turned stronger, slow and insolent. “You want to hit me, Lucy?”

She doesn’t know. She thinks she might. Just because he’s a perfect embodiment of her frustration and her anger and everything she feels as strongly as he does, about how this isn’t working, isn’t working, is taking too long, going in circles over and over to the same pointless result, about why do they have to play by the rules when it means they get fucked. She takes a swing at him with the other hand, connecting solidly with his solar plexus, and he doesn’t even try to avoid the blow. “You’re punching wrong,” he informs her, breathless but not rattled. “Don’t use the knuckles of your fingers, you’ll break them. Too weak. Use the first two  knuckles of your fist, direct your force into them. Fold your thumb over your fingers, not in in them. Focus. Use your hips, not your shoulder. Throw your weight into it. Like – oof – like that.”

Lucy aims another blow at him, this one of which he knocks aside with a contemptuous flick. “Pressure points,” he goes on, taking hold of her arm. “I jab my thumb into your elbow, like that, your arm bends. Easier for you when you’re fighting someone bigger than you, it takes strength to try to wrestle them by the shoulder. Just jab, like that. Then you twist the arm, duck under, you can pin it. Don’t go for the balls unless you think you can hit them, most men are on the lookout for that. Don’t claw the eyes, poke them. Stiff finger. Heel of your hand is the strongest if you can’t get up enough space to punch.”

Lucy takes his advice, hooking her thumb into the crook of his elbow, jerking it bent, and twisting his arm behind his back, as she feels him vibrate with laughter. “Good,” he says, somewhat muffled. “I’d also suggest grabbing someone by the head and smashing your knee into their face, but you’re not that coordinated. I don’t think you could pull it off. Especially in skirts.”

“Oh?” Lucy breathes. He’s on his knees in front of her (and still almost as tall as she is) and she’s standing behind him, so it doesn’t take much for her to lean forward and whisper in his ear. “Do you want to say that again?”

He twists his head, faster than she’s prepared for, so their noses are almost brushing. His gaze can only be described as happily. “You can’t pull it off, Lucy.”

With that, fast as a snake, he extricates himself and stands up, making it clear that she still has a long way to go if she actually wants to match him. “Headlock, I’m not sure,” he goes on, with the air of a connoisseur at a wine tasting. “Perhaps if you jumped on their back from behind, legs around their waist, take them down, but it’s still risky. You have to know how to take a fall, make your target absorb it, not you. And also definitely not something for skirts.”

“Oh?” Lucy says again. Flicks her gaze up to him, this time with the stated challenge that he’s probably the one too scared to take it up. “Then we could get rid of those, couldn’t we?”

With that, before he has time to say anything, she pulls off her dress, not bothering to unbutton it as she’s not going to wear the damn thing again anyway (probably, at least – they can’t afford to just run through costumes with every mission, they’re on a limited supply without Mason Industries’ fashion warehouse). But she will worry about mending it later. Instead, when she’s in her blouse and leggings, which she has taken to wearing underneath, she steps out of the crumpled skirt and stares him down. “How about now?”

His eyes flick goadingly to her. “You still can’t take me by surprise.”

This is one of the more erroneous statements Garcia Flynn has uttered in a life recently full of them, but Lucy decides not to disabuse him just yet. Instead, she crosses the floor toward him at a casual pace, as if strolling on the sidewalk. Then she grabs him by the cravat, jerks his head down, and – it’s not a kiss, it misses by several inches, their mouths only catching in passing. But it does the job. He freezes dead to the spot, Lucy gets her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and manages to work up just enough torque to throw them. They hit the deck, or rather Flynn does, taking the fall for her just as instructed (see, she’s a fast learner). They end up face to face, Flynn flat on his back and completely stunned and Lucy straddling him, still locked to him like a barnacle, hair now fully loose and hanging in her face, heart hammering so visibly that she’s sure he can see it, unable to catch her breath. She gulps, tries to get hold of herself, tells herself to let go, now. Now.

Instead, she shifts up on him, too pleased with herself for proving him so spectacularly wrong, even as she can feel him wedged between her legs in a way that makes it uncomfortably clear to both of them that he has absolutely no problem with their current orientation. The opposite of a problem, really, unless you count the fact that he’s been so steadfastly professing to hate her guts. His throat moves as he swallows, eyelashes fluttering, as his hand rises of its own volition to cup the back of her neck. He opens his mouth to say something.

No good whatsoever can come of letting Garcia Flynn say something, ever. Especially not now. Lucy’s free hand fists in the cloth of his shirt, twisting. Their noses are still brushing, his knees hiked up and hers to either side of his hips, as she lands fully atop him. In for a penny, in for a pound. She turns her head, and kisses him. This time, properly.

Flynn makes a sound through his nose as if he has just touched a live electrical wire. His hand hesitates for a split second, then crushes her head down, mouth bearing into hers with almost bruising force, as they roll over and over, entangled. Lucy gets a better grip on him, grabbing him by the ears, as he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, bites, drags his open mouth against hers, something between a kiss and a devouring. She can barely stand the heat and force of it, the pent-up strength and frustration and sheer, snarling need, and yet, she’s no shrinking violet. She clutches at him, shoving back, as they roll once more and she gets back on top. They keep kissing until they are utterly out of breath, mouths wet and raw and swollen, hair mussed from grabbing, fingers clenched, as she sprawls on his chest and can sense both of their hearts going like trip-hammers. That felt even better than hitting him.

Flynn shifts underneath her, arching his hips into her, and both of them moan. Lucy’s fist clenched in his shirt opens, but just far enough to start pulling at the buttons of his shirt, which is half-undone anyway. He returns the favor with her blouse, practically tearing the thin silk-rayon as he shucks it off her shoulders, fingers curling under the lacy cup of her bra, but not quite going further. Their eyes meet for half a beat, as she can tell that if she stops him, he won’t touch her. It’s clear enough he’s wanted this for a while, and has just as firmly ignored it, but he’s never going to force it. It’s up to her. Push his hand away, shrug her blouse back on, and they can still pull apart and go to sleep, albeit extremely frustrated.

Lucy Good Girl Preston.

Instead, Lucy reaches up, covers his hand with hers, and guides it down.

Flynn’s breath stutters in his throat, as does hers, as his callused fingers skim over the smooth skin of her breast. He catches briefly at her nipple with thumb and forefinger, circles under, then reaches around to her back and undoes the bra clasp with a deft flick, as Lucy shrugs it off her arms and has a moment to pray devoutly that neither Wyatt nor Rufus are going to run in and see what all the ruckus was about. This is just as patently a mistake as it was five minutes ago. But as both of Flynn’s hands come up to her chest, grasping hold, cupping and caressing, Lucy is barely able to care.

He touches her for a moment or two, and then his grasp shifts, pulling her back down for another hungry kiss as she reaches between them to pull the cravat loose and do away with the rest of his shirt. The warehouse floor is cold and not particularly comfortable, and they roll to their knees and then to their feet, but only get as far as the workbench, as Flynn sweeps aside everything he was working on earlier (managing to avoid breaking it, but barely). He lifts Lucy onto it, and stands between her legs, still having to bend slightly to kiss her. They do so with complete, voracious thoroughness, until he gets a hand free, curls around her rib, strokes down her side and takes hold of her hip. She whimpers into his mouth, lifting her leg to link around his back, urging him closer. His fingers swoop across her stomach – and then, when she breathes half a desperate, “Please” – lower.

Lucy grips hold of his shoulders as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of her leggings, gasping as he roughs the pad of his thumb over her clit, knuckling into the wetness of her folds. She scoots forward on the table and trying to thrust against his hand, as he holds her by the hip with the other and ghosts a rather self-satisfied-sounding chuckle against her lips. He’s clearly taking pleasure in torturing her, flicking and teasing, never as deeply as she needs. Her belly is twisted in knots, feverish and fluttering, starving for release, and the only way she can foresee getting it involves him, one way or another. Especially when they are already, rather obviously, in flagrante delicto.

Lucy whines, grinding on his hand, as he slips a finger into her, then a second one. This kind of heavy petting is fine and good, but she hasn’t actually gotten properly laid in too long a time to remember, and she is out of patience. She jerks on him, reaching between them with the intention of unbuckling his belt, but he lets go of her hip and catches her wrists with his free hand, maneuvering her out from between them. He finishes what he is doing inside her, with a few slick, slow strokes that make her see stars while simultaneously leaving her more frustrated and short of breath than ever, and only then withdraws his hand. Undoes his belt himself, and his eyes once more flick to hers. If she’s willing, that look says, she can have everything she wants. But if she doesn’t, she’d better tell him now, while there is any faint, forlorn hope of either of them restraining themselves.

Lucy wants. Wants a lot, and has no idea how to reconcile any of it, and is, quite frankly, sick of thinking. She does that far too much, too long, and to far too little result, and his mouth is on hers again, and she grinds up against him and gulps and needs more, needs more. Reaches down and gets hold of him, hot and stiff against her fingers, feeling the brief glitch in his entire body as she finally has him literally in the palm of her hand, where some might argue he has been metaphorically all along. She lifts herself up, arms around his neck, as he tugs her leggings down around her knees, then her ankles. She kicks them off. And after a final split-second hesitation, her panties too.

Flynn’s eyes take in every inch of her, transfixed, worshiping. Then he slides his hands under her thighs and lifts her off the table, as Lucy locks her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders. He walks them across the warehouse to the wall, and pins her against it with a thump solid enough to knock her breath out, though she might not have it anyway with how hard he is presently kissing her. Then as Lucy slides against him, wordlessly opening her body to him, he meets her eyes for a split second more, hitches her up, and just barely, just a bit, enters her.

Lucy gulps back a moan, reaching down to guide him, slipping him into her. He is hard and heavy, pushing her apart with unyielding solidness, God it has been a long time, she barely remembers how this feels. After their frenzied kissing and wrestling, he’s being almost restrained, cautious, but restrained is not what she wants. There is still too much poison in her veins and in her mind and in her heart, and she wants the demons exorcised, wants to burn. She grabs hold of him. “Come on, Garcia,” she manages. “That the best you can do?”

He gives her a look that warns her she will very much regret playing with fire, gets a better grip on her thighs, and drives into her all the way, with a thrust she feels to the back of her stomach. He pushes her knees farther apart as he moves between them, lifting her up to meet him, rasping on her until she can barely handle the intensity of the sensation. Fucks her well and thoroughly, setting his teeth in her shoulder, biting at the hollow of her throat, never slowing the fierceness of his strokes. Possesses her, uses her, but at the same time, she’s aware that he is barely a breath from shattering himself. That he’s giving himself to her like this because, quite simply, she already owns him, and that is far more terrifying than either of them would ever remotely admit.

It does not take much longer until both of them are gasping, dragging and jerking and clawing toward the burning brightness of climax, until Lucy’s whole body wrenches and her hips arch and her hands tear at him, until he is the only solid thing in the storm and she moans into Flynn’s mouth. His back buckles and he almost loses his grip on her, as they slide together down the wall to the floor and Lucy once more ends atop him, clutching him as they go over within a few moments of each other, shaking to the core. They lie there unmoving, him still inside her, pulsing and softening, until he slowly slips out. They do not move.

It’s about thirty more seconds, thirty blissful seconds, until Flynn’s brain belatedly reconnects with the rest of his misbehaving anatomy. He tenses all over, then heaves Lucy off, springs to his feet like a startled cat, and fumbles himself back together, jerking his trousers up and diving for his discarded shirt. He doesn’t look at her as he dresses as fast as possible, swiping a hand through his hair and doing absolutely nothing to look casual. “You should go.”

Lucy, torn from the comfortable glow of orgasm to an abrupt reintroduction to the cold warehouse floor, rolls over and gets to her feet, fishing for her clothes, cheeks burning. Even she is well aware that that was not what she came here to do (though, a jeering voice whispers in her head, was it?) and she reconstitutes herself to decency at likewise top speed. The silence has quickly turned hideous, until she blurts, “We’ll just – ”

“It was a mistake.” Flynn’s shoulders remain hunched, as he doesn’t look back at her. “You were emotional.”

Lucy wants to ask if she was emotional, what that made him – it takes two to tango, as the saying goes, and that back there was a thoroughly mutual effort. Her thighs are slick, her heart pounding low in her stomach, the heat of him lingering between her legs, her lips raw with kissing him, her breath short, her knees trembling. The pleasure of release already feels like a distant memory. “Flynn – ”

“Go,” he repeats. “We’ll just forget this happened.”

Lucy digs her fingernails into her palms, unsure if she wants to conclude the evening, which has seen her do a great deal of both, with one more slap or one more kiss. She came here trying to sort out at least some of the tangled skeins of love and hate and unspeakable, inextricable destiny that somehow binds their souls together, and somehow she’s managed to weave it into even more of an impassable Gordian knot. So that when he says that, some reflexive, damaged self-protection instinct – we’ll just forget this happened – they both already know they’re going to do anything but.

That doesn’t mean they’ll try.

That doesn’t mean this can go anywhere good.

Lucy does up the top button on her blouse, the marks of his mouth still vivid on her skin. Turns on her heel, waits for him to say something else, knows he won’t, and leaves.