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lucifersfavouritesinner · 6 years

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Flynn is a nerd

Just recently I hit over a 1000 folowers so to celebrate it somehow I’ve written my first ever fanficion. English isn’t my first language so there may be some errors. Plus I tried to use history facts and I am not @qqueenofhades so this ain’t perfect. But it’s a short fluffy Garcy story so I hope y’all can enjoy it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15206630

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Lucy always knew that Flynn was a history nerd. But just recently she started to notice how much does he really knows. It all started from Salem, when he talked about witch hunt. She was impressed with him and found this trait quite attractive. Well, to be honest she recently found a lot of his traits attractive like his ability to always make her laugh or that he always was there for here or that tongue thing that makes Lucy want to check what else his tongue can do…

Before she went to his room with Vodka in her hands, she never really paid attention to any details regarding interior of his room. But when she was sitting in his bed with half empty glass, casually talking to him she noticed all the little things that she didn’t noticed before. She was also able to spot some well-known history books, some that she has heard of and many that she didn’t know about. Many of them were in languages that she didn’t know. She was impressed again.

One day she woke up really early in the morning and she noticed that he wasn’t in the bed that they shared. He offered his bed for her after the trip to save Robert Johnson, because he couldn’t stand the fact that she had to sleep on that utterly uncomfortable couch. And of course she didn’t agree to his proposal, she didn’t want to steal his bed. He was too tall to sleep on the cot and Lucy couldn’t even imagine how unpleasant would have to be a night on the couch for him, when it was so unpleasant for her and she is small compared to his 6”4 Croatian ass. So they have decided to share the bed. Platonically of course. Anyway, when she has noticed that Flynn was gone she decided to look for him. She found him in the kitchen. He was sitting in front on the laptop. Lucy walked behind him and peeked on his screen. Apparently he was reading about Polish legislative election of 1989. ‑ Why are you reading about Polish election ? – she asked. Garcia jumped and glanced at her. He looked like a child cough stealing candies form the jar. -Well – he responded after a while – I couldn’t sleep so I figured I do some research to see where Rittenhouse could stroke next. I went here to not to disturb you. I checked some things on Wikipedia and I suppose I got lost in all this knowledge, because I clearly remember starting on 2am with the intention on checking some things about Spring of Nations – the thought of Garcia Flynn ex-NSA asset and dangerous killer getting lost in Wikipedia vortex in addition to the ridiculous expression on his face, made Lucy laugh so much she had to keep her hands on her mouth to keep quiet, but she just couldn’t do it. Flynn observed her reaction. The way her whole face lit up, her eyes started shining more than usual and he couldn’t help himself but to smile. It was one of his special heart-melting smiles reserved just for Lucy. -Okay, I get it – he giggled - What do you say about breakfast as a method of bribery for you to forget about this incident or at least to keep your mouth shut in for of the team ? - I am offended that you would assume that I am that cheap – Lucy teased wiping the tears of joy for her eyes. - Oh, expensive aren’t you – Garcia joked and got closer to her face, that she could see subtle stubble on his chin – and if I would make you your favorite meal and served it to you in bed? – Lucy’s cheeks became a little pink because of the way he accented the last part of the question. She noted slightly. - I will be waiting at you in bed – she said as she turn around to go to their room and to hide –now- red cheeks. Flynn smirked to himself and get up to make some breakfast. When he came back to their room Lucy was sleeping as if nothing had happened. He didn’t have the heart to wake her up so instead he laid the tray with food on the makeshift coffee table and slipped himself to bed. Soon enough they were both sleeping cuddled to each other platonically of course.

They were woke up by the alarm. The mothership jumped. Lucy and Flynn joined the team in the common room. – Poland, Lipno 10 May 1961 – Rufus exclaimed. – What the hell happened in Poland in 1961? – asked Wyatt. Lucy stared at him blankly. She had literally never heard of anything important happening in Lipno in 1961. Then she heard Garcia laughing like he just heard the funniest joke of his entire existence. The whole team was staring at him. They never seen ‘this’ before. – Is he laughing ? Actually laughing ? Like a human person ? – Rufus questioned. Jiya looked at him shocked and a bit amused by the behavior of Flynn. Unlike Wyatt who demanded explanation – What so funny about this Flynn ?- Garcia glanced at Lucy with extreme joy in his eyes and answered – Well, In 1961 in Lipno Lech Wałęsa Polish politician and labor activist finished school. Guessing by your puzzled looks you have no idea who Lech Wałęsa is and why he is so important to the history – stated Flynn - He co-founded and headed Solidarność, the Soviet bloc's first independent trade union and thanks to him and 1989 Round Table Agreement there was Revolutions of 1989 sometimes called the Autumn of Nations – finished Flynn and then done his usual tongue thing. Everybody apart from Lucy looked at him like he just said to them that Wałęsa was the first man to fight the hydra. Whereas Lucy though she will die on the spot because of the way her knees become weak at the end of Garcia statement. Damn him and his extensive history knowledge and his damn tongue that seems to never stay where he supposed to be, but that could be used in some good ways… Lucy coughed because her throat became really dry all of a sudden. – What is this Autumn of Nations you are speaking of ?- Agent Christopher asked. –It’s a part of a revolutionary wave in the late 1980s and early 1990s that resulted in the end of communist rule in Central and Eastern Europe and beyond – explained Flynn. - The events of the full-blown revolution began in Poland in 1989 and continued in Hungary, East Germany, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia and Romania. One feature common to most of these developments was the extensive use of campaigns of civil resistance, demonstrating popular opposition to the continuation of one-party rule and contributing to the pressure for change – said Lucy. – One of main goals were civil liberty, free and fair elections, right to recall of elected officials, political freedoms and labor rights. Things that Rittenhouse isn’t the biggest fan – added Garcia. – So Poland 1961 it is – stated Rufus. All of them got into the Lifeboat and went to the past.

The whole team managed to steal clothes and now they were heading to vocational school were young Lech Wałęsa was a student. They divided in two groups. Wyatt and Rufus went to scope parameter and Garcia went with Lucy to school to check if the sleeper was inside. Lucy was looking around when Flynn was asking questions to a teacher. He was the only one form the team who spoke Polish. After questioning they went around the school, but they didn’t find anything out of ordinary so they came back to Rufus and Wyatt hoping they discovered something. When they were talking some drunk man started to speak to them. - Pierdoleni Amerykańce - ( Fucking Americans) man started. Flynn was staring at him like he was ready to murder him right there where he was standing - Przyjeżdżacie jakby Polska była waszą własnością i przywozicie to – (You are coming to Poland like you owned the place and you are bringing it) said man pointing a finger on Rufus. –What is he saying ?- Rufus asked not entirely sure if he wants to know the answer. – Sugeruje, żeby Pan sobie poszedł zanim Pan pożałuje, że zaczął tą rozmowe – (I suggest that you leave Mister, before you regret that you stared this conversation) fumed Flynn, his eyes flicked with anger his voice was so low it almost sounded like a growl- Flynn what is happening? –Lucy asked and put her arm on his shoulder to stop him from killing this man on the spot – To jest mój kraj i chuja mi Pan może zrobić – (This is my country and you Mister can do shit to me) responded drunk fellow, clearly alcohol disrupted his senses, because nobody right on their mind would said this to angry ex-military asset - więc weź tą swoją dziwkę i spierdalaj – ( so take your whore and get the fuck out) and with this words Garcia Flynn punched the man with full force causing him to fall with blood dripping from his nose. Everybody looked at Garcia with question in eyes. – You really don’t want to know what he was saying – he stated. – I think we do, you just punched him in the face – Lucy demanded. – Well he said that Rufus was “it”, he also said that we have to fuck off and that you are a… - he made a pause then looking with contempt on the man still laying on the ground- streetwalker, but he used stronger word. – I think… that in that case it’s justified –Rufus exclaimed after a while of awkward silence and Wyatt nodded slightly. – Okay let’s move on with a mission – said Lucy. They managed to finish the mission without any other obstacles on their way.

When they came back Wyatt went straight to Jessica, because it was their ‘date night’. After Rufus changed his clothes he and Jiya put some Netflix on and started watching one of theirs favorite tv series “Lucifer” saying that “Fox made huge mistake, but it’s okay, cause Netflix is better and doesn’t support Cheeto Voldemort”. In the meantime Lucy went to bathroom and Flynn to their room to change. Next both of them went to the kitchen. Garcia wanted to start dinner, but Lucy stopped him by putting her hand on his. She looked firmly at his bruised hand. – You know you can’t just go around punching people that saying dumb things – she remarked – You would be punched really often if that kind of action was legal – Flynn smirked while Lucy went to the freezer to get some ice for his hand. She put some ice cubes into the towel and then she took Garcia’s hand and placed ice on it. He made a tiny groan of pleasure. Lucy suddenly become extremely aware of the small space between them. She could smell his cologne that scent felt like home. They looked each other in the eyes with trust, devotion and something that Lucy couldn’t really put a finger on. – Well, good thing I can defend myself – Flynn responded with a smile on his lips. Lucy put down the towel with ice and checked his hand for more injuries, when she touched one spot he hissed quietly. – I didn’t touched you that hard, what are you twelve ? – Lucy asked amused – Yes on scale from one to ten – he smirked. – Oh my God. I can’t believe you just made that joke. You’re like a homicidal baby trash weasel. – she laughed. – And I am proud of that title. And now If you- tiny beautiful impressive historian – let me I’m gonna do the dinner – Lucy blushed deeply at his remark – Did you just called me tiny, beautiful and impressive all in the same statement ? – Garcia moved closer to her - I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true – he grinned.

Meanwhile Jiya and Rufus stopped watching the TV and focused on the couple in the kitchen – Are they flirting with each other ?- Rufus whispered. – I don’t think that they are aware of that, but that seems about right – Jiya replied and both of them returned their attention to the screen, because Lucy finally closed the gap between her and Flynn and they started to making out. –Finally – thought Jiya.

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percontaion-points · 5 years

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Daredevil/Punisher Fanfics (10/30/21)

Only Daredevil/Punisher fanfics. New stuff is marked with a [NEW] before it.

Daredevil

Better Natures by etirabys Description: “Work with me here, Frank,” Karen snapped. “Make some sense here. Talk to me. We can’t figure out what our next move is until you explain why you’re so disgusted at the thought of my being attracted to you — an attraction which, by the way, I’ve never let interfere with our work or our friendship —“ “I’m not disgusted,” Frank said in a strained, calm voice. “You have ghastly taste, but I’m not disgusted. No. It’s just the feeling of having carried a torch for miles and miles in the dark and... having the sun come up.” Words: 37,579 Timeline: Post season 2, but it gets pretty AU-y with the zombies and shit... Pairing: Karen/Frank Minor Matt/Elecktra at the end Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic violence and depictions of gore, but I find that it's pretty standard zombie stuff... Frank kills some people, and so does Karen, but it's all in line with the show Graphic sex Mentions of rape

United We Purge by Jenye Description: "Just remember all the good the purge does." -- Evil runs Hell's Kitchen, but one night out of the year that evil is legal. || Kastle Purge!AU Words: 4926 Timeline: It's a Purge AU Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Mature Warnings: It's violent and bloody, but I wouldn't say that the violence level is any different than it is on the show. (And if I'd seen the Purge movie, I'd guess that it was the same level of violence, too.)

Songs About Daughters by homesickblues and StellarRequiem Description: She has two entirely different minds about this. Before, she hadn’t even given any thought to having a baby. Maybe when she was younger – dreamier – but when her life picked up in the city, she barely had time to spare a thought towards any of that. Her compass never really pointed in one direction. Not even when Frank, quite literally, bulldozed his way into her life. But now the concept of “future” and “family” glares back at her from the tiny piece of plastic she just peed on, and she can’t help but bury her head in her hands. Because the other mind she has about the scenario is Frank. __ Karen discovers she's pregnant, and it changes nothing, and everything. Words: 18,064 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Teen Warnings: There's some violence, but it's pretty tame in comparison to the show. You'll probably cry a bit, but in like... a good way

Fire Meet Gasoline by xenowhore Description: And then, insanely, it was nearing midnight and Karen was standing in Frank Castle’s bathroom looking at herself in the chipped mirror. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts and nothing else (it nearly came down to her knees) her blouse and pantyhose folded neatly on the counter, hair undone and falling in thick waves around her shoulders. She’d have raccoon eyes in the morning, no makeup remover here - soap was too harsh for her sensitive skin - but somehow she didn’t care. She didn’t care that her legs were so startlingly pale, that she didn’t have a toothbrush. These things seemed trivial when she considered that in moments, she’d be sliding between sheets that cradled a killer every night. Words: 9415 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic sex

you're like a commotion, all because of me by whenzombiesattack Description: (You’re dead to me. You’re dead to me. You’re dead to me.) He finally fucked up. Words: 3160 Timeline: Post season 2 Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Teen Warnings: Mild violence

It's All Over but the Crying by angel_deux Description: Frank Castle went to sleep in 2077, the day the bombs fell. When he wakes up, his family is gone, and he has to learn to survive in the world that evolved from the ashes. Words: 14,507 Timeline: It's a Fallout AU Pairing: Frank/Karen, minor Frank/Maria Rating: Teen Warnings: There's a lot of violence, and we're with Frank as he watches as some guys kill Maria. Karen also kills some guy, too.

Blood and Bone by Skasis Description: Frank Castle is a boxer at the top of his game. Laconic and anti-social, he has a reputation for being an incredibly-tough interview. Karen Page is a sports reporter trying to prove herself in a male-dominated field. She's done playing games--trying to be the "Cool Girl" who caters to the male fantasy--and now she's on a mission to take no shit. "For a while, the fact that an interview with Castle lasting longer than 5 minutes even existed was big news. Splashed all over the message boards—circulated among boxing and Castle fans alike. The very concept that someone actually got the man to sit down for more than a breath of time and give multiple-sentence answers to a question—it was huge. Massive. It was the only thing Castle fans could talk about. Until three months later, when Frank Castle disappeared. Then that was the news. It was the only news." Words: 96,872 Timeline: Boxer/Sports reporter AU Paring: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex, it's a little bloody with the boxing and everything, Karen's dad is an a-hole This is really really long

Into the Woods by Skasis Description: Frank is a logger living a life of isolation up in the mountains of Seward, Alaska. Running from his grief, he has retreated so far into himself that he couldn't find his way out if he tried. Karen is an author who has rented the cabin down the way from Frank’s in order to get away and write her next novel in solitude. Having suffered severe writer's block, she's hoping that the quietude of Alaska will help her find her muse. After years of falling apart, the universe has decided that it's time for these two to fall together. "Frank watched her, with her head thrown back, fascinated. It had been a minute since he’d made anyone other than Curtis and David laugh. He was surprised at how easily it was coming to him—how relatively effortless it was to talk to Karen. He supposed, in part, it was because of her profession; he was sure that someone who spent most of their time studying people and writing dialogue would be a great conversationalist. But it also felt like he was dusting off the parts of him that used to be really good at this—the parts of him that were capable of making Maria laugh; were comfortable joking around. The parts that, while creaky and unused, were still there." Words: 84333 Timeline: It's a writer/mountain man AU Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, the constant talk of Frank's dead family made me cry

Office Space by Skasis Description: Dr. Frank Castle is a notoriously misanthropic physics professor, and he has the Rate My Professor reviews to prove it. Dr. Karen Page is a young, idealistic journalism professor who sees the humanity in everyone. When the Liberal Arts building floods, they are forced to share an office. He's all order and precision and logic. She’s all chaos and curiosity and emotion. But eventually, that line they drew right down the middle of the office starts to blur. Words: 48845 Timeline: University professors AU Pairing: Karen/Frank Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Sex

I'm in the Ruins Too, I know the Wreckage So Well by theshipsfirstmate Description: A Kastle fic that weaves through the events of Daredevil season 3. Because of COURSE he was there. "Maybe it’s insane, that she thinks of Frank as the angel on her shoulder; but there was already a devil on her other one when they met. " Words: 7806 Timeline: It's season 3 of Daredevil, but where Frank is there the entire time Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Mature Warnings: Mild sex, violence but it's mostly just a recap of what happened on the show

breath of ash, bone of dust by qqueenofhades Description: Frank shrugs, almost diffidently, as if to say he’s glad to hear it, and he still isn’t used to anyone welcoming the sight. Maybe there are some, people who are old and ready to rest and who have lived a good life, who sit up and wait for him, on the nights he chooses to venture out of the underworld and take them personally in hand. But as they stand there face to face, him dark and rugged and grim and Karen pink-cheeked, flushed, blossoms trailing from a frozen tree and grass rising from the barren ground, the contrast could not be more striking. Winter and spring, death and life, hell and heaven. Then leaf subsides to leaf, and so Eden sank to grief. Kastle Hades/Persephone AU. Words: 25683 Timeline: It's a Hades/Persephone AU that's semi canon compliant Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Mature Warnings: Mild sex, there's two very intense death scenes that might be difficult to read (one is the death of a young pre-teen)

Seasons by CharmingProcrastinator Description: Karen had come back after a week away for a Women in Media conference in Chicago to find that Mrs. Sterner’s name on the mailbox next to hers had been replaced by an “F. Castle”, who evidently moved in while she was away. To her, he was only disembodied grunts and moans. They were bound to bump into each other, eventually. She had no idea how she was gonna manage to act like a normal human being when they did and not make a quip about maybe considering gagging his gaggle of girls, or make some passive aggressive request that he keep it down a bit when others were trying to sleep. Words: 21029 Timeline: It's kind of an AU, I guess? Almost the same but without the superhero nonsense Pairing: Karen/Frank, minor mentions of Elektra/Matt, and Marci/Foggy Rating: Mature Warnings: Talk of sex, but the actual act is glossed over (boo)

carrying by the restlessbrook Description: “Did you know that you’re pregnant?” Or, Karen will go to any lengths to protect her small family. Words: 69,676 Timeline: Post Punisher 2 and Daredevil 3 Pairing: Frank/Karen, minor Foggy/Marci Rating: Mature Warnings: There's the heavy implicaton of sex, but never actually on the page. There's a lot of violence, but it's like on both shows.

The Reporter by Underneath Description: Force Recon missions keep Marines isolated, entrenched for long periods in covert locations. They rarely received visitors, and in Frank’s long experience, the visitors were almost never civilians, let alone gorgeous blondes with mile long legs and sky blue eyes. Frank was trying not to stare. They all were. Well, everyone except Bill, who’s face had just split into a shit-eating grin. Words: 42645 Timeline: Slightly AU Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic sex, violence like on the show

a crooked love in a straight line down by HeartonFire Description: Frank Castle is a newly-divorced History teacher at the local high school. Karen Page is the single mom of a seventeen-year-old honor student on his debate team. Their paths cross too many times for it to be coincidence, and neither of them can deny the attraction they feel. But things can never be that simple, especially when Karen's ex comes back into the picture and threatens to upend the life she's built for herself. Words: 22908 Timeline: Teacher/student's mother AU (lol did you think that I was going to say student/teacher?) Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Sex, mentions of Karen's rough background

you were a fire caught by therestlessbrook Description: They’re both hunters - but of a different sort. (Or that daemon AU no one asked for.) Words: 26110 Timeline: Everything is exactly the same, but everybody in this has a sort of soul-bound animal called a daemon Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: The story goes over things that happened in the show so it's quite violent and bloody. There's also some sex, but it seemed kind of... skimmed over.

1NEW1 Those Who Mourn by UnkindOfRavens Description: He wanted to live in her, bask in her goodness every second of every day, and then maybe he wouldn’t forget what it was to be part of the world. Maybe then he could cobble together enough of himself to feel solid. Maybe he’d remember how to live, then. Words: 2252 Timeline: The tags call it "canon-adjacent" Pairing: Frank/Karen Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Sex

#recommended fanfiction #Punisher #Daredevil

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what-is-sibling-test · 6 years

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

Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 8: In Which Lucy’s Life Becomes Unnecessarily Difficult

Rating: M Summary: Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Previous: In Which Extremely Stupid Deeds Are Done

Lucy spends a pleasant afternoon absorbed in research at the Bodleian, in the reading rooms and the sixteenth-century Duke Humfrey’s Library, which looks more wizardly than ever. As she waits for the elderly archivist to take his sweet time at fetching out various books and manuscripts, it half-seems to be whispering in dusty parchment voices, edged like the elegant finials of gothic script, the shadows shifting in a way that seems to be entirely without reference to the gauzy light through the high arched windows. As warned, there are a few uppity young men in jackets and ties, getting a jump on their Michaelmas reading and throwing Lucy arch looks. They seem just short of walking up to her and demanding to know if she can quote Cicero in Latin or The Odyssey in Greek, but she politely and deliberately ignores them, and they apparently think better of it.

Nonetheless, as enjoyable as the experience is, aesthetically speaking, Lucy still isn’t getting as much done in her research as she would like. She reminds herself that it is just one afternoon, that no scholar in the history of this or any universe found all the answers in one day, and that the only way to get anywhere is to keep on plodding, picking out information bit by bit, identifying small clues or references and following up from there. It would help if she knew what texts or authors to ask for specifically, who is recognized as an expert on aether science or the history of magic. There is not one of Ada’s Analytical Engines here like there is at UCL, and Lucy gets the sense that it might be regarded as a heresy and affront to proper scholarship to have a machine mindlessly pick out potentially relevant texts, according to an artificial algorithm. That sort of shortcutting is all well and good for lesser intellectuals, but not at Oxford. No sirree bob. You did not get into here because you were thick.

Lucy is tempted to tell them that everywhere will end up using computers, even Oxford, but that doesn’t help her at the moment. She is also aware that if a newcomer turns up and starts trying to pull all the Restricted Section books, word will get around. Magic might be part and parcel of this world, as unremarkable to this England as rain on bank holidays and losing major football matches is to the other one, but it is also dangerous. Oxford is more able to get away with it than other places, but there are limits. Lucy already drew enough attention in London, and until she goes at least a fortnight without more trouble, she needs to be careful.

Thus, she calls a halt as dusk is falling and the reading rooms are about to close. The light is purple and atmospheric and broody as Lucy steps out onto Broad Street, and bells are sounding across the city, Evensong services at various college chapels. Streetlamps fire on in flares of aetheric glow, and she can’t help but look warily for more tockers. Rittenhouse can’t have hijacked all of them, though. At least she damn well hopes not.

Lucy starts to walk, since it’s not far, and jumps when a vaucanson clicks past on the cobbles, clockwork spinning in its engine. She wonders how long it will take Dodgson to build a prototype to communicate with home, and decides that it is probably longer than twenty-four hours and she shouldn’t go rushing back tomorrow morning. He said he’d send word. No use breathing down his neck. And right now, she wants to get back before it’s completely dark.

Thankfully, she manages to make it to Somerville without an incident – it’s been two whole days without one, she is in danger of getting spoiled. She eats dinner in Hall, which is an informal affair compared to last night, and strikes up a conversation with the middle-aged woman seated next to her. It isn’t until several minutes in that the other introduces herself as Dr. Sophia Jex-Blake, here to give some guest medical lectures, and Lucy has a giddy fangirl meltdown which she has to try very hard not to show. Dr. Jex-Blake is basically the reason women can attend elite British universities at all, was the leader of the “Edinburgh Seven” who fought to gender-integrate the famous Scottish medical school in 1869, founded medical schools for women in Edinburgh in London, and is a leading campaigner for women’s education and liberation. (She is also a lesbian, as she and one Dr. Margaret Todd have been together for many years.) If Lucy recalls, however, she is a notoriously brusque and impatient teacher who even gets sued by her students at one point, so any Somerville girls taking her lectures had better make sure they bring their A-game.

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#IFTTT #'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless

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extasiswings · 7 years

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a little faith

I think I’ve watched that 30-second deleted Garcy scene about twenty times at least by now and I’m probably never going to get over it. I am Shook. So, @qqueenofhades @prairiepirate @onlymorelove @timeless-librarian, have almost 2k on Flynn and Lucy and Faith and cry with me. On ao3 here.

Faith.

It’s a funny thing when you think about it. To believe in something without evidence, without anything hard and tangible and real—well, there’s a reason Flynn’s never faulted the skeptics of the world. There’s a reason he’s been one himself.

Faith is madness. Logically, rationally, everyone should be a skeptic.

When Flynn was a child, he would sit in church between his mother and father and stare at the crucifix hanging high over the altar. He would stand and sit and kneel and say his prayers and take communion and wonder, always wonder, if God really was watching. The thought used to terrify him.

Later, as a teenager and a young adult, he felt differently. He would go to confession just to argue with the priests about why terrible things happen to good people, about why, if God exists, he doesn’t prevent genocide or wars or abuse against even those who believe.

He never got a good answer.

When Flynn joined the NSA, he stopped going to church entirely after the first mission that left his hands bloody enough that he imagined the holy water at the door swirling crimson when he dipped his fingers a week later. That wasn’t about a loss of faith though—not really. After all, can you lose something you never truly had? No, that was about not wasting his own time.

If you don’t believe to begin with, there’s no point in wasting time trying to be forgiven when you couldn’t possibly be.

Bless me, father, for I have sinned…

It was Lorena who brought him back. Lorena, with her smile and her rosary beads and her unshakeable belief that everything happened for a reason. Lorena, who would only marry him in a church, and how could he say no to such an easy thing?

(If he did it more so he could worship her than any god, well, she laughed and kissed him when he said it aloud, so she clearly didn’t mind a bit of sacrilege)

She wore her grandmother’s veil on their wedding day—a delicate mass of white lace that he was almost afraid to lift for fear of tearing it like tissue. But what he remembers most of that day is not the veil itself, but the sparkle of her eyes and the curve of her lips behind it as she took his hand before their vows.

”I, Garcia, take you, Lorena, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

”I, Lorena, take you, Garcia…”

What God has joined, let no one put asunder.

He remembered those words as well—they echoed in his head for weeks after. Even then though, even then, he still wasn’t sure how much he truly believed.

And then he held his daughter in his arms for the first time.

”What should we name her?”

You were wearing flowers in your hair when we met…

”Iris?”

”...Garcia Flynn, you ridiculous man. ...Yes.”

In that moment, he knew there had to be a God, if only because nothing so pure could have come from him otherwise.

Iris was perfect. A perfect miracle. She was the evidence. And he went to church every week after her birth to thank God for giving him, giving them, such a gift.

And then he lost them.

No.

Lost isn’t the right word for such a thing. They were taken from him. By Rittenhouse. By God.

“Losing faith” is an interesting phrase. Some people might characterize it that way, what happened to Flynn in the wake of That Night. He wouldn’t be nearly so generous.

He didn’t “lose” faith. He clawed it out and threw it away after the night he spent shouting at the heavens, demanding answers until his throat was too raw to continue, only to hear nothing in reply but cold, echoing silence. He left it to rot in the graveyard behind the church where he married Lorena. He abandoned it the way God had abandoned him. It was intentional. It was deliberate.

It left him hollow.

Flynn planned on revenge.

He didn’t plan on Lucy Preston.

To be fair, he doesn’t think anyone could have planned on a woman from the future showing up out of the blue and handing over a guidebook for vengeance.

She finds him in a bar and takes him to a church. He considers running immediately, but she starts explaining herself before he has a chance, at which point it’s easier to just hear her out. Not that he isn’t still considering running after he does.

“You realize this sounds insane, yes?”

Lucy’s mouth curves up the way Lorena’s used to whenever she found him particularly amusing.

“Have a little faith, Garcia,” she says, sliding the weathered journal across the pew towards him.

“That’s never helped me before.”

She hums as she stands and Flynn barely refrains from flinching when she reaches out and squeezes his shoulder lightly.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she replies. “Try it.”

The stained glass seems to mock him when he settles in to read, the stone gaze of Christ weighing heavily on him.

You asked for answers, it says. Ask, and you shall receive.

He has no reason to believe in Lucy. He has no reason to believe in the journal she left him. He has no reason to believe in fate or God or any sort of higher power.

And yet...it’s all he has left. He has no more leads, no other way of seeking out Rittenhouse. Just a journal that says he needs to steal a time machine and a woman who claims he might be able to bring his wife back from the dead.

It’s madness.

Have a little faith.

He starts making plans.

It’s not God he believes in, or at least that’s what Flynn tells himself. It’s Lucy.

She gave him back a purpose. She gave him hope. She gave him...something to have faith in.

Except, his grip on it is weak—this fragile spiderweb that is either his last chance or a vast hallucination.

(Sometimes he wonders if he’s losing his mind anyway, even if it is real. If he’s fallen too far into an abyss of dark and vengeance to ever crawl back out. It’s not something he cares to dwell on too much)

There’s also another snag. Lucy—present Lucy—doesn’t believe him.

If it weren’t driving him up the wall, if he was less desperate, he might be able to appreciate the irony in their sudden role reversal. As it is, he’s at a loss.

Have a little faith.

So he tries. And then he tries again. And again. Even though his grip on his own thread of belief grows more tenuous every day.

We need to talk.

Rittenhouse isn’t a him. It’s a they.

One day you’ll understand I’m a patriot.

Lucy, one day you are going to help me.

She stops him.

In 1942. In 1972. In 1780. In 1893.

She stops him. And his faith begins to slip.

Flynn should have guessed she would stop that too.

“I prayed to God for answers and he led me here. To this.”

He holds a shaky gun in one hand and a detonator in the other—his pulse is too fast, his blood rushing in his ears loud enough to drown out almost everything.

But not her. It can’t drown out her.

“What if he led you to me?”

Oh.

Part of him wants to swear. To toss a middle finger up at God, because honestly, if this has all been some sort of test, or something else to teach him a lesson, he’s as far as he could possibly be from in the mood. But Lucy is standing between him and a gun and looking at him with wide, earnest eyes, and he can’t help it—something in him cracks.

Have a little faith.

Flynn gives in.

They’re back in the present by the time doubt begins creeping in once more. He can’t help it. It’s an itch between his shoulder blades that he can’t scratch.

“I’m trusting you, Lucy,” he says. “I’m trusting you with my family’s life. If it doesn’t work—”

She cuts him off before he can make any sort of real threat—not, that he even knows how that sentence was going to end.

He’s so tired of making threats. He’s tired of all of it—the violence, the killing, the rage—and even if he had come up with something, it’s not as though Lucy would have believed it anyway. She knows him well enough by now to realize he’s never been able to actually hurt her.

“It will.”

“What makes you so sure?” It’s desperation that makes Flynn ask, his tongue running too fast for his mind to manage. Even to his own ears there’s a hint of panic in his tone that he wishes he could hide better.

“So maybe Ethan is your grandfather, but still you—you barely know him.”

Please. Give me something to believe in.

Lucy glances over at Emma and Flynn wishes abruptly that they were alone, that she could speak freely instead of carefully choosing her words.

“I guess that’s why they call it faith,” she says when she looks back at him.

Their eyes catch and hold for a long moment then and he knows she sees too much. She’s always been able to see too much of him.

Trust me, her eyes say. You’ve trusted me for this long. Trust me just one more time.

There’s something else there, too. Something that terrifies him. But they don’t have time to talk about that, and what’s more, he’s not sure he would even be capable of doing so. He’s too raw, too broken. He can’t...well. They aren’t going to discuss it, so it doesn’t matter what he can or can’t do.

For the briefest instant, Flynn wonders if she’s going to touch him. He thinks she wants to—that look in her eyes and the half-aborted motion she makes in his direction before she switches paths and walks past him say that much.

He’s almost glad she doesn’t try. He’s not sure he could have kept standing.

I guess that’s why they call it faith.

I guess it is.

Hours later, Lucy hands him a flash drive and it’s...right. He’s done. He’s finished. She kept her word.

And then the world drops out from under him.

“I’m sorry!”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” The hands on his arms are rough—grasping and squeezing and twisting hard enough that he won’t be inclined to try an escape.

Her voice is horrified and Flynn wants to believe she genuinely didn’t know, that this wasn’t her plan all along, but he’s used up far too much good faith lately and he doesn't have any more benefits of the doubt to give.

Have a little faith.

No. Never again.

#garcy #lucy x flynn #garcia flynn x lucy preston #garcia flynn x lorena flynn #garcia flynn human disaster #nothing is fine and everything hurts #welp x 20

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onlymorelove · 7 years

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

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

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

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

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

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4]

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

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

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

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

“I thought we agreed on no shirt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deviants,” she said under her breath.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t get used to it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Milk,” said Wyatt.

“Dark,” said Garcia.

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

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

“Yeah, okay, Jedi Master Flynn.”

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

“No,” Garcia and Wyatt replied in unison.

Lucy smiled.

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

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

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

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

“Anything but ‘ma’am.’”

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

“What does that mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your honesty is killing me, Lucy.”

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

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

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

“Don’t you look at me like that.”

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

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

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

“But I need it.”

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

“Well…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence reigned until the kitchen timer buzzed.

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

Wyatt grabbed one and raised it to his mouth.

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

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

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

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

“Let me look… I see three. How come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, no stealing! That was mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then we’ll listen,” Lucy replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#garcyatt #nbc timeless #lucy preston #garcia flynn #wyatt logan #ot3 #garcia x lucy x wyatt #polyshipping day #timeless fanfiction #poly fic #polyshipping #you can pry this ship from my cold dead hands #my fic #ibkihsbimy #onlymorelove writes fic #garcyatt fic

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what-is-sibling-test · 6 years

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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 7: In Which Extremely Stupid Deeds Are Done

“Wait,” Karl says. “Is this a joke?”

Instead of answering, Flynn stares back at him with a face that very much wants to know if any part of this looks as if it is joking. Karl’s reaction is replicated to varying degrees on the rest of the henchmen, who exchange glances as if Flynn might be punishing them for something they have forgotten they did wrong. Finally, O’Connell, better known as “Shitmouth” because that’s how he gets when he is drunk, speaks up. “After Stanley, boss, when you’re the biggest mark in London? Think you’ll saunter in and Mrs. Brown will make you a cup of tea?”

“Of course I wasn’t going to saunter in.” Honestly, Flynn thinks, he needs to be more particular about his gang standards. His are mostly career petty criminals, a good proportion of them Irish because strict anti-Irish laws have made it difficult for them to find much other gainful employment, and because they obviously all hate England too and are cheerfully willing to work to undermine it. Most have friends and brothers and cousins in the republican movements back in Eire. They also have connections with the Shelby crime family in Birmingham, which helps with blackmail, bootlegging liquor, and fixing horse races. Useful in their way, in other words, but apparently totally daft when it comes to this current proposition, as any fool can see that it presents a significant and singular logistic challenge. “We’d need a proper plan.”

Looks are exchanged among the boys, but nobody feels like speaking up outright. They’re all in suspenders and shirtsleeves, tweed caps sitting beside them on old crates, the lantern flickering with low-burning light on the dark stone arches of the Croft above. Water drips in the distance, and Flynn reaches for the tin cup of whiskey next to him, taking a brief, cool sip to demonstrate that he, at least, is entirely in command here. “Any of you blacklegs want to run off, then?”

There’s an insulted look exchanged between the Taylors, a pair of brothers from the Northeast of England and former colliery men who got tired of going down in the coal pits for crushing danger and very little pay, that he would compare them to the blackleg miners, the scabs who break strike lines and ruin the efforts to organize against corrupt and greedy owners. Flynn has read plenty of Karl Marx, the radical Prussian philosopher and political scientist who lived in London for thirty years – died just recently, in fact, he’s buried in Highgate – and while he doesn’t subscribe to all of it, he mostly thinks the man is onto something. Rittenhouse is the very embodiment of the mechanisms that want to keep the proletariat powerless, manipulated, and oppressed, and one of the things the Flynn gang does is enable the distribution of socialist and communist pamphlets through the underground. “Come on,” Flynn says, when still nobody speaks up. “Anyone? Any volunteers to leave? You were all just shaking in your boots.”

Another awkward hesitation, as they (obviously) don’t want to get themselves stuck into breaking into Buckingham bloody Palace, but they also don’t want to look like cowards either. Finally John, the older Taylor, says, “So the idea is that – what, you’d sneak in while the old bat and Gladstone are having their meeting, get to the drawing room, hear what they were saying and that it would be about Sergeant Logan, and then get out without anyone catching you?”

“Something to that effect, yes. If any of you have any better ideas on how to get that information, please.” Flynn makes a graciously sarcastic gesture. “Share.”

“Lady Lovelace invited you to tea,” the younger Taylor, Robert, points out. “Any chance of somehow contriving an invitation for her to the Palace, she meets the Queen, then you dress up as one of her entourage and sneak in that way?”

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what-is-sibling-test · 6 years

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[citation needed]

so this morning, an anon told @prairiepirate the delightful information that Goran was originally planning to be a history or geography teacher. I made this post about needing a Garcy Rival Professors AU immediately, and believe in fulfilling my own desires, so…

Also available on AO3.

Lucy Preston’s day has started out as well as Monday in the first week of term possibly can, which is to say, not very. She has dodged the hordes of undergraduates wandering vaguely in the direction of class, opened her email to find that the article she submitted to a journal expecting to be rejected in six months has been rejected in two days, and remembered that she still has to go to that godforsaken departmental meeting at three o’clock this afternoon. This is when they are going to divvy up all the extra busywork for the quarter that nobody wants to take on, so if you were smart, you’d just say your class ran late, you got distracted with research, or all your electronic devices died and you never got the reminder email. Most unfortunately, Lucy is a conscientious person who would feel bad if she did that, and the next round of tenure recommendations is coming up soon. Ergo, you brownnose. Like a champ.

Her first class isn’t until tomorrow, so she decides if she wants to look at the feedback the journal editors sent on her article (answer: probably not), googles some places to re-submit it, and fights the ever-present conviction that she is a hack and a fraud who is shortly going to be exposed for all the world to see. She eats lunch in her office, edits the 300 typos in the syllabus that she missed before posting it online, and then around two-thirty, sighs deeply and gathers up her bag and folders. Might as well head down to the conference room and stake a spot. Then she can hide by the coffeemaker until three.

Lucy strides down the hall, through the intermittent pools of September sunlight, and reaches the room, then pushes the door absently open. Maybe enough of the others will have skived off that they’ll have to reschedule, which is a conflicting thing to hope for, but it’s always better to put off doing an unpleasant thing until the future, rather than have to face it now. Or maybe they can just –

“Hello, Lucy.”

She almost has a heart attack, papers flying out of her arms, as she bangs her hip on the doorknob and whirls around – she didn’t think anyone else was here this early yet, and she knows that voice, but has absolutely no idea why it’s here. She has just enough time to think that this has to be a terrible mistake. Then she sees who is sitting by the virtual whiteboard and playing with the clicker, sending it rattling through the Good Organizational Development slides that the last occupants of the room forgot to close out of, and –

“What,” Lucy says, just managing to sound cordial, “are you doing here?”

Garcia Flynn raises an eyebrow at her in the manner of an individual (or in this case, smug asshole) who has been sitting here for twenty minutes hoping to do just that. “Don’t tell me you don’t read your emails, Professor Preston?”

Lucy opens and shuts her mouth. There were, to be exact, 285 emails in her inbox this morning, some of which she possibly should have been more conscientious about checking over summer vacation, but she skimmed the important-looking ones and deleted the rest. She feels like she would have had a Batsignal to notice anything to do with – well, with him, but apparently not. Not to be too dramatic about it, but this man is her nemesis. She can’t remember the first time they met, because the brain blocks out traumatic memories, but they have somehow managed to attend an absurd number of the same conferences for an American modernist and a European medievalist, and he seems to make a personal point of turning up at her papers and asking five hundred obnoxious questions afterward. Mostly of the “have you considered this document from two centuries earlier that says something entirely different” variety, while Lucy smiles at him with a No Because I Don’t Study That Period Jackass homicidal glint in her eye. She tried to be receptive to constructive criticism and ask him what document he meant once, so he pointed her to some bogglingly obscure item from 1482, held in the special collections of the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München in Germany. It is written in Old Church Slavonic. There is no translation available. He apparently knows it by heart.

“I didn’t…” Lucy struggles for a fixed smile. “I mean, what exactly are you doing at Stanford, Dr. Flynn?”

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what-is-sibling-test · 6 years

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and in the darkness we go on down

oh look! it’s me! writing my third “what happened in Flynn’s room” fic, revised in light of 2x07 and Lucy being an awkward messy-haired giggly butterfly who was thanking him for… something… and Flynn being unable to form coherent words, and the fact that Lucy was savage af so she had some warming up. so. yes. @extasiswings, @lucys-preston, @prairiepirate.

It’s somewhere past the second glass of vodka that it occurs to Garcia Flynn that Lucy Preston is, in fact, drunk. Not just tipsy, not just buzzed or giggly, but definitely drunk. Not shit-faced, not smashed, not out of control, but drunk enough to have no filter, dark hair waving wildly around her face and shirt untucked as she stands up to make another point. About what, Flynn’s not even sure. She’s been talking for at least twenty minutes, in an increasingly jumbled stream of consciousness that seems to encompass everyone she’s ever met. She’s been ranting about everyone from Wyatt to her mother to someone named Alan Carlson, who canceled her tenure meeting at Stanford the night the Mothership was stolen. And, as Flynn won’t forget –

“YOU DID THAT.” Lucy whirls on him, cheeks pink and eyes dark, as she advances on him with a certain alcohol-fueled looseness and prods him in the chest. “YOU WERE SUCH A PAIN, YOU KNOW THAT?”

“Maybe not so loud, Lucy?” He raises an eyebrow. “The rest of the bunker is trying to sleep, you know.”

Lucy makes a noise as if to say that only peasants sleep at night. She whirls around again, displaying reckless disregard for the pile of old electronics nearby, and he moves automatically to catch her by the waist, steadying her. Her toppling into those would definitely be a mess to sort out, and she’s not exactly coordinated at the best of times. “Easy,” he remarks. “How about we sit down?”

“Sit down?” Lucy rolls her eyes. “Sit down and what – I can tell you some more about how Wyatt is being a dickhead and I wanna hate Jessica but also she’s so nice and I wouldn’t ever and but God can she just – why is she ALWAYS HERE?” She pounds on Flynn’s chest with both fists, as if he’s a vending machine that has eaten her money and she paid for that answer. “I swear to god this is not some COUPLES’ RETREAT, and Mason is ACTUALLY USEFUL ONCE but we still have to keep him around, and I know Denise is judging all of us, and even Rufus and Jiya have to go off and they get to be together and – my mother is in her evil hideout somewhere with my especially evil great-grandfather who’s somehow alive in the present, and we nearly lost JFK the other day and god, WHY’S WYATT BEING SUCH AN ASS? I mean. Look at me. I’m here with.” She gathers herself, looks up, finds his face, squints, and prods him in both shoulders. “YOU!??!”

“Easy, Lucy.” Flynn bites his cheek. That last chaser of vodka was definitely a bad idea. “Let’s sit down. Okay?”

With that, ignoring her muttered protests, he tows her lightweight little self to the bed and sits her down. He’s gotten rather warm from having to follow her from one side of the room to the other, and pulls his grey sweater off over his head. Lucy’s eyes follow it, and the T-shirt underneath. Her eyes flick over him in a way that does sudden and terrible things to his self-control, and he edges a few inches away. This just took an unfortunate turn.

“You know,” Lucy says, voice smaller. “I don’ really hate everyone. I just – I wanna… I wante’ to vent.”

“It’s all right.” Flynn feels oddly touched that Lucy, drunk and ranting and able to blow off some steam, even now has to apologize for being selfish or unkind. “I know you don’t mean it. You’ve been through a lot, eh? A lot.”

“I have.” Lucy nods firmly, chin trembling. “I have. You know? I have. And – you’ve not been a total disaster. Not really.”

Flynn raises the other eyebrow at this damning with faint praise, even as he is well aware that he deserves it. “Oh?”

“No. You’ve been.” Lucy turns toward him, eyes melting, hands running up his newly bared arms, circling around the muscles and sliding onto his chest. She pushes herself up on him, then bends toward his mouth, her hair falling in tickles around his face. Her breath is at least fifty-proof as she whispers, “Really nice.”

“Whoa.” Flynn is both frightened and aroused. Neither of which are really helpful, but that escalated quickly. He pushes at her gently. “Lucy?”

“Mmm?” Lucy hums, opening her mouth, clearly in expectation of a kiss. And he wants to, God, he wants it more than he’s wanted anything in too damn long to remember, but he’s absolutely not going to let her throw herself at him like this, drunk and desperate to feel good and probably liable to sorely regret it in the morning. “Don’ you wanna?”

“Not…” Flynn hesitates. “Not like this, all right? Come on. How about you just go to sleep?”

Lucy pauses, then pouts, which is very adorable. “Really?”

“Yes. Come on.” He stands up and eases her down on the bed, pulling the covers back and helping her in, making sure she lies on her side just in case (he doesn’t think she’s that drunk, but still) and going to get her a glass of water. “There you go, now. There you go.”

Lucy reaches out with one hand and bats at his, catching it and pulling him to sit down next to the bed. He does so, startled, as she rolls over and runs her hands through his hair, playing with it and twisting it around her fingers. “You have really pretty hair,” she says indistinctly. “Really pretty. Like a unicorn’s mane.”

Flynn has to bite his cheek again. Nobody has ever compared his hair, nice as it might be, to a unicorn, and he lets her toy with it a few more moments – it’s harmless enough, and it feels good. He tips his head back, closing his eyes, as Lucy hums tunelessly. For a long moment, there’s nothing but the hum of the distant industrial fans, and some of the equipment Flynn’s been tinkering with (there’s not a lot else to do in your spare time, in the lonely nights). Then all at once, her hand drops, and there’s a soft, wet snore.

Amused, he glances around, and sees that Lucy is fast asleep, still snuggled on her side. He looks at her for another moment, then gently picks up her hand, presses the lightest of kisses into her palm, and closes her fingers around it, placing it back on the bed next to her. Then gets up, and settles down on the chair. (He’s slept worse places, and in far worse company. He’ll make do.)

(He dozes on and off, watching her, until he wakes to sneak out in the grey predawn, make her a coffee, and sneak back, as she’s sitting up, yawning and tousle-haired and sober, as well as considerably embarrassed. Takes the mug and watches him watching her. He doesn’t say anything, of course.)

(God, his heart cannot stand it. Or her. Or her.)

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