#garcynetwork

Now though, he lifts his head to find her looking at him, the fragile stem of her wine glass—and who orders wine in a place like this anyway—appearing all the more delicate with her thin fingers wrapped around it.

"Excuse me?"

She nods at his glass. "The drinking," she clarifies. "It won't help."

Flynn snorts, picking up the glass and knocking back the rest of its contents in a single swallow just to spite this random stranger. The cheap alcohol burns his throat, but it does its job as far as numbing the rest of him so he doesn't mind overly much.

"And what would you know about it?"

"More than you might think, Garcia."

He freezes halfway between signaling the bartender for another, turning to look, to really look, at her. Searching his hazy mind for her image turns up nothing, but her overly familiar use of his name gives him pause.

She's beautiful, that much he can't help but notice. Older than him, certainly—the lines around her eyes and more than a few strands of grey in her hair tell him that much—but there's an easy grace about her and the sparkle of knowledge in her dark eyes is striking.

"Who are you?" He asks roughly, all too aware that he's been staring longer than is strictly proper.

"Lucy," she replies. "Lucy Preston."

From the casual air of her tone, it's clear she doesn't care if that means anything to him or not, although Flynn can't shake the feeling that it should.

“I want to talk to you about Rittenhouse,” she adds, and he goes cold, suddenly far more sober than he’d like to be.

“What?”

“Rittenhouse,” Lucy repeats, her eyes tracking his face. “Although I’d prefer not to speak here if it’s all the same to you.”

“Are you with them?” Flynn asks. Her finger traces the rim of her glass for a moment, her face shuttering before clearing a beat later.

“My father was,” she admits. “But I can promise you I hate them almost as much as you do.”

He doesn’t relax, adrenaline kicking his pulse up a notch. “And you want to give me what exactly? Revenge?”

“I want to give you so much more than that, Garcia,” Lucy replies. “But as I said, I’d really prefer not to discuss it here.”

It could be a lie. She could have a gun or a vial of poison or something equally as terrible on her. She could be waiting to get him alone so she can kill him, finishing the job Rittenhouse had started with Lorena and Iris.

And yet...Flynn can’t shake the feeling that she’s telling the truth. That she really does want to help him, whatever that might look like.

(Besides, if she kills him, well...that wouldn’t be the worst thing)

“Fine,” he agrees.

Flynn takes her back to the motel he’s been staying in—it’s more than half broken-down and the clientele aren’t exactly upstanding citizens, but there’s a bed and running water and that’s all he really needs. Lucy casts a glance around the room when he unlocks the door, but if she has thoughts about the state of his accommodations, she keeps them to herself.

“You wanted to talk? Talk,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

And oh, Lucy does. She tells him more about Rittenhouse than he ever thought he’d know, weaves a story about a partnership, about a plan to destroy this secret organization that’s taken everything from him, that ties him in knots.

Revenge hadn’t been a real possibility before—not when he’s a suspected murderer, when even going to the cemetery could get him arrested or killed should Rittenhouse be so inclined—but with every word that passes Lucy’s lips, he can nearly taste it.

And then, she drops her final bombshell.

“You could bring them back.”

Flynn stops breathing, his mind going blank, shorting out at the very concept.

“What?” He chokes out. He shakes his head before she can answer. “That’s...no, that’s not possible. That couldn’t be—”

“I just told you time travel is real,” Lucy points out. “A lot of things are possible that wouldn’t have been before.”

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. It’s insane. Everything she’s told him is insane, couldn’t possibly be real, but if it is—

“Yes,” Flynn says. “Okay. I’ll do it. Whatever I need to do, I’ll do it.”

Lucy pushes herself up from the armchair she’d settled in, a flicker of something—sadness or possibly guilt—passing over her face.

“It won’t be easy,” she warns. “You say that now, but in reality...Garcia, it’ll change you. You won’t be the same person you were, or even who you are now. You might wake up years from now and not recognize yourself...and it won’t necessarily be in a good way.”

“I don’t care,” Flynn replies.

It’s easy to say, although the way his stomach drops tells a different story. The truth is, he already doesn’t recognize himself. He has nothing to live for. If there’s even a chance…

“You will,” Lucy says, reaching out and pressing a hand to his chest.

He's hyperaware of the touch, the near-burn of it through his shirt, and he's struck with the abrupt recognition that he hasn't been touched like this in months, in such a gentle and casually intimate way.

His throat is tight and he struggles to swallow past the newly-formed lump in it.

“It’s my fault,” Flynn admits quietly. “Rittenhouse—what they did—it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Lucy insists. “It’s not. They’re evil, okay? That’s all.”

"Lucy—" The ground is shifting beneath his feet, and he’s cracking, crumbling after holding himself together with desperation and spite ever since that night.

Something soft flickers through her eyes—compassion, understanding—and then she leans up on her toes and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It's an offer, a question, a comfort, and he knows if he pushes her away she won't be offended. And yet...

(He should push her away. The thought of kissing another woman, let alone doing anything else when Lorena is cold in the ground is an almost unbearable sacrilege. But there's something familiar about Lucy, and it's...if it's not right then at least it's less wrong.

And it's been so long...)

Flynn turns his head and catches her mouth, only half-aware of the small hurt sound that escapes him. Lucy doesn't ignore it though—she feathers her lips against his once, twice, then pushes lightly at his chest until his knees hit the edge of the bed and send him to the mattress. She straddles him then, her knees bracketing his hips, but she doesn't do anything else except curl a hand around the back of his neck as she rests her forehead against his.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Lucy murmurs, her lips just barely brushing his. “We could just talk. I’m here for you, Garcia. Whatever you need…”

Ironically, that’s what makes him kiss her again. They could just talk, yes. But with what’s already been said she’s given him more to think about than he knows what to do with. His mind is leaping from one thought to the next without processing anything and he needs...he needs to slow down. To stop. To not think at all.

It hurts to kiss her, hurts to peel her blouse from her shoulders, hurts to skim his hands up her sides, to hear her gasp when he palms her breasts, to feel the heat and slickness of her when he slips a hand beneath her skirt. The dissonance between how his mind expects her to feel and how she does is staggering.

It hurts...and yet it’s not a bad thing. It’s the kind of hurt that comes from cauterizing a wound or ripping off a bandage that’s been stuck for too long. It’s the pressure, the burn that comes from finally breaking the surface and taking a breath after drowning.

Kissing Lucy is a shock to the system, a bolt of lighting restarting his heart after months of wandering through the days cold and numb.

He can’t find it in himself to regret it.

The rest of it passes in a blur, a dreamlike haze of heat and touch and silence only broken by quiet gasps and stifled moans, as if both of them are afraid too much noise will shatter the fragile atmosphere in the room. When she comes, Lucy rakes her nails down his back, the sudden shock of pain sending him over the edge after her.

In the aftermath, Flynn doesn’t push her away, his fingers unhurriedly tracing patterns on her skin. He pauses on a knot of scar tissue on the back of her shoulder.

“Gunshot?” He asks, and Lucy hums in acknowledgement, her own focus on lazily pressing kisses to his neck and the underside of his jaw.

Now that he’s paying more attention, Flynn realizes that’s far from the only scar she has. His fingers skip over to the next one, a thin raised line on her ribcage. “And this?”

“Also a gunshot,” she replies. “Just a graze though.”

There’s another one on the other side, just slightly lower, and when he touches it he doesn’t have to ask before Lucy offers up, “Knife wound. Lucky shot. I was distracted.”

There are others, small and scattered, but Flynn’s attention goes to the last significant one, a long pale streak low on her abdomen, surrounded by patches of stretch marks. Lucy bites her lip when he touches it, something sparking in her dark eyes.

“Another knife?” He asks. To his surprise, she laughs.

“Of a sort,” she acknowledges. “That one was planned though. C-section.”

Flynn coughs and pulls his hand back. Lucy’s eyes dance with amusement.

She slips out of his lap then, crossing the room to her purse and pulling out a weathered book.

“Here,” she offers, tossing it onto the bed next to him. “This is for you. It has everything you need to know.”

Flynn traces the cover, the raised initials indicating that the journal belongs to her. He doesn’t notice she’s started gathering her clothes until he looks up again.

"You're leaving?"

Lucy's lips curve up, secretive and slow, and she leans in to steal one last kiss before pulling back again.

"Don't worry," she replies, shrugging her blouse back on and swiftly doing up the buttons. "You'll see me again."

Something about the phrasing strikes him as odd. Technically there's nothing wrong with it—it's just as valid a statement as "I'll see you" or "We'll see each other"—but between her tone and that smile...

"When?"

Lucy doesn't look over at him, simply laughs quietly as she finishes zipping her skirt.

"1937."

"I know you mentioned time travel, but that doesn't make any sense," Flynn points out.

Lucy nods towards the journal. "Read that. I promise it will."

Part of him wants to ask her to stay, to call her back when she slips on her shoes and crosses over to the door, but he stops himself.

You could bring them back.

Lorena, Iris...that’s what matters.

He opens the journal and starts to read.

Lucy rolls her shoulders as she steps back into the Mothership, wincing at the soreness. It’s been a long week and today was only part of it.

“You good?” Rufus asks, glancing over at her from his seat in the pilot’s chair.

“Yeah,” she acknowledges. “Just ready to get home.”

“Flynn as difficult as ever?” He chuckles when she gives him a withering look and passes over the box she’d left with him. “Kidding. I know he’s mellowed.”

Lucy opens the box and pulls out the rings inside, slipping her engagement ring and wedding band back on her finger.

“If you’re done teasing me about my husband, I’d like to get back to him if you don’t mind,” she says. “And I’m sure Jiya would prefer to have you back sooner rather than later as well.”

“More like it’s my night to get Tucker down and she’ll kill me if I’m late,” Rufus replies, starting up the controls. “But you have a good point there.”

A few minutes and one nausea-inducing time jump later, they’re back in their own time. A short drive after that and Lucy’s home.

The entryway is dark, as are the rest of the rooms on the first floor, but when she reaches the top of the stairs, a pool of light is spilling out from the nearest open door.

Lucy peeks her head in and then leans against the doorframe, watching the scene quietly—Garcia’s seated on the edge of the twin bed with his back to her, voice low as he reads. This version of him is slightly more battered—silver streaked through his hair and more lines around his eyes and mouth—but this version of him is also undeniably hers in a way his younger self couldn't have been.

"Mama!"

Busted, she thinks as she steps into the room. When she reaches the bed she smooths her son's hair back and presses a kiss to his forehead before letting her husband pull her in for a quick peck.

"How are my boys this evening?" She asks. "Have you been good for your father, Ethan?"

The boy nods swiftly and Garcia chuckles softly.

"We watched football," he clarifies.

"American football?"

She laughs when Garcia makes a face.

"Real football."

"I think you may be a little bit of a snob, dear," she teases.

"The rest of the world calls it football," Ethan pipes in and Lucy presses her lips together to keep from giggling as Garcia holds up his hand for a hi-five.

She stays long enough to finish the story and kiss her son goodnight before slipping out of the room and walking down the hall to the master bedroom. Garcia joins her a few minutes later, settling next to her on the edge of the bed and kissing the top of her head.

"It's done?" He asks.

Lucy nods and slips her arms around his waist. "It's up to them now. Or us, rather."

Garcia's fingers skim up the side of her neck, stilling on the darkening mark behind her ear.

"Did I do that?"

Lucy hums and tilts her head to give him better access when he bends to set his mouth to the mark.

"In a manner of speaking," she sighs, curling her fingers into the back of his shirt. "You could have told me, you know."

"Told you what?" His voice is casual, but the way his mouth curves up against her skin tells her he knows exactly what she's referring to.

"Told me that we fucked," Lucy replies, her breath catching on the last syllable as his teeth drag over her pulse point.

"Ah, but then it wouldn't have been a surprise." Garcia slips a hand beneath her blouse, his other falling to her knee, thumb circling slowly just past the hem of her skirt.

"Why, Mr. Flynn," she murmurs. "Are you trying to seduce me?"

"If you have to ask, I'm clearly not doing it right."

"Maybe you should take some pointers from your younger self," Lucy teases. She squeaks when he pinches her thigh in retaliation, then bites off a moan as his hand slides higher.

“You were saying?” He replies with a grin.

"You're a ridiculous man," she sighs.

"And yet, you married me."

"It was—" Lucy's breath hitches when his fingers find her clit. "—probably for the sex. Which reminds me, why do you still have clothes on?"

"Maybe I was waiting for you to take them off."

"Ridiculous."

Later, when they’re spent and satisfied, Lucy curls into his side with a sigh.

"You know,” Garcia says, breaking the silence. “While we're on the subject of lying by omission..." He trails off and gives her a pointed look.

"What did I lie about?" She asks as her fingers play lightly over his chest.

"Lucy Preston?"

Lucy huffs a laugh and rolls onto him, settling with her hands on either side of his head. "It's my name, isn't it?"

"Is it?" He asks, failing completely at holding back a smile. "Mrs. Flynn."

"Preston-Flynn," Lucy corrects. "Technically not a lie."

“And you call me ridiculous.”

“I didn’t hear you disputing that.”

When their laughter has calmed and they’ve slipped into silence again, Lucy hums quietly and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“Do you think they’ll make it?” She asks. “This version of us.”

Garcia tips her chin up to briefly capture her lips. “You gave him the journal,” he replies when he pulls back. “We’ve done everything we can. As you said, it’s up to them now.”

Lucy bites her lip and nods, but her mind still won’t quiet.

“Hey,” Garcia murmurs, stroking a finger down her cheek. “I love you. No matter what.”

“I love you, too,” she replies.

“Anything I want? That’s pretty broad,” she breathes, coughing just afterwards when dust catches in her throat. “Also could be dirty.”

Flynn blinks, the look that passes over his face a mix of incredulity and exasperation, and Lucy congratulates herself on banishing the fear for at least a moment.

“Just saying,” Lucy adds with a shrug, and Flynn ducks his head to briefly kiss her forehead.

“Anything,” he promises. “Just stay alive.”

Lucy curls her fingers in his shirt and leans her head against his chest, wincing when the movement pulls at the wound in her side. But she doesn’t pass out. Not when Wyatt bursts in and the low conversation between him and Flynn swims in and out of her ears, not when they reach the Lifeboat and Rufus blessedly refrains from fussing over her until they’re back in the present, not at all.

(She does throw up over the side of the Lifeboat steps, but she can hardly be blamed for that when the adjustments to fit four people in the machine are fickle bastards at the best of times, let alone when she’s already nauseous)

She needs stitches and a blood transfusion, not to mention antibiotics for the god knows what that was on the knife, but it didn’t hit anything important, so the doctor she sees sends her on her way without too much fuss.

(She was lucky—they all were—that it wasn’t worse. And by the atmosphere over the next two weeks while her stitches heal, it’s clear they all know it)

She and Flynn don’t talk about it.

Lucy lasts a week and a half after her stitches come out before she snaps. And it’s all because of Garcia Flynn.

The thing is, Lucy knows Flynn is an idiot. That’s not a surprise. But she had thought, just maybe, that after months of the two of them sleeping together, he would talk to her instead of avoiding her when he’s running scared.

The most ironic part is that he probably thinks he’s being subtle about it. But he won’t touch her unless he has to, won’t sleep in their bed—and it is their bed at this point—definitely won’t make love to her...he could only be more obvious if he actually came out and told her.

So, she makes a plan.

(Flynn doesn’t want to touch her? Fine. She’ll make due with touching him then)

I’m fine, Lucy wants to say. Look at me. Touch me. See? I’m right here.

“Garcia.” She catches him on the stairs after getting ready for bed and he freezes in his tracks. “Come to bed.”

There’s a flash of something across Flynn’s face before he ducks his head. “I—Lucy—”

“I’m not asking,” she replies firmly, reaching for his hand and lacing her fingers through his.

Flynn doesn’t pull away, but he’s still rooted to the floor. Exhaustion hangs in the lines of his body, and when Lucy looks closer, she can see dark circles under his eyes, but there’s wariness as well. He’s as tense as a horse ready to bolt, as a predator trapped in a corner, and she’s not convinced he won’t lash out if she isn’t careful.

Oh, my love, she sighs internally.

Lucy gentles her tone and takes a step closer, her free hand coming up to touch his cheek.

“Please,” she coaxes. “I don’t sleep as well alone anymore. Come to bed, Garcia.”

He shuts his eyes and for a moment she’s unsure whether he’ll listen or not, but finally he squeezes her hand and nods.

Once they reach their room, Lucy knows she could leave it there—she’s well aware of the battle she just won, even if she didn’t have to do nearly as much as she was prepared to—but she doesn’t.

(She has a plan and she’s damn well going to see the whole thing through. Otherwise, what’s to stop him from running off again in the morning?)

She kisses him instead, first softly, barely even a kiss, and then more insistent, needy, wanting. Flynn returns her kisses, but his hands hang hesitantly in the air by her sides—Lucy huffs in frustration and pushes at his chest until he falls back on the bed before following after him.

She straddles his hips and kisses him again, then catches his hands when they finally move to settle on her waist.

Flynn’s brow furrows as his eyes flick between her hands and her own gaze.

“What?”

“Do you trust me?” Lucy asks, brushing her lips over his knuckles.

“Always,” he replies, and his voice is steady even if his eyes are wary.

She shifts and pins his hands to the mattress above his head, her eyes not leaving his.

“Lucy…” What are you doing? The unspoken question is clear enough.

“I want—” For the first time since she settled on this course of action, she feels unsteady. “I want to touch you. But I don’t want you to touch me.”

Let me show you, she thinks. Let me show you that I’m fine, that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.

Flynn’s quiet, his face unreadable.

“You said I could have anything I wanted,” Lucy reminds, and she sees the indecision flicker across his face as he undoubtedly searches for words to explain that this isn’t exactly what he’d meant without undercutting it completely.

(If nothing else, he’s a man of his word—that much she can count on)

While she waits for him to come up with something, she sets her mouth to his neck, fully intent on leaving a mark. Flynn swallows hard.

“Lucy—”

“Is it so hard to believe I might want to focus on you for once?” Lucy asks, squeezing his hands gently.

“You don’t need to—”

She laughs. “Of course I don’t,” she replies. “This isn’t about feeling obligated, Garcia.”

(No, it’s not about obligation at all. It’s about wanting him to be vulnerable, wanting him to open up to her, showing him that she won’t let him break if he does. She’s not oblivious to the fact that he’s always very attentive to her needs when they’re together like this, and while it’s possible that a lack of reciprocation is selfishness on her part, she thinks it’s more likely that he hasn’t given her the same opportunity to do so. And the reasons for that, well—she may not know every part of his mind, but she knows enough to put the pieces together)

“Please?” Lucy says quietly. “If you really don’t want me to, I won’t. But I’m not going to hurt you, Garcia.”

Let me take care of you, love.

Flynn holds her gaze for a long moment, uncertainty and indecision flickering over his face. Just as she’s about to pull back though, sure she must have miscalculated, he squeezes her hands.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Yes, okay.”

Lucy kisses him again, releasing him in favor of slipping her hands under his shirt. As promised, he doesn’t reach for her, just adjusts to assist her when she slides his shirt off over his head. And then she stops.

It’s funny—she’s seen him with his shirt off several times now, but this is the first instance where she’s taken the time to look in detail, or at least where she hasn’t been distracted before being able to. There are scars scattered across his chest, some fragile spiderwebs, nearly invisible raised lines, others thicker, jagged in a way that suggests serious injury or at least haphazard medical care.

(He has a fighter’s body, hard muscle and scars—and that’s only what’s visible on the outside. She has an Achilles in her bed—beautiful and angry and broken, fighting for something far bigger than himself—and she’s going to put him back together)

Lucy runs her fingers over one of the thin scars, her eyes flicking up to Flynn’s when he goes still.

(She’s not sure he’s breathing, but he’s watching her transfixed, and that focus, all of his attention completely turned to her, is thrilling)

She’s still holding his eyes when she sets her mouth to a twisted, ugly scar that spans two of his ribs. Flynn sucks in a breath as if she’s shocked him, expelling it a moment later in what could be her name or a curse or a prayer or all three when she traces the line of it with her tongue.

After that, Lucy doesn’t stop. She kisses every scar she can find, trying to imagine where they all came from, trying not to think about whether Lorena had ever done this. She leaves a mark over his heart and it feels like a claim, possessive and dark and mine—it feels good enough that she leaves a second just because.

Flynn watches her with shadowed eyes through it all, silent except for the occasional shuddering exhale or murmured words in a language she doesn’t understand.

When she’s done enough—kissed every scar, thoroughly explored him from the waist up—Lucy finally slides down the bed, hooking her thumbs in the waistband of Flynn’s sweatpants and pulling them down his hips. But she doesn’t go straight for her goal either—no, she takes her time there as well, tasting the skin at the hollow of his hip, sliding her hands over his thighs, teasing herself almost as much as him.

“Lucy—” His voice breaks and his hands twist in the sheets and she stops teasing and gives in, taking him in her mouth.

Christ, she’s going to kill him.

(But what a way to go)

Flynn closes his eyes as the wet heat of her mouth engulfs him, no longer able to watch, barely able to even breathe, completely overwhelmed with sensation.

Giving her control like this is sweet torture—he’s wrecked, raw, wrung out. He’d watched her kiss his scars and each touch had felt like she was peeling him open to look inside. It was too much, too gentle, too intimate. Too vulnerable. Like dropping a shield and letting your opponent cut you to ribbons, except that Lucy isn’t an enemy, she’s the woman he loves.

(A month ago in 1888 he’d almost lost her, and he can’t get the image of his hands slick with her blood out of his head. Not when blood on his hands is the last memory he has of Lorena. It was too sharp a reminder. Avoiding her was stupid and obvious and he knew she would see right through it, but it was self-preservation in a way, an instinctual response—run, keep away, it’ll hurt less that way—but it hadn’t worked)

Do you trust me?

Always.

(Back when they started this, he’d likened Lucy to the Titanic—beautiful and nearly unshakable—but there are no unsinkable ships, no unbreakable people, and he’s nothing if not a force of destruction. He’d waited for her to stumble on something, some part of him that would be too much, that would break her...but she’d never broken, no matter what she discovered.

Now he thinks he was wrong. She’s not the Titanic, he is. She’d caught him unawares, ripped through his defenses, left him scrambling to make sense of how he’d gotten there.

She’d made him love her)

Flynn stops her before he comes, a breathless wait on his lips, and blessedly, she listens.

“Please,” he pants, forcing his eyes open just enough to catch hers. “I need—”

He reaches for her then, although he doesn’t make contact, just the gesture clear enough to articulate his intention.

(Usually he tells himself he doesn’t need anything, that he may want certain things, but he doesn’t need to ask for those, and the things he wants are often the same things Lucy wants. It’s not as though he ever leaves their encounters feeling unsatisfied. But right now he needs—needs to touch her, needs to be inside her, needs to feel her fall apart, stunning and alive, so he knows that she is)

“Are you back with me?” Lucy asks, and Flynn doesn’t need to ask what she means.

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

She climbs off the bed briefly to remove her own clothes, but when she returns she takes his hands and guides them over her.

She has a scar now too—fresh as it still is, it stands out against her pale skin. But she doesn’t let him linger over it, instead sliding his hand down between her thighs.

(This, he can do)

Lucy doesn’t let him make her come like that though, only letting him bring her to the edge before tugging his hand away and straddling him, sinking down slowly enough that he almost swears. Neither of them last long.

When Flynn comes back to himself, Lucy’s wrapped herself around him— as if she weren’t already a constant grounding force for him, now she’s practically a physical anchor—and he has no desire to move her. Instead, he tips her head up and kisses her softly, a silent thank you.

Lucy bites her lip and looks at him thoughtfully, clearly debating something internally. He doesn’t have to wait long to find out what it is.

“I love you.”

Flynn thinks about icebergs again, icebergs and sinking ships, but while those words crack something inside of him, they don’t hurt.

She said the words and he didn’t drown.

“I love you, too.”