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qqueenofhades · 7 years ago

Text

folie á trois

Or, the world sucks, let’s write more smut. Garcyatt (Flynn/Lucy/Wyatt) and yes, it goes all ways. Because angst and reasons and I will always hold onto these idiots being an OT3 in my heart. For @extasiswings, @onlymorelove, @gwennieliz, and @frankfreakincastle.

Rated E.

AO3.

With Lucy and Wyatt, it’s one thing.

They started out a little rocky, sure, but that didn’t last very long. When you’re thrown together in the circumstances that they are, you learn overnight how to trust each other, and let everything else come later. More or less, anyway. Wyatt helps Lucy face her fears in Nazi Germany; she does the same thing for him during the siege of the Alamo. They’re teammates, of course, but there’s something there that isn’t between them and Rufus. Wyatt has unresolved issues over Jessica’s death, to say the least, but he can’t help but be drawn to Lucy. She’s bright and beautiful and strong as hell, they are literally crashing through time and space at each other’s side, and Wyatt’s pragmatism balances Lucy’s compassion. They just work well together. They can turn to each other with questions that nobody else in the world has. Their attraction is not unexpected, and it blooms quickly, even if unacknowledged by both of them. They are both too focused on this ludicrous job to do much with it.

Still, though. You can only ignore something like this for so long before it will find ways to pop up when you least expect (or frankly, want) it. They have been orbiting around each other, drawn by the other’s gravity, the promise of comfort and safety and solace among the burning ruin of their old world. Why wouldn’t they want it, even if (much as they promise themselves) only for one night?

The kiss to put Bonnie and Clyde off the scent was a pretense, even if they both realized fairly quickly that they’d have to insist on it. The one in old Hollywood is less so.

Wyatt’s hands on Lucy’s hips, her arms around her neck, the lingering whiff of perfume and cigarette smoke in the air, the way they both stop breathing momentarily, the way even their endlessly spinning, upturned world seems to halt around them – neither of them can forget this one, or brush it off, or think less of it. Can’t ignore the half-tender, half-hungry ache where their hands touch, their eyes linger, the way they would give anything for Rittenhouse to cut it out for half a goddamn minute so they could even have a chance to see what might happen. Possibilities. It hangs over them, it’s always been something they’ve been latently aware of, but this is when it feels like more than that.

If it was that simple (ha, simple) it might have been, despite everything, straightforward. A man, a woman, and a mutual attraction. Most ordinary stories start out that way.

This, however, is – as well noted – anything but ordinary.

With Lucy and Flynn, it’s altogether different.

They start out as sworn enemies, and things don’t necessarily become any smoother from there. He tells her she’s more important than she knows while they’re standing by the burning Hindenburg, and follows it up by shooting Abraham Lincoln in front of her. And yet, complicated and fraught and dangerous as it is, there is clearly an attraction between them. It is everything her bond with Wyatt is not: raw, rough, uncontrolled, dark – and more than a little off limits, for more than one reason. To look at Flynn is to know what a bad idea it is to get closer. Even when Lucy is stealing glances at him under her eyelashes in 1780, when she’s watching him water the horses and he’s telling her about wanting to be a cowboy, that he can’t go back to his wife and daughter even if he succeeds, it’s not an intimacy that invites sustainability. Especially when Flynn, naturally, follows it up by kidnapping her. Lucy would be perfectly justified to tell him to get lost and never look back.

Except the next time they see each other, in 1927, she orders him to make his minion let go of her, and he does. And in 1954, she talks him out of his long-conceived revenge plot in just a few minutes, when she asks if God brought them together. And when they meet in 2017 for the first time, when their enmity has turned almost totally into an easy familiarity, bordering on flirtatiousness, when he tells her that she herself gave him the journal –

(Of course that crashes and burns and goes terribly to hell.)

Even after they fish Flynn out of jail and make him part of the team, he seems hell-bent on continuing to punish them as much as Rittenhouse, Lucy in particular. Yet there’s a reflexivity to his lashing out, a terrible sadness, that makes it clear he’s doing it only because he has no idea how else to live anymore. Lucy keeps trying, but she also can’t hold his hand if he’s going to throw a temper tantrum while they’re attempting to save the world as we know it. Flynn is undoubtedly effective, even if he takes just as few prisoners as before. The rational, sane part of Lucy knows that she should forget about this attraction, even more than she needs to put aside her draw to Wyatt. Really. Garcia Flynn. Garcia Flynn.

The rest of Lucy – especially after he saves her in Salem, punches his way through pretty much every Puritan in the damn town to get to her – wants nothing more than to tell Rittenhouse where to stick it, by having Flynn stick it somewhere else.

And then with Flynn and Wyatt – oh God, where do you even start?

They start out trying to kill each other, and it stays pretty much exactly the same from there. After multiple rounds of fistfights, gun battles, wrestling matches, snark-fests, staredowns, and other repeated and explicit expressions of how much they just cannot fuckin’ stand each other, anyone would be justified in taking them exactly at their word. For Flynn and Wyatt to exist in the same space is for them to be fighting, in low-or-high-level ways. Excepting the three seconds they fought back to back in David Rittenhouse’s parlor of nightmares, and the time Lucy forced them to work together in 1954, this has been the rule.

And yet. Even in the middle of that, in bits and pieces, they have become slowly aware the other isn’t entirely what they thought. Flynn told Wyatt what happened to his wife and daughter, and – albeit with ulterior motives up the butt – tried to help Wyatt save Jessica. They have tussled and tugged and twisted each other, physically and mentally, and Wyatt – bless his five-foot-ten heart – tends to come up on the literally short end of the stick. By all appearances, he’s completely relieved when Flynn finally gets thrown in the slammer, even if he knows it’s hard for Lucy. Finally. That’s gotten rid of that guy. Took long enough.

Of course, it only takes one disastrous mission for Wyatt to be the one to suggest getting Flynn out of there after all, even if he knows this will once more be a living hell for him. And of course, as noted, it is. Would it kill Flynn, would it actually, physically kill him, not to exceed maximum dickpacity at all times? Would it?

(And yet, there are moments when Wyatt becomes aware that Lucy isn’t the only one Flynn looks at with that tongue-in-the-mouth expression, the one that is clearly not far from picturing her without her clothes. Even more confusingly, he isn’t altogether sure he wants it to stop.)

(With all that bickering and fighting and fragile, unspoken kindred-spiritness, it would be more surprising if there wasn’t something, however much ignored.)

Ignoring it, after all, seems to be the attempted play for all of them. And hey, it works.

To a point.

It’s the night after Rittenhouse has come very close to destroying the Lifeboat – the one fragile metal eyeball that conveys various configurations of the unhappily-foursome Time Team through history after them, the one thing which they really can’t do without. The gang has made it back to 2018, but barely, and Rufus is shut up with it, trying to triage the damage and reboot the mainframe before the data loss becomes critical. Possibly Flynn, Wyatt, and Lucy should be helping him rather than sitting in the next room and drinking, but Wyatt and Lucy know bupkis about the delicate technical workings of the Lifeboat, and Rufus would be exactly as happy about Flynn trying to “help” him out as he would be to be sodomized with a cactus. They’re all in a weird mood anyway. There are moments when they actually click as a team, and moments – well, most of them – when they don’t. This misfortune, though, has pushed them briefly into more alignment than usual, and they’re almost enjoying each other’s company, maligning Rittenhouse and periodically suggesting they look in on Rufus, before agreeing once more he’s better off without them. There is a lot of booze, because frankly this shit is ridiculous, and they are not expected to suffer it totally sober.

After several drinks, the mood in the room is downright cordial – more than that, even. There’s an undeniable current that catches at them when they glance at each other, and in the way it does, alcohol has lowered everyone’s inhibitions, made them more sloppy about glancing away in time. Nobody has any clue what might be about to happen, but they seem to be aware that there’s a chance something might. As casually as possible, Wyatt drifts over to the door and turns the lock, as if Rittenhouse might come bursting in, when he’s actually trying to prevent Rufus from seeing something that might be burned into his brain. He’s still standing there when Lucy says, with the exaggerated precision of the rather drunk, “I think we should probably go home, shouldn’t we?”

Wyatt turns around with a raised eyebrow. “So someone’s calling a cab, then?”

There’s a pause as everyone considers that. It’s pretty obvious that they’re in no state to drive, and unless Connor Mason feels like using one of his doubtless several expensive supercars to ferry three-quarters of the plastered Time Team home to sleep it off, they can either Uber it or walk. Leaving Rufus behind to work late into the evening seems cheap – they might not be helping out much here, but at least they’re here. For, you know, moral support. So he can walk in and see them faithfully there, know they’ve got his back. It’s the principle of the thing.

Flynn, for his part, doesn’t say anything, until Wyatt unwillingly wonders where exactly home is for him, these days. He doesn’t have his super-secret villain lair or the Mothership. His previous accommodation used to be an undisclosed location. Did Mason Industries buy him a shitty apartment as part of the “sorry about that SWAT team” arrangement they swung with him? Does he just go to a motel room and stare at the wall until the next call comes?

“We can stay,” Wyatt says, almost impulsively. “Rufus might – ”

There’s a pause, and then his companions nod, earnestly and drunkenly. Of course, Rufus. That’s why they’re staying. It’s almost adorable.

“Well, we should – ” Trust Lucy to try to stay focused on the mission, even at the present moment. She gets up, then stumbles, and Flynn reflexively flashes out a hand, catching her elbow. It’s not a particularly compromising touch, and yet both of them freeze. They briefly both seem to have forgotten how to breathe.

Lucy is standing, yet she’s not much taller than Flynn is seated. She looks down into his face, and Flynn is the first to look away, look down, almost ashamed. What just passed between them, Wyatt can’t be entirely sure, but he has something of an idea. Something stirs in his stomach, dark and strange and hungry. The world twists sideways in a way it didn’t a moment ago.

Telling himself (oh, familiar refrain) to ignore it, Wyatt rationalizes that it’s the gentlemanly thing to assist a lady who might be light on her feet, even if Flynn already has that covered. He strides over in as straight a line as he can. “Lucy, you all right there?”

“Fine.” Lucy sounds oddly breathless, as Flynn is still holding her elbow (he seems to have forgotten how to let go) and now Wyatt is standing close as well. Her eyelashes flutter, her gaze flickers between them, until the energy is both strong and unmistakable. Both Wyatt and Flynn seem to be holding in check, waiting for Lucy to tell them if they’re mistaken or not. She is the connecting tissue, the hypotenuse that draws this triangle together, the star which both of them have followed. If she says jump, they’ll ask how high. It’s just how it is.

Lucy’s tongue unconsciously wets her lips. She shoots a glance at the door, as if judging the likelihood of a Rufus entrance. This isn’t exactly the prime setting for scenes of passionate romance – it’s just a generic waiting room, with uncomfortable laminate couches and beige area carpet, the table scattered with the booze bottles in various stages of empty. Sunset at a Tuscany villa, it is not. And yet. They’ve been plenty of strange and fabulous places by now. The sheer mundanity of the setting is, in a way, a gift in itself.

Slowly, Lucy’s fingers tighten on Wyatt’s sleeve, and on Flynn’s arm. For her part, she also isn’t sure what she’s asking for, only that now that she has, she doesn’t want to pretend she didn’t. Flynn slowly rises to his feet, towering over both of them, but his gaze is intent and silent and almost tangible, physical, on her skin. Lucy doesn’t want to decide which of them to kiss first, so she reaches up and puts a hand on each of their heads, pulling them down toward her. As if they can hash that out between themselves, but she needs it anyway.

Wyatt and Flynn each kiss half of her mouth, both of them uttering startled noises in the back of their throats, but it’s not as if they have any remote capacity to do anything but that. Flynn’s hand presses into her back, as Wyatt’s cups her head, and Lucy stands on her tiptoes, turning her head first toward one, then the other. Wyatt’s kiss is gentle and warm and tender, unspeakably sweet, a desperately needed balm for a bruised and weary soul. Flynn’s kiss is like lightning and thunder and a cloudburst over the desert, hot and bright and relentless as a falling star.

Lucy is the one to give a choked sigh this time, fisting her hands in their shirts, as their arms come around her and each other in a tangle. They go slowly to their knees, Flynn more or less on the bottom – he’s the largest, Lucy thinks, it’s only fair. He has her in one arm and Wyatt in the other, the latter two on hands and knees before they slide down closer. Lucy tucks herself into Flynn’s side, hand running along his chest, at the untucked edge of his shirt, the sharp line of his hipbone. He bucks inadvertently up into her, which has the effect of knocking Wyatt off balance. Because of course of all the people in the world, only Wyatt Logan and Garcia Flynn would trip and accidentally fall onto each other’s mouths, that is exactly what they do.

Both of them freeze again, for a split second. It’s not clear if either of them have ever kissed another man before, much less what they think about it being this one. They can be seen debating whether to pull away and go for the tired old “no homo” card, truthfully or not. But that likewise does not last very long. Wyatt pulls himself up, grips Flynn’s face in his hands, and kisses him altogether differently from how he kissed Lucy: hot, rough, biting, tasting, taunting. It’s not so much a kiss as a declaration of war and a proposal of a truce all at once. Flynn’s free hand comes up and grips the back of Wyatt’s neck, shifting him closer, their eyes half-closed. Even if it’s come in fighting, the two of them know each other’s bodies the best of anyone here. The tension is coiled and curled and unfurling, thighs pressed between the other’s, mouths opening, hands grabbing. For a moment, for two, they almost forget about Lucy altogether.

It’s a dazzled half a minute later when they finally, slowly pull apart, eyes opening to stare at each other, Wyatt’s hand alongside Flynn’s face, Flynn looking like he’s been hit with a speeding – well, pick your period vehicle. As if to check that they did not in fact just dream that, they duck heads and kiss again, slightly less bite-y this time, before recalling Lucy and turning toward her. They roll over on the floor, Wyatt kissing her mouth as Flynn slides down her, pressing kisses into the unbuttoned part of her blouse, undoing the other buttons, and making a leisurely exploration down her stomach. Lucy wriggles and sighs, one hand coming down to clutch hold of his dark head while her other pulls Wyatt closer. They keep kissing, Lucy’s back arching, which gives Flynn a better angle at her hips. He starts to tug at the zip of her jeans, then stops, as if coming to his senses. “Lucy,” he mutters. “Lucy, do you really want – ”

In answer, Lucy pulls him back between her legs, never breaking her kiss with Wyatt. Flynn hesitates, then fumbles at her jeans, probably less efficiently than he could, as if once more giving her a chance to change her mind. She pulls away from Wyatt long enough to utter a deprived little whimper. “Garcia – ”

It isn’t entirely the first time she’s called him by his first name, but it’s rare enough that it catches his attention. He looks up at her, waiting, and she lifts herself, angling herself toward him. With fingers that have turned to mud, he undoes the jeans, slides them down her slender hips, and hooks down the lace-edged panties. When a final questioning look has produced the same answer, he leans down and licks her very, very lightly.

Lucy makes a noise that is hell on his determination to do this – for once in his miserable life – carefully. He reaches up to grip one hip, thumb in the hollow of the bone, holding her in place as he makes a thorough exploration of her. She is wet and sweet and slippery on his tongue, as he curls it against her clit, then noses down to her entrance and ventures to taste inside her. She makes another of those maddening noises, grips his hair, and clearly does her utmost not to smash his face into her, but needing more friction, more pressure. Wyatt is kissing at her cleavage, her bra straps sliding down her arms, as he takes a nipple into his mouth and toys it. The dual sensation leaves Lucy flushed and gasping and prostrate, shivering, starving.

After a few more minutes at their respective places, Flynn and Wyatt switch, almost as if they actually planned this. But enjoyable as it is to be physically adored and intensely pleasured by two men who, let’s face it, nobody is kicking out of bed for eating crackers, Lucy has had enough of lying there like an objet d’arte to be passively admired. She sits up and pushes Flynn down onto his back, then climbs up to straddle him, grinding on him hard through his jeans, which have also managed to slide low on his hips. She lifts herself off long enough to slide them further, then settles squarely athwart him, pressing his hardness against her through his briefs. Flynn makes a noise as if he genuinely fears his heart might give out on the spot.

Wyatt, never one to resist needling Flynn, spots an opportunity. He slides up behind Lucy, kisses the back of her neck and runs a hand down her stomach, then shifts around and settles alongside Flynn, using one hand to grip Lucy’s thigh and intensify each of her movements. With the other, he gathers Flynn’s head up to his mouth and resumes kissing him like a straight uppercut to the jaw. It is clearly a revelation to both of them that they enjoy this almost as much as hitting each other – dare one even say, more. Wyatt works his slow way down Flynn’s neck as Lucy keeps up her grinding, the sort of teamwork they’ve always been good at, no matter the situation. If this now means making Flynn hot under the collar in an altogether different way than previously – well, it’s not too surprising.

Therefore, it’s Flynn’s turn to grab hold of both of them and try to roll back on top, but Wyatt and Lucy don’t let him do that. God forbid Flynn give up control for more than five minutes, and they’re not done with him yet. Lucy leans down atop him as he pulls one arm free, gets hold of her head with one hand, and they dive into a devouring and savage kiss. Wyatt slides around from behind and pushes Flynn almost upright (it takes a lot of pushing – he’s obnoxiously tall), wrapping his arms around his waist. Lucy wraps her legs around both of them, Flynn’s arms encircle her, and everyone loses track of their own boundaries just then. Wyatt kisses Flynn’s neck and shoulders, Flynn kisses Lucy’s mouth, Lucy leans over to kiss Wyatt as well, and distantly and vaguely, Wyatt hopes the Lifeboat is seriously gorked after all. Not fatally. Just enough to keep Rufus occupied for another, oh, forty minutes at least.

That scrap of rationality is, however, quickly eradicated in the ongoing distractions of the moment. They end up all together on the floor again (this cheap-ass carpet is going to leave rug burn, Wyatt thinks – Connor Mason is a damn billionaire, why couldn’t he upholster his waiting rooms more comfortably for the event of his employees having an impromptu ménage a trois?) and their legs get tangled together on all sides, their arms the same. Everything is kisses and hands and strokes and darting touches, Lucy’s leg hiked up as Wyatt’s chin rests on her stomach and Flynn’s chin on Wyatt’s back. At one point Flynn ends up on top, and has just enough time to look triumphant before Wyatt rolls him flat, slides down him, and discovers the best way of all to make Garcia Flynn shut the fuck up. (Also Wyatt, because his mouth is full, but never mind.)

Flynn swears in one of his multiple foreign languages, grabbing at Wyatt’s shoulder, but Lucy catches both of his wrists, pushes them over his head, and holds them there while she kisses him thoroughly. Flynn is actually almost whimpering. Poor Flynn. His predicament is terrible, after all, and Wyatt is catching onto this whole idea rather quickly. Maybe this isn’t his first time batting for the same team, or maybe he’s just a fast learner. Either way, the results are indisputable.

Flynn has just about lost his damn mind (and other things) entirely when Wyatt relinquishes him at the very edge of satisfaction, sitting up and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are hooded, cheeks flushed, shirt hanging off his shoulders. Hey, it’s the first time he’s decisively beaten Flynn in – well, possibly ever. You gotta let him enjoy the little things.

Lucy sits back on her heels too, thoroughly enjoying the sight they are presented with – if they knew that all they had to do to defeat the big bad time terrorist was to fuck him, they would have. . . well, probably not done it before now anyway. God, the lot of them are stubborn. Her pulse is hammering in her fingers and her throat and her chest, she has possibly never seen anything so incredibly arousing in her life, and one way or another, she wants the main event of this party. Flynn is still dazed and wheezing and probably seeing double, and the humane thing to do is let him have a moment, so Lucy moves, almost shyly, toward Wyatt. It’s not as if this is a likely moment for any of them to discover scruples, but still.

Wyatt reaches out for her, taking her by the hips, as she stops in front of him. Their eyes meet, and hesitant, timid half-smiles cross their faces. “You sure, Luce?” he murmurs, slurring his words just a bit, between alcohol and lust and late nights and wanting this probably forever, but never saying so. She can sense he’s asking himself as much as her. “You sure?”

In answer, Lucy moves up against him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he catches his breath, gazing at her with that quiet, simple adoration. Her panties are already most of the way down her thigh, and it doesn’t take long for him to undo his belt and shuck his. He moves closer to her, between her legs, and nudges at her. Both of them turn halfway, as if inviting Flynn to watch, as Wyatt – slowly at first, carefully, reverentially, as if doing this too fast might make him wake up, and he wants to stay asleep just a little longer – slides into her.

Lucy bites a gasp, gripping his thighs, steadying herself. They stare into each other’s eyes, know that this has long been coming, as she moves her knees apart and he takes hold of her hips. He draws her onto him until he rests his chin on her shoulder, both of them breathing hard, coming to terms with this connection in the way they have with all their others. Flynn seems to have somewhat recovered himself by now, but he doesn’t move, watching them as if oddly unsure if he should interrupt. If this is what they want, he’ll stay out of it.

“You,” Wyatt manages, in one of the more considerable efforts for intelligible speech in his life. “Here.”

Flynn hesitates a final instant, then moves closer. Wyatt ventures a thrust, quick and slick and sweet, and both he and Lucy gasp. Then he pulls out of her, turns her, and holds her against him, her back pressed into his chest. He caresses her arm and shoulder and breast, kisses the nape of her neck, and lifts her slightly, as Lucy reaches out with her other arm to wrap around Flynn’s shoulder, drawing him against her, and then – after the finest and most minute of hesitations – into her.

Flynn does not enter her the same way Wyatt did, with that restrained softness and care. He comes in all at once, just like he always has, filling and stretching her to the point of a sweet burn, their foreheads brushing and their mouths open, as her fingers grip in his hair and his hands search for purchase somewhere, anywhere. They end up settling on Wyatt, the three of them swaying on the spot, Wyatt sliding between Lucy’s thighs from the back, as he and Flynn lean over her shoulder to kiss one more time. They might tell themselves it’ll just be tonight, but it will almost surely end up being just one more lie.

Flynn moves, strong and deep and thorough, sliding and rasping on Lucy, as Wyatt matches the pace from the other side. They grasp hold of each other, working – for once – in perfect harmony. You can almost hear the distant strains of Elton John in the background.

It’s a tumbled, messy, three-way thing, the end of it. They wind up on the floor again, losing track of who is who, what is what – it barely seems to matter, anyway. Flynn bites at Lucy’s shoulder, and Wyatt bites at Flynn’s, and Lucy is pressed into both of them, and they collapse in a total boneless tangle, heaving for breath, undone, unmade. The silence thunders, except for their hammering hearts.

It takes a long time to untangle, to badly and slowly draw apart, to chase down scattered clothing. Their fingers don’t work as they used to, and nobody can catch their breath. Their cheeks are flushed, their mouths bruised, their eyes shining, faces tracked with sweat, hair tousled and necks marked. Even if they don’t say a word, if Rufus walked in right now, he’d not be in a whole lot of doubt about what just happened.

Wyatt, Lucy, and Flynn get to their feet. Make a perfunctory effort at clearing up the booze bottles. Really hope Mason doesn’t have CCTV in his waiting rooms, because that would just be awkward. The world feels strange and unsettled and fragile as thin glass. As if, no matter the absurdity that is their real life, this is something else again.

They check. Rufus is still working, God bless his heart. Saving their asses while they are doing decidedly different things with them. None of them deserve Rufus.

(None of them want to tell him, either. Though they are, of course, less subtle than they think. It’s entirely possible he’ll guess anyway. Yet it almost sounds nice to have that kind of problem. A problem that ordinary people have, wondering whether a mutual friend will catch onto their romantic shenanigans, rather than the fear that any mistake could doom the entire world and all of time and space. One that, one day, they might even allow themselves to have.)

But not yet.

Not just yet.

They have to fight until the war’s done, and it isn’t.

#garcyatt #garcyatt ff #timeless ff #garcy #garcy ff #flogan #lyatt #lucy x flynn x wyatt #for reasons

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