for the kiss prompt, 11 garcy? ♥️
@visnjicpreston said: Could you do number 11 for Garcy danke schön
11. “I almost lost you” kiss
Lucy doesn’t know what she’s saying, or what she’s doing, other than she’s kneeling in the cold shallows of the Old Head of Kinsale, County Cork, Ireland, on May 7, 1915, and RMS Lusitania just went down in chaos and terror, in eighteen minutes, after being torpedoed by a U-boat. The team barely made it off after knowing it was a terrible risk to get on in the first place, Rufus and Wyatt are coughing and battered and still retching up seawater, and they’re lucky to have washed up on the beach. Only six of the Lusitania’s forty-eight lifeboats launched, and most of those overturned. The waves bob with debris and bodies, Lucy would be more shell-shocked if she thought about it, but she can’t. Flynn is on his back, sprawled out with a nasty gash on his temple, soaked in seawater, and he isn’t breathing.
“Come on.” Lucy tries the chest compressions again, but she isn’t strong enough to really put some elbow grease into them, and she looks around wildly at the other two. Wyatt hesitates an instant, then gets up, pushes her aside, and takes over. He might also mutter something to the effect that you better not die now, you big bastard, but it’s hard to be sure.
Lucy has already tried CPR, but she is altogether willing to try it again, and Wyatt looks as if he’s hoping he won’t be asked. Still, he starts to roll up his weed-wracked suit sleeves, facing up to necessity, when –
Flynn jerks, once and then again. His eyes roll wildly beneath closed lids, he twists to the side, and vomits up an appalling quantity of seawater. Wyatt lets out a long breath that is deeply relieved in more ways than one. “Oh thank God.”
Lucy doesn’t pay attention to that, or to anything. When Flynn has fallen back with an extremely colorful-sounding curse, eyes closed and breathing hard, she clutches hold of his damp lapels and bends over him. “Garcia? Garcia?”
“Lucy?” His hand reaches out for her instinctively, more worried that she might be hurt than what just happened to him. “Lucy?”
“I’m fine, I – ” Just then, Lucy doesn’t care that they don’t know if Rittenhouse was stopped, that Wyatt and Rufus are watching, or any of it. All she knows is that he wasn’t breathing in front of her eyes, there were moments when she thought he was never going to open his, and she doesn’t care. She tightens her grip, leans down, and kisses him, raw and desperately.
Flynn jerks, utters an extremely startled noise, and may, frankly, almost die again on the spot. His hand hovers briefly over her wet, tangled hair, coming out of its proper updo, and shyly caresses the back of her neck. His mouth is salty and sandy and unexpectedly soft, as he opens his lips for her by reflex but seems about to pull back, in case she would rather not kiss the amount of cold Atlantic he just vomited up. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.
Lucy pulls back after a very long moment, their foreheads still touching, breathing hard. “God,” she whispers. “You scared me.”
She thinks she feels him smile against the corner of her mouth. Then he whispers back, with the sass that even a half-dead Garcia Flynn is contractually obligated to muster, “Think it scared Wyatt more.”
