hmm so how about #66 for garcy if you’re still doing those kiss prompts? :)
66. Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In
(yet another 2x06 missing scene for more reasons)
They have been talking on and off for almost three hours, the level in the vodka bottle has been dipping lower and lower, and there are only a few swallows left. Flynn is a man-mountain and is displaying no obvious signs of inebriation aside from a tendency to be too exact about pronouncing his words and a heavier lilt to his accent than usual, but Lucy is feeling decidedly tiddled. She could try to stand up and insist that she’s not drunk, as one usually does in this situation, but her head might float off her shoulders, and that would backfire. Instead, she glances sidelong at Flynn, ignoring the sloshing in her skull. “Thanks.”
He smiles, softly and without pretention. “Of course.”
“For this,” Lucy presses on, as if there might be some confusion about the reason for her gratitude. She just got done telling him a long and vaguely embarrassing story about something that happened in her first year teaching at Stanford, and she can’t even remember exactly what she said for half of it, but it just felt good to talk about something remotely ordinary. “And you know. Listening to – to the woes of the history department.”
“It sounds terrible,” Flynn agrees diplomatically. “You would not believe that they could not even schedule a class properly.”
“That’s what ‘m saying.” Lucy pulls her feet up under the blanket, where they’re sitting side by side on his bed. “Totally iser – iser – iss – “
“Irresponsible?” By the brief pause and deliberate intonation, it took Flynn a while to come up with the English word too. “Very.”
“Yeah.” Lucy looks at him again. He is watching her with an amused, soft expression as if he could listen to her rant about the university’s bureaucratic mishaps all night, and it hits her almost physically, in a way she can’t articulate. That she’s sitting here, sharing space and a bed and a late night and definitely too much vodka with Garcia Flynn, telling him these boring ordinary things, and he does not appear to mind in the least. She keeps looking at that smile, the way it changes his face. She keeps looking at his mouth.
“Maybe you should go to sleep?” he suggests. Is not cruel enough to add that she stumble back out to the couch in her lightweight condition, which is a relief, even as it seems to imply that she’s staying here – with him? With him? “It has been a long day. And night.”
“I… yeah. It has.” Lucy rakes both hands through her hair, tousled in a dark cloud around her face. He still hasn’t turned away, and she feels hungry and raw and lonely and not at all adverse to a little night music. Scoots closer, then closer again, as he looks at her in considerable startlement. Then, before she knows exactly what she’s doing, she tips her chin in a way she knows is cute. He clearly likes her. It’s an invitation. She’s drunk and doesn’t care very much.
Flynn’s eyes drop to her mouth. She can see that he’s tempted, but he doesn’t move. So it’s Lucy who has to take the initiative, reaching up and putting her hand alongside his cheek, then clumsily tugging his mouth to hers.
For half a moment, Flynn kisses her back, though there is definitely not much sobriety on his part and none at all on hers. He doesn’t seem shocked, if only since there isn’t much space for it, in this drowsy, dreamy, heightened liminal space that does not feel entirely real. Then he gently but decidedly pulls away. “Come on,” he says, very softly. “Sleep, Lucy.”
(When he makes the gentle and responsive joke the next morning, he can’t help but feeling a little bad, but it’s the truth, and so he just blushes like an idiot.)
