I would love to see Flynn/Lucy, "rival coworkers are asked to pick out the office christmas tree (idk one of them has a truck, the other works in finance/oversight)" or "goes to christmas eve mass out of familial obligation; you my friend look equally miserable"
Oops, I had Feelings about the second one. Tagging @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels and @qqueenofhades for Reasons.
The incense wafts thick through the air, and candles flicker all around. The church is decorated with poinsettias and evergreen, white and gold cloth draping the altar and hung across the back of the large crucifix by the chapel. The organ echoes as the choir sings, all the melodies familiar enough.
And Lucy positively hates all of it.
Maybe if she had Amy with her things would be different—midnight mass was their thing with their father after all, and it had been Amy’s idea that they go together this year when he died in July—but Amy is stuck in Chicago, her flight cancelled due to snow, so it’s only Lucy. Lucy, who is suffocating in the middle of a crowd of devout Catholics. Lucy, who isn’t exactly feeling the spirit of the season.
She makes it through the Gloria before she excuses herself, murmuring apologies to the other churchgoers in her pew as she squeezes past. When she hits the entrance, she stops just outside the door, letting the cool winter air wash over her. Really, there’s no reason she shouldn’t keep walking until she hits the parking lot, but she can’t quite make herself leave completely.
As Lucy stands there, trying to talk herself into going back inside, the other door opens and a man steps out, stopping opposite her on the steps. He doesn’t appear to have noticed her—tension hangs in every line of him as he reaches up and swipes a hand over his face, then rakes it through his hair. Like her, he doesn’t seem to know whether or not to leave.
“You okay?” Lucy asks before she can stop herself.
The man starts, his head whipping around to stare at her. It’s clear he thought he was alone with whatever crisis had driven him outside.
“I’m—” His voice is rough. He looks down as he clears his throat.
“I’m fine,” he finishes after a pause. It seems like a pretty blatant lie from where Lucy’s standing, but then, she’s not in a position to judge. “I just need a minute.”
“Yeah,” Lucy sighs. “I get that.”
They lapse into silence. If she listens carefully, Lucy can just catch the sound of the cantor beginning the psalm through the door. She should go back in. She doesn’t.
“You know, I almost didn’t come tonight,” she says when the silence becomes too unbearable. The man doesn’t reply, but cuts his eyes across to her curiously so she continues. “I can’t decide what’s worse in terms of being on good terms with God—not showing up or ditching a quarter of the way through the service.”
The man snorts quietly. “God and I are on pretty contentious terms as it is, so frankly I doubt it matters.”
“Been awhile?” Lucy asks.
He hesitates, measuring a response, then says, “I always went to church with my wife. She and our daughter were killed nearly a year ago. I haven’t set foot in one since the funeral.”
“Why the change of heart tonight?”
“Lorena loved midnight mass,” he replies. “It was her favorite service every year. So I thought, maybe—but it’s all so—”
“My dad was the same way,” Lucy says when he breaks off. “He—lung cancer. A few months ago. And I figured I didn’t exactly have other plans tonight, even after my sister couldn’t make it, but—”
“But,” he echoes, tone resigned and mouth twisting in solidarity. And silence falls again.
Inside, they’re onto the homily. Probably something about peace or love or faith if Lucy had to guess. She thinks again about going back inside, but opening the door seems like a Herculean task.
Instead, what slips out of her mouth is: “Do you want to get out of here?”
The man blinks, startled again. “What?”
Lucy shrugs. “We both already walked out once, seems to me there’s no reason to force something that clearly doesn’t want to happen. About ten minutes down the road there’s a diner that I used to go to during grad school whenever I was having a crisis of confidence—the owner doesn’t have any family so she keeps it open, even on Christmas, for whoever needs...somewhere to go.”
He looks back at the church door, then over at her, his eyes shadowed but thoughtful.
“I don’t even know your name,” he says slowly.
“Lucy Preston,” she replies, holding out her hand. “I teach in the history department at Stanford.”
Haltingly, as though he’s forgotten somewhat how to touch another person, he takes the offered hand.
“Garcia Flynn,” he admits. “I run a private security business.”
“Well, Garcia Flynn...now that you know my name, I’ll ask again. Do you want to get out of here?”
His hand is warm in hers, big and calloused, and the touch lingers far beyond a normal handshake when neither of them let go. His eyes search hers for a long moment, and something sparks in her chest—interest or possibility or just the recognition of a kindred spirit. Finally though, he does step back and release her hand. Lucy misses it instantly.
(The next year, they go to midnight mass together. And they stay until the end.)
