“I’ll take care of you.” “It’s rotten work.” “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” for Garcy? ^^
I’m hanging out with my sister today somewhere with decent internet, so here we go! Set roughly during Timeless S3, courtesy of @timeless-season-four.
18. “I’ll take care of you.” “It’s rotten work.” “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”
Lucy has gotten pretty good at ignoring the emotional ramifications of losing everything that ever mattered to her.
There’s always something else to focus on. Research into the possible events Rittenhouse wants to alter, getting into the Lifeboat to stop Rittenhouse, figure out who exactly is running Rittenhouse now, Rittenhouse this, Rittenhouse that, in every goddamn part of her life--
She’s not the only one fraying at the edges, though she hasn’t been the best of friends in that regard. They’ve all been suffering in some way since Jessica betrayed them, since Chinatown, since Rufus came back, since the change in Rittenhouse’s leadership--
They’re all crumbling in some way or another.
But for the most part, everyone has someone they can lean on. For all that Rufus and Jiya are trying to find a new footing in their relationship, they still have each other. Wyatt has been confiding in Denise as of late, and even Connor has barely let Rufus out of his sight.
Who’s still being treated like a ticking bomb. Maybe less so than before, but Lucy is pretty sure someone said something (she has her money on Denise, but maybe other factors are at work that she hasn’t noticed) and suddenly he’s not the stable factor of the team anymore. He’s fraying like the rest of them.
Well, Lucy finally decides, several evenings after Roanoke and after playing witch and familiar with Flynn, after an embrace that made her feel safer and more secure than she has in far too long, none of us deserve to be alone right now.
Lucy steels her courage and knocks on his door. She’s only half-surprised that he opens it. They stare at each other for an immeasurable moment, stretched and sludgy like strings of honey.
Just like the evening after a mission with uplifting blue’s music and shared lost secrets, Flynn lets her in without a word.
Once she’s inside, he speaks. “No vodka, tonight.”
Lucy shakes her head. “I just wanted to ask...you’ve been...” Her fingers tangle and untangle from each other. “I guess I wanted to see how you’ve been.”
Flynn scoffs and waves his hand. “It’s nothing you need to worry--”
“But I do,” she interrupts. “I...” she clears her throat, “...you’ve been...you’ve helped keep my head above water for a long time now, and I’m worried that you won’t take care to keep from drowning yourself.”
Flynn stares at her in that way that always wraps around her, warm and familiar and terrifying all at once, like she’s something precious, but also sublime and powerful. She has no idea how he does it and she never wants to destroy that feeling. She wants to hold onto it as long as possible.
Before he knows the truth. Before he knows who you really are. Before he knows you carry the lineage of Rittenhouse himself in your blood.
“I’m not sure you want to be the one to hold me up,” Flynn eventually says. He wipes a hand down his face and looks very much like something inside of him is still dying. Wants to reach out, but is terrified of falling, of hoping for someone to reach back.
I’m not worth it. He doesn’t say it, but she hears it and it chips away at her chest.
She reaches out, tentatively, and brushes her fingers against his arm. “Well,” she whispers, “I think I do.”
You’re worth it. You’re worth everything, and I’m sorry I haven’t expressed that more.
She doesn’t say it either, but she hopes he hears it. He deserves just as much validation and faith as she does, and if she has to be the one to offer it, damn it, she will do whatever it takes.
(It should frighten her, how necessary this man has become to her. But it’s not. It feels like the most right thing that’s happened since she was brought to this damn bunker.)
He still hasn’t looked away from her. She still hasn’t taken her hand back.
Eventually, he lets out a shuddering breath and pulls his arm away so he can hold her hand. The feeling of his fingers on her palm does dangerous things to her heartbeat.
They sit on opposite ends of his bed and, after some verbal fumbling, get to talking about everything that’s happened and even come close to what in particular is bothering him.
It’s a start. Lucy will take it if it means helping him the way he’s helped her.
(And if she keeps nights like these tucked away in a corner of her mind so she can have something to hold onto when he inevitably recoils from her, well, that’s nothing anyone else needs to know.)
