Steam
Chapter 1
Lucy walked silently and slowly in the bunker careful not to step too loudly and rouse her sleeping "flatmates". There were some perks to spending the night awake and staring at the ceiling, just waiting for the first rays of the pale sun to lurk in on the tiny windows and give her a pitiful excuse to get up. At least she didn't have to worry about whether she would have hot water or if it would already be gone, as was the case quite often. Today, she would be the first, and at least she would have five minutes, to lose herself in the sensation of the hot water caressing her without her constant worries and doubts.
However, as she entered the bathroom she was bitterly disappointed to hear water streaming. She stood there in her comfy shorts and T-shirt, a substitute for real pyjamas and almost threw her towel against the mirror in blatant frustration. Why couldn't she have a tiny, tiny bit of luck? At least with showering? Was that really too much to ask? She hadn't had any luck lately, not with her family, not with men, nor with her living situation (she would kill for a proper bed). Not even in any game they played in the bunker to kill time between two world-saving crazy missions. But no, it seemed she couldn't even have a shower without an obstacle.
Lucy stared at the little R2-D2s on the shower curtain (it was Jyia's choice; once a fan girl, always a fangirl, it seemed) and tried to figure out who had robbed her of her hot shower. But the morning light was too dim to see neither the height nor the shape of that person. Well, the list of the possible candidates was limited but Lucy wasn't in the mood to guess.
She exhaled sharply then slowly and silently turned around to leave. Her hand was already on the door handle when something happened that made her froze in place.
"Lucy…" It was somewhere between a whisper and a moan, barely audible, but Lucy recognized the voice and the accent immediately. How on earth… Flynn couldn't hear her stepping in, nor could he see her through the curtain, so why was he calling her name? Her brow wrinkled as she tried to find an explanation, but as the whispered moan of her name met her ears again, and again, it suddenly hit her. The realization made her blush burgundy, her body running hot and cold at the same time. No, that can't be… Or can it?
Lucy stared at the closed door; her hand trembled on the handle and she tried to process the thought that Garcia Flynn was taking a shower and fantasizing about her while he let out… steam. Come on Lucy, you're not twelve, you can say it in your head. But Lucy's thoughts danced so wildly that in that moment, for a split second, she even questioned her own name.
Lucy. Your name is Lucy. And Flynn was thinking about her right now. He wasn't thinking of Lorena, a loss he would kill to reverse. He could burn down the world with himself in it to bring her back from the dead, but it wasn't her name leaving his lips. And he wasn't imagining some supermodel or actress … only her, the clever but boring and not at all tempting, Lucy Preston. Although a part of her brain considered that she should be upset that Garcia (because Flynn seemed so impersonal in such an intimate moment) imagined her in whatever scenario he found arousing, it was somehow alluring that he found her attractive enough to be the object of one of his fantasies.
Fantasy? No… there had to be more to it. The way he whispered her name wasn't salacious nor crude. There was longing, and a hint of sadness, in it. There was need in Garcia's voice and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.
As she stood there, Lucy felt tears gather in her eyes. Garcia wanted her? Even if it was just for sex, that was more than she could say of anyone lately. There was Wyatt, but Wyatt hadn't been there for her ever since that damned night in Hollywood, which seemed like a different life, a different timeline, now. Wyatt chose Jessica, as they all could very well hear every night. And Lucy couldn't blame him (well, the sophisticated mature part of her couldn't, anyway), but a part of her felt rejected, worthless, useless, lonely and tired. Her mother cared for her as nothing more than a Rittenhouse-heiress and not as a daughter. Carol had no idea what Lucy felt during every single second since she had killed that soldier to prove herself. She was tortured by guilt, by self-loathing and nightmares.
Amy would have understood her; they could have talked it out over a gallon of ice cream. But there was no Amy now, and in this reality there was nobody she could turn to. No one except… Garcia Flynn.
The tall, mysterious, roguishly good-looking Garcia Flynn. And she would be lying if she said she didn't find him attractive. She would also be lying if said that his little joke the other morning about her being a gentle and responsive lover had no effect on her. Oh, it had. Pictures flashed in front of her eyes, at the most unwelcomed moments during the day where they were doing all sorts of things together. And she liked what she saw. In those flashes, just like in reality, Garcia was there. For her, with her. He wanted her; she wasn't his second choice. Just like he wanted her now, or at least so it seemed. If she took a chance, she could be flush against his tall, solid frame, his strong arms wrapping around her and keeping her safe. Even if for a minute or two.
Lucy suddenly realized how much she wanted to be safe, wanted and loved – and to be first. She was tired, so very tired of running, fighting, thinking, playing the strong, hard and clever one. She longed for a moment of vulnerability, and to just feel. It wasn't a need to be inferior, but to be a woman who was desired, who was wanted, and who was loved and protected.
She had no idea when and if such thing would happen to her again. Maybe never. She could die any day on any mission. For once in her life Lucy didn't want to weigh the consequences, to consider anything or anyone. She wanted to listen to her instincts instead of her reason.
Her hands had a will of their own as she locked the door from the inside and then quickly and silently removed her clothing. She walked toward the curtain and as she approached she could already see that Garcia was standing with his back to her.
With trembling hands she pulled away the curtain with the many R2-D2s. She reached out and, slowly, as if he might break or vanish from her touch, her fingertips followed a pale white line down his back, between his shoulder blades. It was one of his many scars.
Garcia tensed at her touch. He looked back at her over his broad shoulders, while the water ran down his face. Their eyes locked and there was shock in his, a little bit of shame, but also such need that Lucy's breath was stolen away. She bit her lip in anticipation.