AN: Hooooo boy. First piece of what will probably be…um…some…lots…of post-ep stories. I have thoughts, boy, do I have thoughts. If you're interested, check out Tumblr (starry19). So, this story - I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it, but it took on a life of its own. I'd go ahead and say parts of it are probably M-rated. You're welcome.
On Courage and New Beginnings
He had been in war zones. He had seen things that he would not ever tell another living soul about. He had buried a wife and lived to pick up the pieces. He had never consciously labeled himself as brave, but that had to be one of his major characteristics, didn't it?
And yet, it was taking more courage than he thought he possessed to tell one petite historian how he felt. He knew how he felt. Mostly.
He knew that he would die for her in a heartbeat. He knew that he had laid awake at night more times than he was willing to admit, wondering what it would be like if she was next to him. Knew that it felt like his heart would break when she cried. Knew that whenever she had her arms around him it was as close to heaven as he expected to get these days.
All of this was overlaid with guilt - guilt that he dared be even a little happy. And a constant, terrifying sense of fear. He could lose her, too. God knew she didn't exactly lead a peaceful life. Wasn't it better to stay away?
At some point, he had crossed a line that he couldn't come back from.
He was involved.
Which led to bouts of murderous anger - much better than paralyzing fear and grief - when she was taken from him. More than once. Twice by Garcia Flynn, that son of a bitch, and once by her own mother.
But she was here now, literally looking like a movie star, nervously throwing back whiskey.
She was so deeply uncertain of herself, of him.
He wanted to make her certain.
Unfortunately, the words I'm so in love with you seemed to get stuck in his throat. So he danced around the issue, trying to tell her without telling her what she meant to him. What she had done for him. How she had brought him back from the nightmare he had lived in, full of sharp edges and abrupt precipices and an absolute disregard for his own life.
She made him care about if he lived or died. Because - maybe - he had something to live for.
Her heart was in her eyes as she listened, full of fear and hope. She was the one who had fallen first, he knew that. Had known she had a thing for him from about the third mission. Knew she was in love with him when she cried on her steps when he told her he was going to steal the Lifeboat.
That was about when he realized he was going to break his own heart a little, too.
It was a hell of a time to have a come to Jesus moment.
"…I felt the same way," she finished saying, eyes darting up at him.
Say it. Please.
But as brave as she was, this required courage of a different sort.
He needed to be brave enough for the both of them. He swallowed. Threw caution to the wind. "Now?"
Did she feel the same way now?
But.
Somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the word changed. What was supposed to be a question came out as a statement, laced with promises of the sinful sort. His blood was heating up to a ridiculous level.
He held out a hand. Prayed she'd take it.
She did.
And he led them inside, senses unbelievably aware.
Then finally, they were here.
In a room. Alone. With a door that locked.
He pulled her in, slowly, anticipation almost thick enough to touch. The anticipation that was sometimes better than the kiss itself.
But not this time.
This time, the first brush of her lips set him on fire. It was what a first kiss, a real one, should be, his fingers under her chin, his other hand at her waist. Gentle. Undemanding.
What he had not counted on what how much his desire for her, usually kept so very carefully in check, wanted to spill over.
In this respect, Lucy very clearly felt the same.
Her tongue swept over his and his groin tightened painfully. Jesus God, he was going to rip off her clothes and push her against the wall and -
She pulled back.
Through the haze of lust he was wrapped in, he looked closely at her. She was…uncertain? Uncertain of what? Him? That he wanted her?
For such a brilliant woman who had the ability to see through so much, she really needed to work on reading him. Or maybe just trusting what she saw.
He smiled, not certain he could speak. I want you so much, he tried to convey, willed her to understand. If you walk away I might die. I want to make you scream my name. I want to be inside of you so badly.
The flirting, the stilted, awkward conversations, the long nights, the desperate hugs…everything had led to this one, fraught moment.
Please, Lucy. Trust me. Trust us.
And then she flung her arms around him and kissed him. He caught her, like he always did. This time, he could feel her surrender.
There were no more words, unless you counted "oh, God," as he slid her dress to the floor.
He did not. Nor was he sure which one of them actually said it.
Her skin was so soft, the rough pads of his fingertips snagging once or twice. He felt bad about that. He was not a gentle man. His hands were made for firing weapons and pulling pins from grenades. She didn't seem to mind, though, practically arching against him as he touched her.
Touched her everywhere.
The breathless moans she was making were going to be his undoing. God, but what a way to go.
He eased her onto the bed. Someone's knees were about to give out, and just in case they were his, he figured he should take precautionary measures.
His lips replaced his fingers, and her hands slid into his hair. She was going to have burn marks from his stubble on the inside of her thighs and he was quite convinced he had never been so turned on in his entire life.
She didn't quite scream his name, but she definitely screamed something, hips arching off the bed, his hands covering them.
Then and only then did he allow her to undress him.
It had been a very, very long time, and he absolutely had to make this good for her. Being skin to skin would have made that…difficult.
His heart made an attempt to beat out of his chest when she skimmed her palms down his stomach. Every nerve in his body was perilously close to the surface.
When her small hand curled around him, he bit his lip so hard he drew blood. He allowed her thirty seconds of exploration, but when her fingers searched lower, he stopped her. Brought her hand to his mouth. Reverently kissed her fingertips.
Pushed her back against the pillows.
He swore spectacularly when she wrapped her legs around him, bringing him closer, then bringing him home. And then he was inside of her, head bowed onto her shoulder, their linked fingers above her head.
He concentrated very hard on breathing in and out.
But she was impatient, pushing up against him, and then he was lost in a haze of thrusting hips and white skin and delicious wet heat.
It didn't take long. Later, he would be embarrassed about it. Probably.
For now, he was too busy breathing heavily against her chest, enjoying the feeling of her hands in his hair.
When he was sure he could move, he rolled, bringing her with him, her head cradled in the crook of his arm.
And then he kissed her again, slowly, languidly. There was no desperation now, no urgent need to claim her. He already had.
However, if she insisted on putting her tongue in his mouth anymore, he was going to do it again.
She beat him to the punch, nipping at his lower lip, and a sharp shock of desire tore through him. Her hands went to his shoulders, pushing until he was flat on his back, and then she was straddling his waist, hair tumbling around her shoulders, lips swollen and rosy, the firelight giving her a soft halo.
It took him a second to decipher her look as she stared down at him, distracted by his baser desires. But there it was again - uncertainty.
If he could have, he would have laughed. Jesus, yes, she had permission to do whatever she wanted with him. To him.
But he couldn't laugh, so he palmed her hips again, gently urging, and she took the hint.
The sight of her lost to her own pleasure, hands braced on his shoulders, eyes shut, head tilted back…he wasn't ever going to forget it.
Her legs were trembling when, after, he eased her to her side, then curled himself around her.
There were a million things to say but none of them seemed good enough to express what this had meant to him. What he had needed for all these years was to be loved, and she had. Loved him. Not just with words, but with actions, she had loved him.
He kissed her hair, her bare shoulder.
Their fingers tangled together.
He still didn't speak as he felt her start to relax, to snuggle into the pillows and into his arms. Protectively, he pulled the sheet up to her shoulders and closed his eyes.
He hadn't fallen asleep with a woman in what seemed like a lifetime. About six months after Jessica died, he had gone through a phase where he had tried anything to kill the pain. Part of his proposed solution was a number of women. He couldn't remember any of their names, any of their faces. It had worked, to a certain extent, if only for a few minutes at a time. Still, he had always left right after, unable to stand the thought of being in someone else's bed.
For the past five months he had been actively imagining what sleeping next to Lucy would be like. And here they were, wrapped up together. He hadn't even managed to drift off, and he was already wondering when the next time he could make this happen would be.
At some point in the night, he woke to her slipping out of bed. He frowned, but before he could move, she was back, and he sleepily opened his arms again. She was wearing her slip, or at least that's what he thought it was called.
He figured he understood. This was brand new to them. Granted, he had kissed just about every inch of her a few hours before, but that was in the heat of passion. Her head was a little clearer now, and her sense of modesty, or maybe embarrassment, had returned along with her power of thought.
In time. This would all come in time.
The ease of being together, the level of comfort with the mundane, everyday things.
Not that he and Lucy were likely to be doing a lot of common relationship things, since they both currently lived in an army bunker. Date night was probably out of the question. He wondered if Rufus would be open to a roommate swap. Yeah, he would bet so.
Smiling slightly to himself, he closed his eyes again.
And woke to her hand on his face, early light filling the room.
"Good morning," he said, voice hoarse.
"Good morning," she murmured back, sounding happy.
She ran her hands through his hair, and he loved that she was becoming more comfortable with casually touching him.
And then there she was…wondering if it had been okay last night.
Okay.
A more inadequate word had yet to be invented.
"It was great," he told her, but he decided he hated that word, too. In fact, he made the decision to show her how just how…amazing, unbelievably mind-blowing, perfect it was, because clearly words weren't going to do it justice.
And then, right on cue, Rufus walked in.
Wyatt would treasure his expression all of his life.
When the other man left - awkwardly - he kissed Lucy again, in between her giggles. And then he trailed his fingers up the insides of her thighs and she quit laughing altogether.
This was Day One of their new relationship.
He killed someone.
Helped break a man he really and truly hated out of prison.
Discovered Rufus had absolutely zero chill.
It was, perhaps, not the most inauspicious start he could have imagined, but that was their lives now. Nothing normal about them, not anymore.
Mission completed, he stole a kiss as he buckled her into the Lifeboat, imagining that Rufus was rolling his eyes at them.
Lucy changed as soon as they were back at the bunker, and he was sad to see the dress go. Sweatpants that didn't fit quite right didn't really do her justice. However, since she had apparently snuck into his room and stolen his shirt, he was less inclined to complain about it.
She sat at his feet, occasionally throwing him a glance.
Despite the oddness of their surroundings, the darkness, the industrial coldness of the bunker, and the fact that they were still fighting both a known and unknown enemy who was trying to take over the world, he took just a second to be absolutely content.
The woman he loved had spent the night in his bed, she was safe, close enough to touch, and she looked happy. There were times, very recently indeed, that none of these things had been true.
And for now, that would be enough for him.
—
And by "for now," obviously I mean about 20 seconds until Flynn walked in.
Leave me some feedback, if you're so inclined! (Please be inclined *shameless begging*) Love y'all - Starry