AN: For those of you expecting a Lyatt story - walk away right now. Go read my other tag for 2x04, because this is me flirting with the Dark Side, at least for this fic. You have been warned.
(Lyatt is still my ship...but I am deeply intrigued by Garcy. Possibly starting to border on "obsessively intrigued.")
If you're still with me, this is probably my second or third Garcy thing I've written, but the first to see the light of day. Please let me know what you think!
*originally on AO3, but then I thought why not?*
How to Pretend
Lucy emerged from her room in a tank top, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Jiya following. Of course, he noted, she would have needed help getting out of her shapeless bag.
She looked…bad, quite frankly. She was deathly pale, blood still smeared on the side of her face, his pilfered handkerchief wrapped around her wound. He was also assuming she would have looked better if she hadn't had to confront what he thought was her boyfriend's previously dead wife. After her mother had tried to sentence her to death.
In fact, now that he thought about it, it was a wonder she hadn't collapsed on the floor somewhere.
He moved, half turning to ease her into the curve of his arm, hand curled lightly at her waist. She didn't protest.
He liked the idea that she wasn't opposed to him touching her.
Wyatt certainly was.
But he didn't have a right to be.
Without speaking, he led her to the makeshift sickbay. There was an army doctor there, procured by Agent Christopher. Lucy was in need of stitches and painkillers. Also antibiotics. God knew what sorts of germs she had picked up from that blade.
He stood at her side as her face tightened in pain, taking one step closer when she unconsciously leaned towards him, searching for reassurance. Her teeth were buried in her bottom lip.
"Hang in there," he whispered, watching the doctor stitch. He bowed his head over hers.
In another five minutes, it was all over, and she was downing the highest recommended dosage of her painkiller. He noticed her hands were shaking as she chased the pills with a glass of water.
Carefully, he rearranged the blanket over her shoulders.
"I'm sure they're waiting for us to debrief them," he said quietly. "But if you're not up to it, I imagine everyone would understand."
She shook her head. "I'm fine."
That was clearly a lie, so he raised his eyebrow, but helped her down from the examination table anyway. She was somewhat less than steady on her feet.
"Let me know if you're going to faint," he advised. "So we can try to avoid more stitches today."
She rolled her eyes, but took his arm before he had even offered it.
Very slowly, they made their way down the hall.
Everyone was indeed waiting for them, arranged around the battered kitchen table. Including Jessica Logan. His eyebrow went up a touch more, but he gently sat Lucy in a chair before dropping into the seat next to her. Wyatt looked distinctly murderous before he remembered that he wasn't allowed to anymore.
"So?" Agent Christopher asked. "Let's have it."
Lucy drew a deep breath and began to speak, Rufus adding things in here and there as she went. When she got to the accusation that had led to her arrest, she hesitated, and he took over. She shot him a grateful look, and he nudged her knee under the table.
It was easy, being part of her team.
Everyone looked vaguely horrified when he revealed Carol's part in all of this.
And now Wyatt looked like he was considering saying the hell with it all, lunging across the table, and scooping Lucy into his arms.
For just a second, he wondered what it would be like to be in the other man's shoes, and he felt a stirring of pity for Wyatt Logan. This could not be easy.
There was a stretch of silence when he finished filling them all in. Agent Christopher eventually let out a deep breath. "Right. Anyone have anything they'd like to add in before we wrap this up?"
Rufus unexpectedly raised a hand. "Next time, Flynn gets a gun. No, two guns."
"Agreed," Lucy said from next to him. "Rufus and I almost died today, and the only reason we didn't is because Flynn beat up Ben Franklin's uncle and stole his musket."
There was a series of blinks from around the table.
Connor Mason looked almost amused. "You beat up Ben Franklin's uncle?"
Flynn shrugged. "Twice. He was a little bit of an asshole."
Lucy snorted, and Agent Christopher dismissed them.
Rufus and Jiya immediately stood and went their own way. Wyatt stood, held out a hand to his wife, looked uncertain if she was going to take it. She did, and he felt Lucy's tension. From the corner of his eye, he saw Wyatt look back at least twice.
He turned to her. "How's the arm feeling?"
She forced a tight smile that came nowhere close to reaching her eyes. "Still attached."
"Better than the alternative," he told her.
Slowly, Lucy bent forward and rested her cheek against the table. Her eyes closed.
He didn't know if she wanted to be alone or not. It was an irrelevant question, as he wasn't going to leave her alone at the moment, face down on a piece of hard furniture.
Without thinking much about what he was doing, he leaned over and brushed her hair back, giving him an unobstructed view of her face. She looked up at him, eyes giving away nothing about her opinion of him in particular, only that she was exhausted and wholly damaged this night.
He found he was unwilling to let her go back to her room and cry into her pillow.
Abruptly, he stood, then reached for her, one hand taking hers, the other resting at her waist. She furrowed her brows, but didn't pull away. Perhaps she lacked the energy.
He led her to the small couch, urged her to sit. He dropped beside her, then draped an arm around her shoulders, gently tugging her close.
"What-" she started to ask, but he hushed her.
"You have had the day from hell," he said, quietly. "Between boyfriends and family members and a lot of asshole Puritans. You're holding it together by a thread." She didn't argue, and he continued. "I realize I'm not who you really want, but I'm who you have. If you need to lean on me, do it. If you need to cry on my shoulder, cry. If you just want to sit here until you understand you're not alone, do that, too. But some good, old-fashioned human contact is the best thing for you."
She held his eyes for a few moments, trying to decipher his words, but there was nothing to interpret. He meant what he said, and he hoped it showed on his face.
Evidently it must have.
With a small exhalation, she tipped her head onto his chest, cradling her wounded arm between them. He shifted, turning into her just a bit, and he felt her start to give into her exhaustion, to let go of her tightly held self-control.
She spilled a few tears onto his shirt. He wondered what it would be like, for Lucy to care about him enough to cry over him.
Then again, at least he wasn't the one who made her cry.
That was something.
As her painkillers kicked in, she leaned more heavily against him, fingertips pressing against his ribs, cheek next to his heartbeat.
He hoped he didn't smell like 1692.
Eventually, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, fumbling one-handed for the blanket draped over the back of the standard-issue vinyl couch. With a little difficulty, as she seemed unwilling to move, he spread it over her.
She was so small, pressed against his side. Her slight stature wasn't something he typically thought about. She had presence.
But here, now, it was impossible to ignore her slight frame, the delicate wings of her collarbone.
Softly, so softly he wasn't sure she would feel it, he touched his lips to the top of her head. He wasn't sure he wanted her to feel it, either.
He thought maybe she did, though. Her thumb slid across an inch of his chest, then back.
And that was quite enough for tonight. She was deeply vulnerable, and he absolutely would not take advantage of her emotional state. She needed held, needed to know she wasn't alone. He would not move beyond that, not now.
So he settled for holding her a little tighter, legs stretched out in front of him. Her breathing deepened, became even, and he was comforted by the idea that she at least wasn't sobbing by herself somewhere.
It had been one hell of a day.
Lucy's warm weight, coupled with the aftermath of high adrenaline situations, was pulling him under. He closed his eyes.
His last conscious thought was of what Wyatt's face would look like if he was the one that discovered them here.
It was cruel of him, he knew, but he smiled. Just a little.
Always a silver lining.