Summary: Lucy finds there are some images you can't evict from your head once they've found a home there. [Set sometime in the future. Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved, faithful to each other, and also live together.]
Notes: So I was just trying to write something fluffy and silly for Polyshipping Day on tumblr; then this happened.
Stoned On You (1/2)
Chapter 1: Only then I am human
"Oh my darling. Oh my darling," Lucy sang, aware that her voice slid brutally off-key. She couldn't find it within herself to care one whit about it, either. That was one of the myriad positive things that had grown out of her relationship with Garcia and Wyatt—less concern about what people said or thought of her, and less need to please people, period. For someone who had spent years trying to live up to her mother's rigid expectations, to make her mother happy, often at the expense of her own happiness, this new state of mind was liberating.
With a pang of regret, she wondered what life experiences and what joy she'd missed out on. No more.
Lucy Preston was: a proud history nerd, a terrible singer, and a bit of a klutz. So what? Anyone who didn't like it would just have to deal. She was done subsuming her wishes, needs, and desires. She was done living her life for anyone else. She was just fucking done.
With her feet as light as the fluttery feeling growing in her chest, she danced her way over to Wyatt, colliding with the kitchen counter only once along the way. "Ow." She rubbed her hip and ignored her bruised ego. Though she felt the weight of Garcia's stare like warm fingertips traced along the nape of her neck, Lucy didn't turn, certain she'd find amusement warming his cool eyes and coiling his thin lips.
Wyatt stood at the stove, fiddling with the knob that controlled the burner flame. "Luce, you sound like a cat that just stuck its paw in an electrical outlet." The smile that climbed his face was indulgent even though his words were not.
The sound of a throat being cleared had Lucy turning her head to find Garcia sitting at the kitchen table, The Economist held in one hand and his angular chin cupped in the other. Wisps of steam curled into the air from the black mug resting at his elbow.
"I can't say I disagree with Wyatt's assessment of your singing," Garcia said, setting down his magazine. He peered at her from over the top of his reading glasses.
"Did you just agree with me, Flynn?" Wyatt said, eyes widened for comic effect.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Too late; can't take it back now. I heard you, buddy." Wyatt left his spot at the stove and joined them at the table, leaning in and pressing the back of his hand to Garcia's forehead. "Do we need to check your temperature? You might be coming down with something."
"Oh, there's no 'might' about it; I've definitely caught something"—Garcia snagged Wyatt's wrist, wrapping his fingers around it, and nipped at the heel of his hand—"it's called 'my-partner-is-an-idiot syndrome.' Highly contagious…and transmitted sexually."
Grinning when Garcia released his hand, Wyatt shook his index finger at him. "You are such a sweet talker."
"What can I say?" Garcia picked up his magazine, one dark eyebrow angled up in a way Lucy envied and still struggled to emulate.
Who knew eyebrows could communicate so much?
"You inspire me, Wyatt."
Lucy hid her amusement at Wyatt and Garcia's interplay. "Oh my darling Wyatt…" she continued, singing even louder now to spite them both.
Wyatt's attention shifted away from Garcia and returned to Lucy, and his lips eased into a smile. "Yes, honeybun of my life. What do you need?"
Lucy trailed him back to the stove. One deep breath and the tantalizing scent of frying bacon filled her nose. Right on cue, her stomach rumbled. "What makes you think I need anything?" she said, her voice projecting demure innocence as she shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and rocked back on her heels.
Flashing her a wink, he flicked her earlobe. "Trust me, I can tell."
She heaved a dramatic sigh and curled an arm around his lean waist, snuggling closer until their sides touched. "Will you please make me some eggs? I'm starving."
"I'm almost done with the bacon. Why don't you make the eggs?"
"If you insist. But remember what happened the last time I tried to cook eggs?"
"Right"—he lifted a strip of bacon out of the frying pan in front of him and set it on a paper towel covered plate—"you burned them into my new pan, and I had to boil vinegar and baking soda to get the eggs cleaned out." He sighed and shook his head. "How could I ever forget that?"
"I don't know. I had nightmares for weeks." She snatched a strip of bacon from the plate near Wyatt and nibbled, moaning a little as the smoky flavor hit her tongue. "So will you make them for me?"
"Hey!" Wyatt bumped her hip with his. "Stop that. Where are your manners, Doc?"
"Don't have any"—she bared her teeth like a weapon—"I was raised by a Rittenhouse wolf."
"Touché."
Lucy snapped her fingers inches from Wyatt's face. "Focus, babe. So. Eggs. Will you make them for me? Pretty please, with chocolate sprinkles on top?"
He groaned as if she had set a Herculean task before him. "What do I get if I do?"
"My undying gratitude?"
"Come on, woman. I need a better incentive than that."
Lucy bit her lip, thinking. What could she bargain with? "I'll tell you what, Wyatt, my Wyatt: If you cook me eggs today"—she brought her lips to his ear, feeling him shiver when she flicked the tip of her tongue against it—"I'll let you buy me any piece of lingerie you want, and I'll wear it—no questions asked." Done teasing Wyatt, she stepped back so she could see his face.
His hand slipped under the edge of her shirt, stroking lightly along her lower back, calling goosebumps from the sensitive swath of skin there. "Anything?" Wyatt said, voice dripping with insinuation and handsome face twisted into a smirk that had her rethinking her proposal.
But Lucy Preston did not back down. Not anymore. She nodded. "The flimsiest, raunchiest thing you can find. Anything."
"No questions asked?"
"No questions asked," she replied, chin lifted and resolute.
"Then you've got yourself a deal, Luce."
Beaming, she kissed Wyatt's cheek, enjoying the tingle and rasp his faint stubble left behind on her lips. "Thanks."
"You only keep me around 'cause I can cook," he said, casting her a dark look she knew better than to take seriously.
"That's not the only reason," she shot back, voice a near purr. Her smile widened at the edges.
His brows rose in disbelief. "There are others?"
She didn't answer, pinching Wyatt's denim-clad ass instead and letting her gaze fall to his crotch.
Blue eyes twinkling when her gaze captured his again, he laughed. "Don't think I'm going to forget this," he said, cocking an eyebrow and shooting her a sidelong glance. "So...How do you want 'em cooked?" He threaded their fingers together and squeezed gently.
"Over easy, please," she said, swinging their joined hands.
"You got it, ma'am."
Lucy joined Garcia at the table, stopping next to his chair. She slipped her hand into his hair, then pressed a kiss to his temple. "Morning," she said.
He smiled, and the motion carved deep parentheses around his mouth and sketched tiny lines under and at the corners of his eyes. "Good morning, Lucy."
She smoothed her hand over the collar of his bottle-green Henley before pulling out a chair beside him and sitting in it. "New shirt?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I like that color on you. Brings out your eyes."
"Thank you." Garcia rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. "Wyatt bought it for me." His lips pursed in a moue of distaste. "He's been pestering me to 'expand my color choices.'"
Lucy smiled. "You like the shirt, though. I can tell."
Garcia's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?" he said, tapping his knee against hers.
She curved her hand over his knee and squeezed lightly, leaning in until their noses were nearly touching. His breath, warm and kissed with coffee, drifted over her face. "It's simple, really: If you didn't like it, you would have thrown it out already."
"You're far too observant for your own good, Lucy." He winked, mischief dancing in his eyes. "You won't tell him, will you?" Garcia angled his head to the side and fit his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. "He's already insufferable," he murmured against her mouth.
Lucy chuckled, and Garcia slipped his tongue along the seam of her mouth until she opened for him. She broke away from him for only a moment. Abandoning her seat, she climbed into Garcia's lap, her head already starting to go a little hazy with pleasure. She set her teeth to his lower lip, drawing a needy moan from his throat. Her body reacted: The sound went straight to her cunt and she clenched involuntarily, growing slick. She could feel his hardness pressed to the heart of her, even through the layers of his pants and hers. With her knees bracketing Garcia's hips and his hands firm on her ass, she licked into his open mouth and ground herself against his erection, searching for friction to help ease the tension growing inside her.
"OK. Break it up, kids," Wyatt said next to Lucy's ear, startling her. "Breakfast is served," he said, a grin in his voice.
She silently cursed Wyatt's rotten timing when several thunks rang out, the sound of plates being set on the table.
Lucy sat back on Garcia's thighs, breathing harder than normal. Now she saw Wyatt's grin in addition to hearing it.
"Hey, asshole," Wyatt said, thumping Garcia's shoulder with his fist, "I even made you an omelet." He leaned down and licked a wet line up Garcia's throat. "You're welcome, by the way."
Mouth dry, Lucy swallowed. "Not. Helping," she said.
"Not trying, Lucy," Wyatt replied, voice wrapped in laughter. "Now quit dry humping at the dining table so we can eat. I swear… Am I the only one with any manners?"
(She tried kicking him under the table; he was too far away.)
Sighing with satisfaction, Lucy sopped up the last bit of egg yolk from her plate with a crispy piece of sourdough toast. She popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly, savoring this final bite even as she used her other hand to scroll on her phone. It had grown into a daily habit for her—checking the Urban Dictionary website for their word of the day. She knew it was silly, but trying to keep up with the prevailing slang kept her feeling young. If nothing else, it amused her.
The page for the word of the day loaded. "Spit roasted," she read on her phone screen, silently mouthing the words. "The position when a woman is on her hands and knees with a guy behind her doing her doggie style"—Lucy gasped and started to cough, dropping her phone on the table as her hands flew to her mouth—"while another male is in front of her and she is sucking on his penis. Looks very much like a pig being roasted on a spit."
"Whoa, Lucy, are you OK?" Wyatt looked up from his plate. He shoved back his chair and was at her side in an instant, but Garcia got there first. "You're turning five shades of red."
Garcia, who had been sitting next to her, thumped her on the back, but she waved both men away as her coughing fit subsided. "I'm fine." She blinked back the few tears filming her eyes. "Thanks, guys. I'm OK."
Wyatt kneeled beside her, gentle fingers sweeping her hair out of her eyes, forehead creased in concern. "You sure?"
"Yes. Really." They were both much sweeter than she deserved, or at least more than she ever dreamed she'd have, she thought, reading the identical expressions of worry on their decidedly different faces. She patted both their cheeks in reassurance. "I'm sure. I was just surprised by something...something I read."
The crudeness of the words should have put her off. But a cascade of images bombarded her mind; brilliant, color-saturated images of herself on hands and knees, Garcia filling her from behind, and simultaneously, the salty ocean tang of Wyatt in her mouth. Her face flushed hot with blood as she tried to push out the exquisitely filthy pictures now crowding her imagination. She covered her cheeks with both hands, hoping against hope that neither man would notice her flustered state. Considering the tomato-red blush she just knew painted her cheeks, the chances of that were a big, fat zero. She shifted in her chair, glad that at least they couldn't feel the low, insistent thrum of the pulse between her legs just by looking at her face.
"What did you read?" Garcia asked, following up with the right question.
Does he have to be so logical? "Um. Nothing," Lucy said, and she cringed mentally at the squeaky tone her voice had taken on.
"Nothing," Garcia echoed. She clearly hadn't fooled him. His narrow gaze lingered on her face, skeptical and watchful while scanning her features for the truth. It served to remind her that Garcia Flynn had once been a very dangerous man—a ruthless and efficient killer with an intellect to match.
(In truth he was still dangerous—just not to her and Wyatt. A sleeping cobra was still poisonous.)
Both men were formidable in their own right, and the leashed power in them gave her an illicit thrill.
Lucy straightened in her chair and cleared her throat. "Nothing important," she said, mentally crossing her fingers that she'd have good luck for once in her life—and Garcia and Wyatt would just drop the subject.
As swift as a cobra striking its prey, Garcia palmed her phone and lifted it to his face, squinting because he'd taken off his reading glasses before they'd dove into their meal. Lucy made a desperate grab for her phone, but it was a futile attempt at salvaging her pride. He simply waited her out, raising the phone over his head with his arm stretched to its full span, watching her with deep patience and no small amount of amusement shimmering in those green eyes she loved. At the moment she hated them.
He waited, his gaze intent and calm, and Lucy wondered idly if this was how Wyatt had felt when Garcia had held him hostage in Washington, D.C. on June 20, 1972. With a sigh that seemed to rise from the depths of her being, Lucy slumped in her chair and awaited the inevitable. Several heartbeats passed and Lucy's palms grew damp while she watched Garcia's eyes track across her phone. He blinked once, then handed the phone to Wyatt.
"Holy fuck, that's hot. The idea, anyway," Wyatt said. "No wonder you almost choked."
The gleam of humor in his blue eyes told Lucy that Wyatt was cognizant of the double meaning underlying his words. In spite of her embarrassment, she laughed, and both Garcia and Wyatt joined in. It started out as a barely-there chuckle and blossomed into a full-throated belly laugh that had her clutching her sides. "Yeah. That's pretty accurate," she said after she'd finally regained control of herself.
Wyatt cleared his throat and tugged at his shirt collar. "I didn't realize there was a name for that," he said.
Lucy just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak yet. Nobody was laughing anymore. Her glance fell on Garcia, who met her look steadily, his face impassive. Not knowing what he thought made her restless; it made her nerves buzz with anxiety. She twisted her fingers together and looked away. Breathe, Lucy. Breathe. You're an adult.
The light pressure of Garcia's finger on her chin drew her gaze back to him, though her awareness had never left. At first glance, his face gave away none of his thoughts, but then he swallowed, twice, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His lips parted; his chest rose and fell on a deep breath. "Do you want to try that?"
She didn't need to ask what he was referring to. No. I mean, I wasn't looking for that. Honestly, I was just reading up on the word of the day, and that was it, and then I just saw it in my head, and then I couldn't un-see it, and oh god oh god, Wyatt's right; it is hot. No, scorching. And I'm going to burn up. Her thoughts ran on... "Yes."
A/N: I'd love to hear your thoughts, if you feel like sharing them. :)
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