The first time it happens, they've just returned from San Francisco.
He's in the makeshift medbay, seated on an ancient gurney with his arm still in a sling. His shoulder is steadily bleeding, staining the entire right half of his white linen shirt red, but he's managed to dig the bullet out - with considerable pain and effort - and a suture kit sits open on a tray in front of him, the threaded needle held between two fingers but hand sitting in his lap as he stares down at it. He knows he should do something about the wound, but he feels numb, and the pain is reminding him he's alive.
There's a gentle knock and she enters, closing the door gently behind herself. He looks up at her, wincing as he sees her bruised face and busted lip, wishing he'd been just a bit quicker to reach her and Emma, to prevent the very injuries that now feel like a punch to his gut. Her eyes are downcast, tired, and she wordlessly crosses to him, unbuttons his shirt enough to bare the wound, pauses as she sees it before taking the needle from his hand. The sutures tug at his skin - her hand is clumsy, untrained, doing her best - but he doesn't flinch, doesn't move. He wanted this, the pain. Needs it. Deserves it.
The wrong man died.
"Sorry," she murmurs, eyes flicking up to his briefly before looking back down.
He smiles mirthlessly. "It's okay, Lucy."
She finishes, tying a knot with shaking fingers, then presses an adhesive gauze pad firmly over the wound. She lets her palms rest against it for a second, lost in thought.
"Lucy?" he says quietly.
Her hands drop to rest on his thighs, and she looks up at his face with a shell-shocked expression. He can see tears welling up in her eyes. She squeezes them shut, her face crumbling into pain and grief, and she doesn't hold back her sobs.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Flynn puts his good hand over hers and squeezes it; the gesture feels lame, impotent, and he instead reaches for her face to wipe the tears from her cheek with his thumb.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and he shakes his head. She steps forward and rests her head against his. "Rufus-"
"I know, shh, it's okay."
She shakes her head, still against his, their noses brushing lightly. Her hand drifts up to cup his jaw, her eyes still shut tight, and Flynn remains still, letting her do what she needs to find comfort. She leans in further, her chin raised-
The door opens again, and she jumps back abruptly as Wyatt walks in. He glances between the two of them, but neither is willing to look at him.
"Everything okay in here?"
Flynn slips off the gurney and heads for the door, not looking back at her. "Nothing is okay," he mutters at Wyatt as he passes, slamming the door behind him.
The second time is in far happier circumstances, all of them elated as they return to the bunker with Rufus safe and sound. Each member of the team takes a moment to hug him in turn, the mood joyous and relieved. Much to the team's (and Flynn's, if he's being honest) surprise, even he goes in for a hug. What can he say, the man had grown on him.
They decide that night to leave the bunker, get some air, celebrate. They head to a bar near Denise's home, one that she's gone to for years where the employees are all close friends of hers and therefore unlikely to be connected to Rittenhouse in any way. It's louder than they're used to, busy, but no one particularly minds. Flynn offers to get the first round of drinks, and Lucy joins him as an extra pair of hands. He's towering over most of the crowd, sticking out like a sore thumb, and it's the first time in a long while that he's done something so...casual, so normal, undisguised and in his own present time. It feels strange, foreign, like he's forgotten how to be a normal person.
"Doing okay?"
She always could read him like a book.
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine."
"You can head back to the bunker if you want, I'm sure the others would understand."
"No, I want to be here. We're celebrating." He looks down at her, smiling. "It's a nice change of pace. I just need a drink in me."
They get right on that, delivering pint glasses of beer to the table before returning to the bar, and Lucy orders them a round of shots, which Flynn starts to protest before deciding to hell with it. They clink the shot glasses together, laughing at how stupid and juvenile it feels, and down them in one go. Lucy makes a face, a dramatic grimace, and Flynn laughs. "Well, I need to see that again." He waves the bartender down. "Another round." Again he lifts the shot glass, this time adding, "Živjeli."
Lucy raises an eyebrow, smirking. "Cheers." Downs the shot. "Guessed that one from context."
"Right you are, Professor Preston."
That elicits a blush, and she turns away to wave the bartender down yet again.
Four shots of vodka later (and three of šljivovica, which Flynn half expected them not to have and is elated when he learns they do, not because he likes the taste so much as how badly he wants to see Lucy's face when she downs the 100 proof alcohol for the first time), they end up on the opposite side of the bar from the rest of the group, Lucy leaning an arm against an ancient jukebox and scanning titles with eyes narrowed in deep concentration (or possibly because she's having trouble focusing). Flynn himself isn't used to rakia anymore, hasn't had it in a very long time, and so he stands next to her smiling as he looks out at the crowd of patrons, enjoying the heady buzz and warm glow in his stomach that deep down he knows will be a brutal hangover when he wakes in the morning. But right now he can't bring himself to care, because Lucy has just let out a triumphant, "Aha!" and finally chosen a song.
Seconds later the unmistakable velvet voice of Sinatra drifts from the jukebox speakers, and Flynn chuckles. The choice is so unmistakably Lucy. Other patrons glance over as the music starts, taken aback, but before long several people file into the open space to dance. He's not surprised; if there's one crooner that's universally beloved in every era, it's Ol' Blue Eyes.
What does surprise him, however, is Lucy grabbing his hand and pulling him after her onto the dancefloor, and he's so surprised that he merely stands there with his hands at his sides, looking out of sorts.
"Don't tell me you don't know how to dance, Mr. Flynn," Lucy says, hands on her hips and tapping a foot expectantly, the tiniest hint of a slur to her voice.
He's enjoying Seven Drink Lucy immensely.
"Give me a bit of credit," he replies, pulling her firmly against him with one arm around her waist while the other hand takes hers. He gives her one quick spin, lifting her up off her feet briefly, and she laughs as he sets her back down. They settle into a smooth rhythm, her other hand starting out stiffly on his shoulder like a freshman at her first school dance, and as the song continues the hand drifts further and further up until eventually it rests against the curve where his shoulder and neck meet.
The alcohol is really starting to hit him now, as he opens his mouth to quietly sing along with Sinatra, and at that he sees Lucy looking at him with appreciative eyes. Or perhaps appreciative is the wrong word. He isn't quite sure of it, he knows he's had a lot to drink already, but he could swear that's lust in her gaze. She bites her lip gently as he looks at her, smiles and continues singing. Eventually he leans forward, his lips next to her ear, his deep voice barely above a whisper as he sings, "I've got you...under my skin."
Lucy turns her head before he can pull back. They're still swaying to the music, the song starting to wrap up, mere inches between their faces. His eyes look down at her lips briefly, hers do the same, and she leans closer-
The music wraps up, the crowd dissipating with surprising speed (most to get refills on their drinks), leaving Flynn and Lucy standing in the open and feeling strangely self-conscious. Flynn steps back, the spell broken - they're both drunk as hell and clearly not thinking straight.
Lucy runs a hand through her hair. "I'm, uh, I'm gonna grab another drink. You coming?"
He shakes his head. "I should check in with the others before they think we've run off and died or something. I'll see you back at the table."
He notes, with great interest, the flash of disappointment that crosses her face as she nods and heads away from him toward the bar.
The third time it happens, they're locked in a library.
Rufus hadn't been particularly thrilled to be heading back to the American Civil War yet again. Flynn can't blame him. This particular trip had felt ridiculously Gone With the Wind from the start, whether it was the lack of civil rights or their choice of elaborate outfits (or both). Lucy had opted for a dress that would put Scarlett O'Hara to deep shame and his own suit (slightly too small as usual) channeled Clark Gable vibes, or so she had said while looking him up and down earlier that day. They'd been separated in a shootout with far more sleeper agents than anticipated, Flynn stuck with Lucy while Wyatt was with Rufus, and he and Lucy had been captured shortly thereafter thanks to Lucy tripping on her enormous skirt and Flynn not rushing back to help her in time. Their captors had stashed them in the windowless library, and after having checked all possible options for exits (none of them viable), they resigned themselves to waiting. Whether that was for Rufus and Wyatt to find them, or for their captors to return so Flynn could improvise, either was good in his books.
"I knew this dress was a dumb idea, I knew it, but no, Lucy, you just had to be Scarlett for a night. Stupid." She shakes her head, frustrated. "And this damn corset is killing me."
"Then take it off," Flynn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Rittenhouse doesn't care about modesty, and they probably intend to just kill us anyway."
"Thank you, Flynn, for that brilliant suggestion that I have already tried." She reaches her hands behind her again to where her dress is already unbuttoned to bare the corset, demonstrating that while she can touch the laces, she can't grip them enough to actually undo any of the knots. She lets her hands drop, huffs and sits on the nearby chaise, her dress puffing up around her as if mocking her bad mood.
"Oh for-" He strides over to her, growing increasingly annoyed. "Stand up."
"What-?"
"Stand up." He doesn't wait for her to comply, instead hauling her bodily to her feet. She sputters in protest at his manhandling until she feels his fingers tugging at the laces and realizes what exactly he's doing. "Who tied these?" he mutters, annoyed.
"Wyatt," she replies calmly, waiting patiently as Flynn wrenches on the knots. He only gets rougher as he hears her response.
"This is ridiculous."
He steps away from her and she waits a beat before turning to look over her shoulder - just as he returns with a pair of scissors. "What are you...no, wait, Flynn, don't-" He ignores her, pulls the top half of her dress down further to give him easy access, and cuts through each knot, triumphantly unraveling the laces in one smooth motion. The corset falls off her immediately, saved only by her arms flying up to hold it over her chest.
And it's only then that Flynn realizes Lucy has declined to wear a modern bra on this particular mission, as he sees the bare skin from her neck to her waist.
He blushes, turns away quickly. "Sorry, I didn't-" Swallows heavily. "Didn't realize you had nothing on under that."
"Gee, you think?" She puts the top of her dress back on, pulling the loose corset out of the way as she does so and throwing it roughly to the side with pure hatred. "I'm pulling a Joan of Arc from now on. Men's clothes or bust."
"Because that won't stand out." He feels a heavy book thud against his back. "Hey! Save it for the bad guys! I just helped you!"
She sighs, crossing her arms, as Flynn finally turns back toward her. "I suppose you did."
"And…?"
Her glare deepens as she says through gritted teeth, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to continue hunting for a way out of this room."
An hour passes before he gives up and instead sits on the chaise next to where Lucy has been sitting while scowling in his direction. They're silent, staring at the wall of books in front of them, neither wanting to admit just how bored they're growing.
Finally, Flynn breaks the silence, looking down as he quietly murmurs, "You look good."
"Pardon?" Her tone is a bit harsher than she intended.
He clears his throat and repeats, louder, "You look good. That outfit. It's nice."
"Oh." Some of her annoyance with him fades. "...thank you."
"You're welcome."
She bites her lip. "You, um. You also look...handsome."
He looks at her, amused and smirking. "Do you genuinely believe that or are you being polite?"
"And that marks the last time I will ever attempt to compliment you."
"No, no, it was nice!" he laughs, setting a hand on her arm to cut off her rising irritation. "I feel like an ass in this suit, hence my skepticism."
She's blushing, pointedly not looking at him. "Well, you shouldn't. It's…"
"It's what?"
"Sexy," she says quickly, turning even further away from him in her seat. "Very Rhett Butler." A pause. "I had a huge crush on Clark Gable in my teens, so that suit is...that suit is kinda doing it for me."
Flynn is smirking again. He's not particularly surprised by this information. "Is this where I say 'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn'?"
She turns back and swats his arm. "Don't you dare repeat that to anyone, or I will burn all of your clothes when we get home."
"If I didn't know better, professor, I'd think you were trying to get me naked."
Every inch of skin on her face turns a bright shade of red. "That's not-!"
"Joking," he says, grinning. "Don't worry, your secret will die with me."
"See that it does." She's clearly trying to suppress her own grin and keep a stern glare on her face but isn't having much success. "Sir, you are no gentleman."
"And you're no lady." He can tell by the look in her eyes that she's exceedingly pleased he caught her reference. He doesn't mention that the only reason he did is because Gone With the Wind was one of Lorena's favorite movies and inevitably he had to sit through all 4 painful hours of it each Christmas or he'd never hear the end of it. Instead, he leans in, eyes on hers, and murmurs, "You need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how."
Lucy takes in a shaky breath, her eyes drifting to his mouth as he finishes the quote. "I didn't take you for a Gone With the Wind fan, Flynn," she says quietly.
"Who said I am?" he replies, reaching with one hand to tilt her chin up toward him. She's flushed again, but for a very different reason, and her eyes flutter closed as he cups the back of her head, draws her gently closer-
The door slams open, Rufus standing in the entryway, and Flynn immediately lets his hand drop and turns toward the interruption. It takes Lucy a second longer to compose herself and she turns the other direction, smoothing her skirt over her lap so as to not look quite so disheveled. Rufus looks frantic, and a tad suspicious, as he shouts, "Let's go! Wyatt's holding them off but we need to move, now!"
Flynn stands, holding a hand out to help Lucy up, then gestures toward the door. "After you." He tries to keep his eyes up as she marches off ahead of him and fails spectacularly, instead looking down as he sees her still-bare shoulders, the dress not yet having been buttoned up again.
No gentleman, indeed.
The fourth time is his anniversary.
He's sitting in front of the TV alone, nursing his fourth beer, watching Roman Holiday, Lorena's all-time favorite film. She wanders into the kitchen in search of a package of cookies that she knows is stashed somewhere, and she spots him sitting there in the dark, twisting the wedding band on his finger with the thumb of his left hand and staring ahead, lost in thought.
She tracks down her cookies and meanders toward him, smiling as she sees what movie he's watching. She's about to tell him it's one of her top tens when she notices his face. She knows for a fact that the story is lighthearted and has plenty of jokes - so she doesn't understand why he looks so crushed.
"We watched it every year on our wedding anniversary. Kept saying we'd take a trip to Rome when Iris was old enough to fly."
Lucy doesn't reply, just sits beside him quietly, slipping her arm through his. She's not quite sure what to say, so instead she opts to hold the package of cookies out. He looks down at it, the ghost of a smile finally appearing, and sets down his beer to take one.
He nods off toward the end of the movie, his head slumping over onto Lucy's shoulder. She gently nudges him as the credits roll, and he blinks sleepily, looks around to get his bearings.
"Movie's over," she whispers. He looks at the TV, then back at her. The screen fades completely to black, leaving them in silent darkness, and though she can't see his face, she lifts his hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "You alright?"
She jumps slightly as she feels him stroke her cheek with the back of his fingers. His voice is incredibly close as he says, "I will be".
And then the klaxon goes off, alerting them to the Mothership jumping, and every light goes on, chasing the darkness away, and the mood along with it.
The fifth time, she's given up hope.
They're locked in jail cells, side by side and separated by a wall of bars. Denise had planned out a covert operation for them to infiltrate Rittenhouse's latest stronghold and retrieve key information, and take out some of the higher-ups if they happened to see them. What none of them had counted on was Emma Whitmore grabbing Lucy and pressing a revolver to her neck while Flynn and Wyatt fought off the armed guards, and the end result had been their surrender and capture. They were taking each of them out of their cells in small groups for questioning, and neither Rufus nor Wyatt had yet come back, leaving Flynn and Lucy sitting alone in their own cells, backs to the cold metal wall.
"I can't do this anymore," Lucy whispers, her head resting against the wall and her eyes closed. Flynn looks up as she speaks.
"Do what?"
"This. All of it. My life has become this...nightmare, this joke, a parody of what it was. I'm a teacher, for god's sake."
"Not anymore."
"I like to think, once this is all over, I'll be able to go back to it."
"Whatever keeps you going, I suppose."
"And what keeps you going, Garcia?"
It's the first time she's used his name. He looks at her, concerned, as she's clearly in a bad headspace, worse than he's ever seen her.
"I…" He isn't quite sure what to say. A few years ago he would have immediately been able to answer that question, but now, he's not so sure. Conflicted, in fact. So instead, he says, "The ones I love."
"Of course. Your family."
He doesn't respond. He'd left his words vague on purpose. It wasn't technically a lie, and he wasn't about to correct any assumptions she was making about the intent of his words.
"My family used to be what kept me going, too." She shifts to lean a shoulder against the bars and lays her head against them, eyes still closed. "But my mother and my sister...Emma saw to them." She sighs and adds in a whisper, "I never even got to say goodbye."
"Don't give up hope, Lucy."
Her voice is small as she says, "I think I already did."
He sits up and turns toward her, reaches through the bars to hold her face in both his hands so she's forced to look at him. "Then I'll just have to stay hopeful and keep fighting for the both of us."
The hopelessness in her eyes fades a bit, and she nods. He leans against the bars as well and reaches one arm through and around her shoulders, trying to hold her close and reassure her as best he can. He presses a kiss to her hair, which makes her look up again, and there's something there in her eyes, something that makes his heart beat faster. She reaches her own arm through the bars and takes hold of his shirt, grips it tightly in a fist and pulls him, slowly but firmly, toward her.
And lets go as the door to the cellblock slides open, Emma standing in the doorway, a glare and a smile on her face.
"Your turn, princess."
There isn't a sixth.
With Rittenhouse soundly defeated and their organization burned to the ground, there isn't any reason to keep the team together. They return to their regular civilian lives, attempting to pick up where they left off, keep in occasional contact through social media or texts but not seeing each other nearly as often as they would like. Lucy thinks about approaching Stanford to resume her teaching position, then decides she's done living in her mother's shadow. She opts, instead, to write another book - this one fiction, pulling from her deep well of historical knowledge, about a group of time travelers who have to save the world.
It's wildly popular. Popular enough that she can pay off what remains of her mother's mortgage. She knows her mother would have loathed it, seeing fiction as an idiot's genre. But she doesn't much care anymore. The money she gets from the sales allows her to choose what she wants to do with her life - teach, travel, continue to write, go back to school, the sky is the limit for the first time in her entire life, with no one holding her back.
Instead of relishing the newfound freedom, however, she feels paralyzed by indecision. She spends most days reading, drinking a bit more wine than she'd like each night, reaching for her phone to see if she's gotten any messages and never seeing anything on the screen other than the current time. She tries out a dating app once, and her evening of swiping left and right just leaves her pissed off and lonelier than when she started, as every conversation is quick to draw attention to her looks, but none seem to give a damn about her brain; some even seem put off by her PhD and general enthusiasm for history (or rather, as per her profile, "history geek").
She's having one of her aimless days of flipping through TV channels and attempting to work on some writing when she hears a distant knock. Being that she isn't expecting anyone, she ignores the sound, writing it off as an echo from the neighbor's door or just a TV sound effect.
Then she hears it again.
She groans and gets to her feet, setting her laptop down on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen to retrieve a tiny can of pepper spray from under the sink. It's obviously an overreaction, but after spending years running from Rittenhouse and nearly getting killed, she takes no chances.
The knocker tries a third time, and she sighs. "Just a sec, I'm coming!" she shouts at the door. She's still wearing her pajamas, as she does most days when she doesn't need to leave the house, and she pauses in the foyer to slip on her silk cardigan before opening the door.
Flynn's hand is raised to knock a fourth time when Lucy appears in the doorway, her beleaguered expression turning to one of surprise. Seeing her face, he panics, turning to leave. "Sorry, I shouldn't have come here, I'll just-"
"No, Flynn, wait!" She grabs his wrist before he can turn and leave. "I was just surprised, that's all, I wasn't expecting anyone, let alone…" She smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, now incredibly self-conscious of what she's wearing. "How have you been?"
"Good, good. You?"
"I've been alright. Bit bored lately, but I guess bored is better than fearing for my life."
"I've had a similar problem." He smiles, shifting on his feet awkwardly, and Lucy notices then that he's had one hand behind his back since she opened the door.
"You got something there?" she asks, nodding toward his right hand that's currently hidden.
"Oh, yes, um. These are…" He pulls his hand out from behind his back and extends a bouquet of flowers to her. "These are for you."
Lucy stares at it, blinking, before slowly taking the flowers. "They're beautiful. But why? It's not my birthday or anything. Is this a special occasion? Did I forget something?"
Flynn looks somewhat deflated at her words. "No, I...I just saw them and thought of you, I suppose. I really shouldn't have come without calling first, I'll get out of your hair."
She's staring down at the flowers and he's halfway back to his parked car when it dawns on her, and she quickly rushes after him, setting the flowers down gently on the front step as she goes and ignoring the fact that all her neighbors are likely staring from their windows and seeing her running around in pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon. "Wait! Garcia!"
He stops abruptly, turning as she reaches him and puts a hand on his arm. It's his turn to look confused, or perhaps just nervous, and the idea of Garcia Flynn, hardened soldier and reformed terrorist, being nervous about anything strikes her as hilarious. She's grinning as he looks at her, his brow knit.
"What's wrong? Do you not want them? I can take them back-"
She shakes her head, laughing, and grabs him by his jacket lapels, yanks him down abruptly to her height so she can kiss him. His eyes are wide for a half second, having been taken completely off guard, before he takes her face in his hands and kisses her back, hard, as if he'd been wanting to do so for a very long time and was finally getting his chance. At this point she knows her neighbors are staring, probably wondering why the recluse professor next door is making out like a teenager with an awkward yet terrifying giant on her front lawn.
They part after several minutes, both of them laughing, Lucy absolutely beaming at him.
"What?"
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"Say what you came here to say," she urges, her grin not faltering.
"Fine." He rests his hands on her hips and pulls her closer. "Lucy Preston, I am deeply, madly, unbelievably in love with you." He leans forward to peck her lips softly, grins. "And I would love to take you to dinner."
"It's about time."