Notes: This takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise and I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You. You DO NOT have to read either of those stories first in order for this one to make sense. All you need to know is that this is set sometime in the future, when Lucy, Garcia, and Wyatt are in a polyfidelitous relationship. Translation: the three of them are romantically involved and are faithful to each other. They also live together.
Summary: Lucy thinks lazy Sunday mornings are the best thing ever.
Warning: Nothing graphic, but don't read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.
Baby, I'm a house on fire (and I want to keep burning) (1/1)
Lazy mornings are the best, and Lucy gets far too few of them. So before she falls asleep one Saturday night, she slaps a sleep mask over her eyes. Just once, she'd like to sleep until she feels like waking up, so that's what she does.
Rolling over in the enormous bed she shares with Garcia and Wyatt, first she pulls off her sleep mask, then she throws off the cotton blanket. She stretches her arms, wiggling her fingers. Next come her legs. Her back cracks along the way, and she laughs. Slivers of golden sunlight dance through the closed blinds. Her body feels light and well-rested.
A quick glance at the clock tells her it's after 9:30 on Sunday morning. Garcia and Wyatt might be out for a run. Lucy's stomach grumbles. Or maybe they're picking up fresh bagels and hot, sweet coffee for her. A girl can hope.
The sleep mask did its job faithfully, and she wants to be able to find it again, so she tucks it into the nightstand drawer. Given that she's the last person out of the bed; she should be the one to make it, but she really doesn't feel like it right now. She'll just have to take the inevitable scolding she'll get from both Wyatt and Garcia. A little bickering won't kill any of them.
The bathroom door opens, followed by a cloud of steam. Wyatt steps out, head lowered, eyes focused on his phone. "Work, work, work, work, work, work," he sings along with Rihanna. Lucy's eyes widen, and a giggle bubbles up from somewhere in her chest. She claps a hand over her mouth, but it's too late; he stiffens and glances up.
"Oh, hey, Lucy." He clears his throat. "Didn't realize you were up." The phone still sits in his left hand, while his right hand scratches the back of his neck. He ducks his head. A distinct flush creeps up over his cheeks.
"Clearly," she says, moving toward him, not even trying to hide her smile. "Good morning, Wyatt," she sing-songs. Her lips drag a kiss over his cheek, catching a little on the faint stubble peeking out there.
"Morning." One arm pulls her close against Wyatt's t-shirt covered chest.
"I have to use the bathroom and brush my teeth. Ugh. Morning breath." Her hand squeezes his shoulder. "Don't move," she says, strolling toward the bathroom, "I'll be right back."
When she returns to their bedroom Wyatt's phone is silent, and he stands by the window with the blinds open.
She crooks a finger at him, beckoning. "Come here."
His lips quirk up in that mischief-tinged Wyatt Logan grin that always makes her want to smile back. "Yes, ma'am." He lifts a hand in a mock salute; she puckers her lips and blows him a kiss. He pretends to catch it, then ambles toward her, sunlight catching highlights in his shower-damp hair.
"Nice singing."
He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you weren't supposed to hear that."
"Why not?" She takes his hand, savoring the slide of her fingers through his. "I thought it was cute." Touching Wyatt is easy, and it feels good; she does it as often as possible.
"Shut up."
"No, I'm serious." She eases closer to Wyatt and runs her fingernails over the short hairs on the back of his neck. A shiver moves through him. "Turn the song back on."
"Lucy…" He sighs.
"Do it."
"OK. Fine." He sounds exasperated, but Lucy knows better. His hands lift in a gesture of compliance.
The opening bars of the song start to play. Lucy takes the phone from Wyatt and sets it on the nightstand. "Work, work, work, work, work, work," she sings to him, flashing a tiny smile. He smiles back, eyes warm and soft, and in that moment she loves him. She loves him in all moments.
She tugs him closer by the waistband of his shorts. Feet apart, knees bent, she rocks her hips into Wyatt. The music weaves around them, tension charging the small space between their bodies.
His blue eyes go dark. His lips part. He matches her move for move, hips rolling forward, loose and easy, in a perfect echo of hers.
Wyatt's shirt bunches in her grip, soft fabric covering skin she's touched too many times to count. The steady thud of his heartbeat under her hand makes her own pulse pick up speed. Her eyes slip shut. When his hand skims her hip and claims her lower back, pressing her closer, heat spreads outward from that one point of contact into all her limbs, warm, thick, honey-sweet. The air in the room grows heavier, hotter. She nuzzles his neck, inhaling deeply, absorbing the faint scent of his soap. It's as familiar to her as her own skin, but it sends a shiver down her spine; creates a pulsing ache down low inside her.
The hand on her back slips under her shirt, traveling down and cupping her bottom. (Actually, it's Wyatt's shirt, and she slept in it the night before.)
"I like you in my shirt." His words stir the hair over her temple.
"Hmm…" One of Wyatt's hands strokes the hair back from her forehead; the other squeezes her ass. She's not wearing shorts—just panties—and he palms a lot of bare skin. They move together, trancelike, and each rotation of Lucy's hips has her grinding on Wyatt's thigh, setting fires all over her body. Her breath soughs in and out faster than before. Her eyes open to find him unsuccessfully biting back a self-satisfied grin. Bastard. He knows exactly what he's doing.
She flicks him on the nose.
He chuckles and wraps his arms around her in a hug.
"You have terrible taste in music," says a dry voice behind them.
Lucy gasps and turns around. Garcia stands in the doorway, hip cocked in a casual pose, watching them with a knowing glint in his green eyes.
"Eh. That depends on what you're using the music for." Wyatt drops one hand to her upper back, pressing down gently, and the other to her hip, guiding her to lean forward a bit. She does so, her gaze never leaving Garcia as she turns her hips in a circle, feeling Wyatt rub up against her from behind.
"I go out for one hour"—Garcia clicks his tongue and shakes his head in mock disapproval—"and this is what I come back to."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't have left." She arches an eyebrow.
The song ends and Lucy stands up. Wyatt's fingers dip just under the waistband of her underwear, stroking lightly.
Garcia palms the visible bulge in his running shorts, and Lucy licks her lips. He shakes his head, smiling faintly. "I went for a run." He gestures at a patch of sweat on his shirt. "I need to shower." He straightens and walks to them. He places a hand on top of Wyatt's, where it still rests on her skin. "Wait for me," he says, his eyes promising a reward if they obey him. He tugs on her earlobe with his teeth, making goosebumps break out all over her body, then heads to the bathroom.
"We're not making any promises, man."
"Remember, Wyatt, good things come to those who wait," Garcia calls over his shoulder, his tone chastising.
"Yeah, fuck you, too."
Garcia laughs and shuts the bathroom door behind him.