Awareness crept into Lucy's senses slowly but steadily. The metallic scent of the bunker walls stung her nose as she drew her first wakeful breath. Besides the dull thrum of fans circulating stale air, all was still and silent. Jiya slept noiselessly on the other side of their shared room. Lucy's muscles protested as she stretched her legs out, her toes cracking softly as she flexed them. She turned her head and glanced at the clock – 5:13AM – no wonder everything was quiet. No use lying in bed; she was never one to be able to fall back asleep once awake. Stifling a groan, she quietly swung her legs out of bed and threw her robe on over her pajamas. She grabbed her little shower basket and padded out into the hall on bare feet.
The one perk to being the first one up in the morning was that she was guaranteed a hot shower. The old water tanks never seemed to generate enough heat to last more than four showers in the morning. She wondered if Flynn ever enjoyed a warm rinse, since he was usually the last one up. It was too early in the morning to think about Flynn though – especially thoughts involving him bathing. Just two nights ago, she had spent the entire evening in his room, spilling her guts over a bottle of vodka. She knew most of what was said was innocent, but she still felt mildly embarrassed that Wyatt had caught her emerging from Flynn's room in the morning, despite her assurances to him that nothing happened.
She shook her head to clear it as she placed a chair in front of the bathroom door to indicate its occupancy, and began peeling off her clothes. Once under the hot stream of water, she turned and began kneading the muscles at the base of her neck. So much had happened these past few weeks...Flynn joining the team, her mother trying to make her choose between Rittenhouse and being hanged as a witch, Jessica coming back from the dead – and Wyatt choosing her without hesitation. It was simply too much at once. Her emotions were all over the map. She was heartbroken, stressed, and needy. She could only snatch a couple hours of deep sleep each night. She hated bring like this.
Wyatt was in his own little world with Jessica, and she was trying to give them as much space as she could. The same could be said of Rufus and Jiya. Though they paid her more attention than Wyatt, they too coveted their alone time. Not that she blamed them – any of them. The bunker was a tight space for their growing team, and she couldn't begrudge the two couples private time in between the missions that so often separated them. Denise took as much time as she dared to be with her family, and was often too steeped in work at the bunker to be much company. Lucy knew she could talk to the older woman if she needed to, but she hesitated to add more burdens to her shoulders. Connor was pretty much having a midlife crisis, so she also avoided him.
That left Flynn. Lucy sighed as she drew her razor up the curve of her calf. Flynn. Her thoughts kept turning to him more and more often lately. The enigmatic time traveler – once their enemy – had sauntered into their lives as if he had always belonged there. Well, that wasn't strictly true. He was aloof with most of the other members of the team, though he did seem to be making efforts to win their trust. But with her...with her, he made himself right at home. She had become somewhat accustomed to his snarky behavior as they had chased him across history, though it was usually tempered by the circumstances of the moment. She had seen him angry, broken, arrogant, and almost hopeful as he struggling to keep his humanity. She had assumed that his sarcastic quips had been there to hide his pain – but now she was beginning to think it was his natural tendencies peeking through all along.
Since joining them, Flynn had grown quite free with his verbal input, and Lucy found herself struggling not to laugh out loud at some of the outlandish things he said. He had always been rather mysterious, but after getting to know him better (especially two nights ago when his tongue was hinged even more loosely from alcohol), she found him to be deeply relatable. He was still full of contradictions, though. Funny, but unhappy. Sharp tongued, but gentlemanly. Bold, but self-isolating. Aggressive, but compassionate. Hard, but gentle. He had a glare that could turn an enemy's bowels to water, and a smile that could make her spine tingle. His gravelly voice, with its wonderfully foreign accent, could hold her rooted to the spot in the most irresistible way. Green eyes held secrets that she wanted desperately to drag from him, but some things were best not knowing – and certain ones he held close.
…Such as his feelings for her. Sometimes, she thought she could read exactly what was written in the expressions he cast her way. But a part of her balked at the idea that she was simply seeing what she wanted to see. That was an even scarier thought. Did she really see adoration in his eyes, or was she so desperate for affection that she only thought she saw it? At the end of the day though, it was his presence alone that was enough to hold her fragile self together. He listened to her without demanding more. He didn't try to fix her problems or offer advice. Sometimes he shared his own similar thoughts and struggles. But most of all, he was simply available to her. He was there to lean against, a rock to stand on when everything else around her felt like quicksand. He was solid, but oh so gentle.
Lucy turned off the water and dried herself, slipping back into her pajamas for the time being. She could get dressed for the day later – right now she just wanted the comfort of a soft t-shirt and cotton bottoms. She twisted her hair up into her towel and walked to the galley. After finding the contents of the fridge to be satisfactorily stocked, she decided to put some effort into breakfast this morning and make an omelet. Milk, eggs, pepper, onion, ham, cheese, spinach, and a variety of spices found their way onto the countertop as she gathered the utensils she would need to prepare her masterpiece. Selecting the sharpest knife she could find, she started with the pepper. The rhythmic motion of the blade slicing through the vegetable's skin gave her an odd sense of calm and purpose, and she found herself humming a tuneless song. Pushing thoughts of anything stressful out of her mind, she lost herself in her task. Peaceful. This was peaceful.
"You're up early," that familiar, deep voice said, shattering her solitude.
She jumped so hard, she nearly stabbed herself, snapping her head over her shoulder. How the hell did he manage to get directly behind her without her noticing? Her sudden movement dislodged the heavy towel from her head, but with speed belying his size, Flynn caught it before it hit the ground.
"Sorry," he apologized with a roguish smile that suggested anything but remorse. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Disarmed once again and not really caring, she smirked back at him, "Yes, you did. You delight in sneaking up on people."
He gave teeth to his smile and shrugged, "Maybe a little."
She turned back to her pepper and resumed her leisurely carving. He stood silently behind her for a moment, and she could swear she almost sensed hesitation in the short breath of air he drew in through his nose. She stilled when the coarseness of the towel once more impressed itself on the ends of her hair. Was he…? He was. He was towel drying her hair.
"What's all this?" he asked, nonchalantly, though she detected the slightest strain in the voice near her ear.
"An omelet – or at least, it will be," she replied, determined not to overreact to what was simply yet another inscrutable behavior from Garcia Flynn.
"What kind of omelet?"
His hands guided the towel up from the ends of her hair to the base of her neck, his fingers causing her skin to tingle and he slowly worked his way up the back of her head to her scalp.
"I don't know – an omelet made out of all the things I thought might be good?"
He began massaging her head, his pinky fingers rubbing the tension from her temples as his thumbs dug in through the towel.
"It needs more meat."
She was dimly aware that she had stopped cutting as her head fell back to rest on his collarbone. His fingers moved closer to the front of her hairline, and she pulled a deep breath in over her suddenly dry tongue. Was there anything in this world more satisfying than a good head massage?
"More meat?" she asked, sounding dumb in her own ears. Why were they talking about meat, again?
The towel suddenly absented itself from her head, but the fingers returned almost immediately to resume their work.
"Mmhmm," he rumbled, his voice reverberating through his chest as she leaned a little deeper into him. "The ham is a good choice, but I know for a fact that there is a pound of country sausage in the back of the freezer."
"But we would have to thaw it," she amazed herself that she was engaged enough in the conversation to offer an intelligent reply.
He chuckled, the simple sound somehow increasing the pleasure of the moment exponentially.
"You are aware that the microwave has the ability to thaw frozen meat in a matter of minutes, are you not?"
How did he manage to keep his tone so conversational while she was struggling to breathe properly?
His forearms dropped to her shoulders as he moved his hands to the front of her face. His thumbs rested on her cheekbones as his fingers gripped her from her temples to the bridge of her nose.
"I am aware," she managed to mumble in reply.
"So, by time you finish cutting the vegetables, I can have the meat ready to be browned for our breakfast."
"Our breakfast?" she asked.
"Come now, Lucy. There's plenty here for two. Besides, don't you feel inclined to share with me after this?" he punctuated his sentence by drawing his fingers from her hairline to the back of her head until his hands reached his chest.
"Hmm," she made the pretense of deliberating. "I suppose that could earn you a small reward…but only if you are going to help."
He slid to her right to open the freezer door, "Don't I always?"
Instantly missing the warmth at her back, she smiled without looking at him, "I suppose you do."
As Flynn located the sausage and began to thaw it, Lucy finished her work with the pepper and moved on to the onion. It was yellow and fresh, and before she had even finished peeling its skin, her nose was tingling. As her knife made its first cut, her eyes began to well. Good grief, this was a potent onion. She finished her vertical slices and wiped at her eyes with her arm. Somehow, the gesture made it even worse, and she was half blinded by tears before she could make her cross cuts. Flynn leaned into the periphery of her blurred vision, resting an elbow on the counter and propping his chin up with his hand.
"What? Do you find something amusing?" she asked.
"I find nothing amusing in a woman's tears," he said gravely.
"It's just because of the damn onion," and it was. "Seriously Flynn, I'm not crying for real. I'm just very sensitive to fresh onions," she said, sniffing her runny nose.
He reached across her and arrested the knife from her grip, sliding in to nudge her out of the way with his shoulder and hip.
"Melt some butter in the skillet and put in the peppers. They will take longer to soften than the onion."
He was right of course, so she complied without argument. Did he really think she had actually been crying? And where did this domestic, "I give free head massages and slice vegetables better than Emeril" Flynn come from? He was in rare form this morning, that was all there was to it. She refused to ponder it any further, choosing to accept it as just another facet of his personality being illuminated for her.
Once the peppers were beginning to soften, Flynn added the onions, instantly permeating the space with their delicious aroma. The ham was chopped and the sausage was browned alongside the spinach. They drained the extra fat and scraped the skillet's contents into a bowl where the eggs, milk, cheese, and spices were added. This was poured back into the greased skillet and cooked to perfection. Flynn was right, it was enough for two large omelets each, and the smell was so mouthwatering that both their stomachs were growling by the time breakfast was made. Lucy was given the first omelet, but she waited to consume it until Flynn had finished cooking his. Together with their scrumptious meal and two cups of coffee, they sat at one of the small tables in the galley. Not the uncomfortable chairs (which were too small for Flynn), nor the generally dismal atmosphere of the bunker with its flickering florescent lights, could put a damper on the quality of that breakfast.
Seated across from her, Flynn stretched his long legs out beneath the table and propped a foot on the edge of her chair. They talked about everything and nothing, and laughed at silly things. It was the first time she could remember laughing – really laughing – in weeks. She felt almost at home. There was a singular sense of normalcy that crowded out all the other emotions she had been struggling with recently. It felt so good to just be here. And if she was being honest, it wasn't the food or the routineness of it – it was him.
"I'm glad you woke up early this morning," she ventured, peering at him from behind the lip of her mug.
"Oh? Why's that?" he was trying to be casual, but she could see her remark pleased him by the tug at the corner of his mouth.
"You make all this seem – normal. It's just another breakfast, on just another morning, and neither of us have to be to work any time soon."
"I have had few enough of those kinds of days in my life," he admitted, though his tone did not sound melancholy. "Sharing this one with you has been…good," he finished, glancing up at her from beneath thick lashes.
She cocked her head to the side slightly, "Thanks, Flynn."
He smiled and nodded before draining the last of his coffee, "So what's for breakfast tomorrow?"
"Hmm…pancakes?" she suggested.
He chewed his lower lip in thought before leaning in with a conspiratorial smirk, "How about crepes?"