Notes: This takes place in the same universe as Your Hands Can Heal; Your Hands Can Bruise. You DO NOT have to read that story 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 wakes in the middle of the night to find one less man than there should be in her bed.
Warning: Nothing graphic, but don't read if you object to the idea of three adults being romantically involved.
Song Suggestion: Walnut Tree by Keane
Chapter Title: Your sorrow, your beauty, your war—I want it all (From Phillip Phillips' Unpack Your Heart.)
I Barely Knew I had Skin Before I Met You (1/4)
"Aren't we all waiting to be read by someone, praying that they'll tell us that we make sense?"
- Rudy Francisco
When her eyes first opened, Lucy didn't know what had woken her. Soft snores rumbled next to her, and she stifled a laugh. "Wyatt," she whispered in the dark, "roll over onto your side. You're snoring." Her words were met by another snore, this one significantly louder than the last. Shifting closer to the warm man sleeping next to her, she nuzzled the curve of his bare shoulder, then skimmed a hand over his stomach. "Honey, you're snoring. Turn over!"
The man slept like he'd taken horse tranquilizers. "Mmmph. Luce," he murmured, sleep slurring it all into one nonsensical word. He exhaled a snuffling sort of breath she vowed to tease him about in the morning and then turned onto his side so they now lay with her chest pressed to the steady heat of his back. His skin invariably ran hot, so he usually slept in just a pair of boxers on the left side of their bed. That way if he felt uncomfortably warm, he could stick an arm or leg out from under their blankets without subsequently freezing Lucy, who always felt cold.
Come to think of it, her back felt chilled. Frowning, Lucy turned onto her back and reached out her left hand to pat the bed. On that side the sheets were cool to the touch, as if they hadn't been slept on for hours. She moved onto her elbows and peered at the bedside clock, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The clock read 3:35 - far too early for any of them to be up for any good reason.
Moving with as much stealth as she could muster at that early hour, Lucy slipped from their bed to go search for the other man who should've been asleep behind her, playing the big spoon to her little spoon. A faint sliver of light gleamed from under the closed bedroom door. Their room enveloped her in a pre-dawn chill; goosebumps prickled on her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and tiptoed out of the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. It squeaked loudly. In the morning stillness, the sound blared like a siren. Lucy winced and made a mental note to oil the hinges later that day.
Yawning so wide she felt her jaw crack, she padded downstairs, making sure to avoid that one spot on the fifth step that always creaked. She followed the glow of light like a trail of breadcrumbs. The lights shone on a dim setting, casting unsettling shadows in the room. Lucy shivered.
He sat at the kitchen table, facing away from her, body hunched, head bowed, leaving the back of his neck bare and vulnerable. "Garcia," she said, voice hushed, not wanting to startle him. Her whisper cracked the surface of the early-morning tranquility. The muscles in his back stiffened, the sudden tension there the only sign he'd heard her speak. His silence and tense posture worried her, but she forced herself to remain calm and not smother him with an excess of concern - concern he might not welcome.
The three of them loved each other, true, and Garcia had lost most of that desperate- wild-animal-caught-in-the-jaws-of-a-steel-trap look that used to be de rigeur for him. Still, sometimes his thoughts and feelings remained as opaque to her and Wyatt as they had in the past. Fortunately, she liked puzzles; he was her favorite.
She touched the back of Garcia's chair. "Is it OK if I sit with you?"
His head dipped nearly imperceptibly.
She pulled out an empty chair to his right and sat with her feet tucked under her, wiggling a bit to get comfortable. She snuck a glance at Garcia from under her lashes, but he wasn't looking at her. Instead, he seemed to be completely focused on the paper napkin he was tearing - first into long strips, then smaller pieces. His hair hung loose and ruffled over his forehead in an inky fall, longer than he usually let it grow. It shone black in the dim kitchen; she knew sunlight, however, would coax forth a dozen shades of brown and even red.
His lips twisted down in a faint frown she ached to kiss away. She clenched her fists in her lap and inhaled deeply to avoid reaching for him. He would talk when he was ready. They'd all had too much stolen from them already; she would not be the one to steal one more thing from him - choice. Vulnerability was still difficult for Garcia. For all of them, really.
A small, white pile of napkin confetti grew in front of him. A tremor shook him, and Lucy noticed the dark hairs on his arms standing up. He must be cold. That she could fix. She shuffled to the living room, trying not to stumble over anything, and snagged the fuzzy, gray throw draped over an arm of the largest sofa. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Garcia still tearing up napkins and showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. Without a word she tucked the throw around him, letting her hand linger on his neck for a half-second longer than it strictly needed to.
"Your skin feels like ice," she said, starting to move away. "I'll make some tea to warm you up."
His hand shot out to capture hers. He brought it to his face and held it so her palm curved over his cheek. "Thank you, Lucy." The steel-string rasp of his voice made her shiver.
"You're welcome, Garcia." She smoothed her free hand over his hair and cleared her throat. "Will you tell me what's bothering you? You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but-"
He nodded and brushed a kiss over her knuckles before releasing her hand with a soft sigh. "I'll tell you. Do you mind making tea?"
"Of course not."
Five minutes later she handed him a steaming mug of chamomile tea before sitting down next to him with her own cup. Garcia turned his mug so the writing on it showed. He huffed a little laugh. "I don't have an attitude. I have a personality you can't handle," was stamped in large black bubble letters. Wyatt had given the novelty mug to Garcia a month or two ago. They'd all had a long laugh over it. "Are you trying to tell me something?" Garcia had asked with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows and a teasing lilt in his voice.
"Hell yes," Wyatt had retorted, laughter gleaming in his blue eyes, taking any sting out of his words with a hearty clap on the other man's back and what probably would've been a quick kiss to his lips - if Garcia hadn't twisted his hands in Wyatt's shirt to hold him in place, chasing his mouth with such diligence that Lucy felt her body heat. She'd smiled so hard her cheeks had hurt, then let loose a piercing wolf whistle. They'd broken apart at the shrill sound, both panting, a hectic flush painted high on their cheeks.
She loved Wyatt and Garcia all the time, but those moments were among her favorite: when their sharp edges were filed down to kiss-dazed eyes and soft, swollen lips.
Garcia's fingertips drumming an irregular beat on the tabletop brought Lucy back to the present. She stilled his hand with one of her own. "Tell me, please." The words rang out as a plea, not a command.
His gaze dropped from hers, shuttering - and Lucy let it - but she kept her hand where it was, skimming her thumb over the top of his hand, anchoring him while he composed his thoughts.
"My daughter would be ten today...If she'd lived." His voice wavered on the last word; he pulled his hand out from under hers and wrapped it around his mug. "It's Iris' birthday - October 19th."
"Of course. I'm so sorry." The words sounded hollow. Lucy leaned back in her chair and shoved her hair behind her ears. "Oh, Garcia, I should've known." That certainly explained his middle-of-the-night melancholy.
He shook his head and waved off her apology. "Why would you?" he countered with a quizzical smile that didn't reach his shadowed eyes.
"I'll remember next year." Disappointed in herself, she sighed. "I promise."
"I believe you. If you say you will, you will." He patted her knee. "But Lucy, you don't have to."
"I want to." She shrugged and bit her bottom lip. "If it's important to you, it's important to me."
The throw around Garcia's shoulders gaped open, exposing the plain, white v-neck he'd worn to bed. Lucy's gaze flicked to the simple gold chain he never took off; he'd bought it to hang his wedding ring upon when the three of them had finally admitted their relationships were changing. Now Garcia worried the gold band with his hand - until their gazes met. When he seemed to realize what she'd been looking at, he tucked the necklace and ring underneath his shirt, shielding them from her view.
"You know, you never talk about them." Lucy pitched her voice low and calm. "Either of them."
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "What is there to say? Rittenhouse murdered them." His tone sounded placid and unruffled, but his fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. "The rest," Garcia continued, his mouth, the same mouth she kissed every night before she slept, twisted in a sneer that made her stomach hurt, "as they say, is history."
"Don't do that." She didn't bother concealing her frustration.
"What?"
"Don't minimize what you've lost." She stabbed a finger in the air in his direction. "Who you've lost." She scrubbed a hand wearily across her face. "Own your grief." This time the words came softer.
"Own my grief," he repeated, eyes widened almost comically, and disbelief written across his features.
"Yes." She nodded once. "Own. Your. Grief," she got out through gritted teeth.
Garcia slammed his fist on the table.
Lucy jumped in her seat, hand flying to her throat, and heart pounding so fast she could almost taste it. Though she knew he would never hurt her, the sudden movement and noise had startled her.
"They fucking murdered my family," he said, his accent growing thicker and heavier, as it always did when he was stressed or emotional. "They stole everything from me." He tunneled both hands into his hair. "My beautiful girls...slaughtered…" He bent nearly double in his chair, arms folded over his head as if he was shielding himself from something. "Their blood," he moaned, "there was so much of it. So much blood…"
His voice broke on the last word, and so did Garcia Flynn.
The sobs came then - great, heaving sobs that tore through him with the force of a bullet. Cowering in his chair, he rocked back and forth like a child trying to comfort himself. Lucy shoved her chair back and enveloped him in her arms. Seeing this formidable man brought so low by his grief made tears spring to her own eyes, but she sniffed them back, determined not to make this about her, and held on tight as he shuddered and cried through a storm of mourning.
She didn't bother shushing him. "Own your grief," she'd told him. He'd probably never even had a chance to properly grieve his wife and daughter, since he'd had to run as soon as Rittenhouse had framed him for their deaths. He didn't need to be quiet; he needed to grieve, even if seeing him this way made Lucy feel like she was being flayed alive, one tender strip of skin at a time. She swore she would bear the weight of his suffering ten times over if it helped him.
He clutched her like he was afraid she'd leave him if he didn't. He clung to her like his world was rupturing all over again.
His tears soaked Lucy's sleep shirt. Her back and arms cramped from bending over and holding him so tightly for so long.
Still, she held him, saying nothing.
Except her hands stroking up and down his back said, "I'm here."
And the kisses she feathered over his hair said, "Let go. I've got you."
Minutes or maybe hours passed. She had no idea. Her world had narrowed to the man fracturing in her arms. Muted footsteps sounded on the stairs; Lucy glanced up to meet Wyatt's concerned gaze. Before he could speak, she lifted a finger to her lips, gesturing for him to stay silent.
With a nod of understanding, Wyatt settled on the second to last step, leaning an elbow on his knees and propping his chin in his hand. "I love you," he mouthed. "Both of you."
Lucy smiled and blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. He'd just gotten up from bed and stumbled on this scene in the kitchen. How did he know just the right thing to say?
Garcia wasn't sobbing anymore, but his breathing was still choked and uneven. She knew he was trying to wrest back control of himself when his arms and hands loosened their grip and then finally released her. He inhaled and exhaled slowly through his nose, avoiding her gaze. She let him go but retreated only a few inches.
"You should let me go, Lucy," he said in a voice like gravel. He sniffed hard and stared at the floor. "You and Wyatt, you know, you could be happy together. Without me. You both deserve better than me."
"Hey, man," Wyatt called, standing and waving from the stairs. "I'm right here." In five strides he stood with them. "Want to fill me in on what I missed before you start making major life decisions for me?"