A/N: Happy Belated Birthday, LivingInSmilesIsBetter! To quote Counting Crows, "Maybe this year will be better than the last." :) xoxo

You're the only one who knows my demons
Only your eyes have seen my skeletons
Wearing all my scars for you to feel now
Smoothing them over with your loving hands
'Cause there are no secrets that I keep from you
And there are no lies upon my tongue

— Jaymes Young, "Naked"

Wyatt reached the stairs first, with Garcia following a few steps behind. His scalp prickled. The heat and pressure of Garcia's regard smoothed over him as surely as if the other man had drawn his slender fingers through his hair, stroked them down the back of Wyatt's neck, and finished by sketching the length of his spine.

He stopped in front of their bedroom, mouth twitching into an irrepressible smile. The longer he watched Garcia, who looked back, unblinking, with cool, unimpressed eyes, the wider Wyatt's smile stretched. Arms spread and hands braced against either side of the doorway, Wyatt leaned back, swaying a little as he tipped his weight onto his heels. "You were totally checking me out, weren't you?" Did he sound cocky? Maybe, but he knew he was a good-looking guy.

Face carefully blank, Garcia sighed. "You have an over-inflated sense of your own appeal, Logan."

"Nah. I don't think so. I think I have a pretty accurate sense of my appeal. Don't even pretend like you weren't all 'I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave,' just now."

"Excuse me?" Garcia's brow quirked. "I couldn't decode the garbage that just exited your mouth."

Wyatt winked and stepped toward Garcia. "You like my garbage," he said and poked his index finger against the wall of Garcia's chest. "And my mouth." Another poke. "Admit it, Flynn: you were totally checking out my ass. I could feel you watching me."

Garcia stepped back with an indifferent shrug and made a face. "Why does it matter if I was? Can't a man appreciate the aesthetics of the human body?"

"Sure." Of course, Garcia wanted to make it sound distant like he was examining something in a museum. He clearly didn't want to give Wyatt the satisfaction of explicitly acknowledging his attractiveness. "But you weren't appreciating the human body, you were appreciating this body." Wyatt waved a hand at himself with a little flourish. " My body."

Garcia straightened, his erect posture a warning. Uh oh. Get ready, Wyatt thought as Garcia lobbed him a grenade glance that sucked all the oxygen out of the atmosphere. He crowded into his space and seated his fingers just under Wyatt's chin, tipping it up so there was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to look except directly into eyes that seemed, impossibly, to see everything Wyatt was; had been; would never be.

"Oh, but see, that's where you're wrong, Wyatt."

His voice washed over Wyatt in a pleasurable, nearly tactile wave, raising the hair on his body. A promise-filled smile lifted Garcia's lips, adding something soft to the collection of wolfish angles and planes that made up his face. The effect was seductive. Before, Flynn had seemed all razor edges and dangerous zealotry. But beneath the zealot's body armor lay fragile skin and a heart that pulsed the same as his. It was these things that had lured him in, and before he'd known it, snared Wyatt so completely he'd never get free. (He didn't mind.)

"I haven't even begun to appreciate your body." With those promising words, Garcia flattened his palms against the front of Wyatt's shoulders and pushed, not very hard, gently urging him through the doorway and into their bedroom.

Wyatt allowed himself to be steered backward and pressed against the small stretch of wall next to the adjoining bathroom. Garcia's hands descended from Wyatt's shoulders, smoothed down his arms, and ringed his wrists. Could Flynn feel the electric thrum of his pulse beneath his fingers?

Face set in serious lines, Flynn lifted one of Wyatt's hands and brought it close enough to his mouth that a warm puff of his breath drifted over his wrist. One long, drowsy blink and Garcia's eyelids swept down and then up, alternately hiding and revealing those glittering green eyes; his mouth was poised at the vulnerable, pale skin on the inside of Wyatt's wrist. Holding Wyatt's gaze, he rubbed his open lips across the thin, blue-veined skin at Wyatt's wrist. Heat sparked, spreading up Wyatt's arm and down to his cock with each leisurely glide of that soft mouth. Wyatt's free hand found its way to Garcia's hip, ready to skim under his shirt and meet smooth, bare skin. But before it could reach its intended destination, Garcia snatched up Wyatt's hand and placed it back at his side.

"What? I can't touch you?" Wyatt asked, a little miffed.

"Mm-mm. Not yet," Garcia said, hushed, against Wyatt's wrist. His tongue flicked out to taste Wyatt's pulse in what might be an apology; the thought of that tongue sliding over other parts of his body made him shiver.

Off Wyatt's frown and narrowed eyes, Garcia grinned. "What?" he mimicked, eyes dancing with what could only be amusement at Wyatt's expense. His mouth said, "I thought you wanted me to appreciate your body," but his expression said this: I know exactly what I'm doing, and I know exactly what you're thinking, Logan .

Beneath layers of skin, trapped in its bone prison, Wyatt's heart thumped an echo of the rain. "Man, I hate you. So much."

"Yes, Logan"ーGarcia's eyes widened with mischief, flashing all their greens, and he curved his palm to the front of Wyatt's pants, pressing lightlyーtoo lightlyーagainst the bulge he found thereー"I know precisely how much you hate me."

The moment Wyatt bit his lip and arched into that hand, seeking friction, it was gone. Bastard. When Garcia captured the skin at Wyatt's wrist between his teeth, his breath a damp, hot breeze, the fingers and palm of Wyatt's free hand flexed and spread, gripping the cool wall at his back. At the scrape of those blunt teeth along his skin, Wyatt couldn't hold back a quiet moan. A shimmer of embarrassing heat rose in his face. "Hate you so fucking much."

Garcia chuckled. After a parting kiss to his wrist, Garcia released Wyatt and took two steps back. With enviable grace, he folded his long limbs and went to his knees. Head tilted back to expose the strong, sleek line of his throat, he looked up at Wyatt. And Wyatt, he looked back. Met green eyes, long lashes, and that angular face with its locked-up secrets. A dusting of stubble highlighted the blade-sharp cut of Garcia's jaw. Wyatt's mouth wanted to lick into the dip of his collarbone, and suck pretty bruises into the warm skin above it so that anyone who laid eyes on Flynn would know what he'd done—what they'd done together.

It made Wyatt a little dizzy, having an apex predator kneeling at his feet, gazing up at him with eyes gone stormy with want. (Under his ice-king exterior, Flynn was all heat.) Sure, he might be housebroken now, but nine times out of ten Garcia Flynn was still the most dangerous thing in the room.

Very, very lightly, his knuckles brushed Wyatt's erection. Once, twice, three times, the pressure increasing slightly with each pass.

It wasn't enough; it wasn't nearly enough.

Wyatt inhaled sharply through his nose. The quiet in the bedroom amplified the sound of him pulling air deep into his lungs, rendering it unnaturally loud. Garcia undid Wyatt's belt buckle and slowly pulled the belt loose. It dragged audibly as he slid it through the loops of Wyatt's jeans. Maintaining eye contact with Wyatt, he coiled the belt in a neat circle and set it to the side on the carpet with a small clink .

Watching those steady, confident hands work did something to Wyatt; he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a needy sound. He concentrated on the texture of the carpet beneath his feet, used it to ground him while he fought to keep the sound that wanted to be uttered, trapped behind his teeth.

Next, Flynn's deft fingers pulled the button on Wyatt's jeans through the buttonhole, and Wyatt's chest fell on a gusty exhale. As he inched Wyatt's zipper down, Garcia's dark head angled in the same direction. Eyes downcast, brows drawn tight together, Garcia appeared to be the picture of intense concentrationーand Wyatt shuddered at having that attention focused solely on him.

By the time Garcia started working Wyatt's jeans down his legs, Wyatt's hands were fisted against his thighs, nails biting into his palms. "I want to. . . Can I. . . ?" Wyatt said. The sentences trailed off, but the thoughts did not. Can I touch you? Something inside Wyatt balked at asking permission, though. "Want to touch you," Wyatt said, and it came out needier than he'd like, even though it wasn't a question or a plea for permission. "Garcia," he added, purely for the pleasure of tasting the hard G; the sharp C; and the soft vowels of his lover's name. If the sound of it caught Garcia in mid-action; if it shifted some of the balance of power back to Wyatt; if it stilled Garcia's busy hands so that Wyatt's jeans stalled at his knees, half-on and half-off, well, that was just a nice bonus. Wyatt would take what he could get.

Garcia's gaze shot to Wyatt. Though he blinked rapidly and wet his lips, he seemed to compose himself quickly. Flynn cloaked himself incompetence, his hands moving with ease and getting Wyatt's jeans the rest of the way off. He glanced away briefly and shook out the jeans with a snap before he folded them into a pile next to Wyatt's discarded belt. When he glanced back at Wyatt, his gaze was serene.

"Let's talk for a minute," he said, shifting up from his place at Wyatt's feet with as much liquid grace as he'd displayed on the way down. The man moved like a cat when he wanted to.

Does that make me the mouse? Wyatt wondered. Watching Flynn's arms, and legs, and the vast swath of his chest work in concert was its own distinct pleasure.

"Talk about what?"

"Things," Garcia replied, wiggling his fingers in a vague and vaguely endearing gesture. Cryptic remark thus delivered, he turned and walked away. With a little sigh, he sat on the carpet with his back against the side of their bed, mile-long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Things," Wyatt repeated, arms crossed over his chest, not impressed. "Yeah, see, you say that like it's supposed to mean something to me, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

Garcia rolled his eyes. "Come"—he patted the empty space next to him on the carpet—"sit here for a moment."

"All right," Wyatt said, huffing a sigh. He bent and reached for his pants. Just as his fingers grazed them, Garcia cleared his throat.

"Leave them off."

Wyatt rose—and tossed Flynn his best scowl.

"I don't know why you're looking at me like that. I'm only being practical." Flynn crossed his feet at the ankles and dropped his hands in his lap. "Where's the sense in putting your pants back on right now, when they're only going to come off again in a few minutes?"

Eyebrows scrunched, Wyatt leveled a skeptical look at Garcia. "You want us to have a nice conversation while I'm standing around in my underwear."

An enigmatic smile tucked itself into the corners of Garcia's mouth. "Why not? We both know I've seen you in less." His smile widened, pushing into his cheeks and emphasizing the laugh lines around his eyes. "Much less. Oh, come now," he said, eyeing Wyatt with obvious delight. "Don't tell me you're suddenly feeling shy, moj štene —"

"What did I tell you about calling me your puppy?" he said, sounding indignant, even though he wasn't really.

"You asked me not to," Garcia answered, his tone indulgent. "But in my defense,"—Garcia leaned forward, hands up by his shoulders, palms facing forward in a gesture of placation—"I did say it with a great deal of affection."

Wyatt answered by flinging his jeans at Garcia's head. Laughing, Garcia caught them before they could make contact with their intended target, and re-folded them.

"You take off your pants, and then we'll talk, asshole."

"Why are you always cursing at me?" Garcia clicked his tongue and shook his head from side to side in mock disappointment. "You take such pleasure in unnecessary vulgarity."

"Wrong. Totally necessary. You make it necessary. And I believe in simple pleasures." Wyatt winked. "In my defense," he said, launching Garcia's own words back at him, "I do it with a great deal of affection. Now..." He directed a pointed look at Garcia's legs and rotated his hand in a get on with it gesture.

"You really want to see my hairy legs, eh?" Garcia stood and undid his belt, his gaze anchored to Wyatt's.

Casting his very best mock leer in Garcia's direction, and receiving an appreciative grin in return, Wyatt said, "I like your hairy legs."

Garcia unbuttoned his dark jeans with sure fingers, unzipped them at the approximate speed of a turtle crossing a road—Wyatt was certain the very slow reveal was entirely for his benefit, not that he didn't appreciate it—eased them over his hips, down lean, muscled thighs that Wyatt's fingers twitched with the urge to drag over and press intoー

"So it would seem."

ーknees that were only remarkable in how unremarkable they were, and ended at bare feet.

"Hey, drama queen"—Wyatt snapped his fingers up near his face—"could you possibly go any slower?"

Across from him, Garcia dipped his fingertips into the waistband of his boxer briefs and shot Wyatt a deliberate look, heavy with intent, through hooded eyes.

"Tease."

Garcia smiled and pulled his fingers back out with a snap of his waistband. Only then did his gaze disconnect from Wyatt's. His head dipped, dropping strands of his dark hair over his forehead in a way Wyatt found extremely appealing. Fabric rustled as Garcia bunched the jeans in his hands and tugged them over his ankles, one at a time.

He folded the jeans into a tidy package, hands moving with a smooth efficiency that sent a curious curl of pleasure darting through Wyatt. He knew very well what it felt like to have those hands on his body; he wanted those hands back on his body.

"And now we're equal." Wyatt nodded with approval.

"We've always been equal, Wyatt," Garcia said, sitting again, this time with one foot resting just above his knee. Despite, or perhaps because of, the unexpectedly serious color Flynn's voice had taken on, Wyatt wanted nothing more than to peel off his own and Flynn's clothes, crawl into his warm lap, and...not talk.

Since Garcia's statement didn't seem to require a response, Wyatt didn't offer one—at least not verbally. But he walked closer and knocked his leg against Garcia's shoulder. "Move up. There's no room for me."

Garcia sat like a lump. "Nonsense. There's plenty of room." He tapped the floor next to him.

"How are you this dense? Never mind, don't answer that." He nudged Garcia in the ass with his toes. "Scoot forward, Einstein. I want to sit behind you, not next to you."

"Behind me? Why?"

Wyatt leaned down and muscled forward the 200-lb., stubborn mule that was Garcia Flynn. "So I can do"—he swore under his breath and insinuated himself into the small space he'd made for himself between Garcia and the side of the bed—"this." He wiggled, trying to get comfortable. When he finally was, he reached for Garcia and pulled him in until their bodies were pressed together, Garcia's back settled against Wyatt's front. "Just one time, couldn't you do what I asked you to do instead of arguing with me?"

"But where's the fun in that?" Garcia replied, his voice a low rumble of amusement, and even though Wyatt couldn't see his face, he didn't have to; he knew he was trying not to smile.

His arms tightened around Garcia. "My god," he said and squeezed his legs, pressing them where they bracketed either side of Garcia's body. "You're ridiculous." Wyatt dropped a kiss on the side of Garcia's face. "And infuriating." Kiss. "The most irritating person I know by far," he added, melting the insult into a caress. Garcia wriggled adorably in his hold, so Wyatt smiled and slid his hands in to make a mess of his annoyingly soft hair. Another kiss, this one hidden in the warm, secret hollow behind Garcia's ear, where he smelled so very much like him. "And—"

"Don't forget 'devastatingly handsome,'" Garcia cut in to say, his voice champagne-crisp.

"More like 'devastatingly stupid,'" Wyatt said, then took a deep breath, trying to get a lungful of Garcia's scent.

"Are you sniffing me?" Flynn asked, quizzical, enunciating carefully.

After a long day, many hours past his morning shower, Garcia's deodorant and aftershave had faded and melded with the particular and indescribable smell of his skin. Now he smelled familiar and lived-in. Homey. "Yeah." Wyatt loved it, and he wasn't above admitting it.

Garcia curled forward, his body going C-shaped as he laughed a full-body laugh.

"What? So sue me. I like how you smell."

Where Garcia went, Wyatt followed, digging fingers into ticklish ribs until they were both giggling, an incandescent circuit of silliness. The laughter continued for a while, warming and loosening every last bit of Wyatt, from the inside out.

"I'm...flattered. I think," Garcia said, eyes twinkling.

Wyatt's future flashed before his eyes; he was never going to live down this moment. Time for damage control. "Shut it. I take it back; I didn't mean it. You stink," Wyatt said.

"No. Too late now. You said it and can't take it back. Stop it, Wyatt," he added—and flinched away, breathless, accent thick with laughter. He snagged Wyatt's hands from where they were still trying to tickle him—and threaded their fingers together. "And must you blame me for everything? Why is it my fault you can't communicate clearly?"

"Just shut up." Unable to wipe the smile from his face, Wyatt nuzzled his nose into Garcia's hair. "I communicate fine. I told you I wanted to sit behind you."

"Yes, but you didn't tell me why . You didn't tell me you wanted to cuddleーand inhale my scent."

"Ah! Shhh…" Wyatt pulled a hand free and used it to cover Garcia's mouth. "This isn't cuddling," he said in a stage whisper.

Garcia gave Wyatt's palm a playful lick before he tugged it away from his mouth. "Then what, exactly, would you call it? You've been playing with my hair, your arms are wrapped around me rather snuglyー"

"Don't act like you don't like it, or I'll stop," Wyatt threatened.

"Stop what?"

"Stop cuddling you."

"Well, we can't have that," Flynn replied, voice droll.

"No, I guess we can't. Wow, look at us, we actually agree on something."

"Don't worry; it won't last."

"So if I had told you I wanted to...cuddle with you, would you have moved?" Wyatt asked.

"Eh. Probably not."

"See, you're a contrary ass," Wyatt complained.

"So I've been told."

"You're lucky Lucy and I love you."

"Yes. I certainly am."

"Well, I shouldn't speak for her. But I love you. Way more than I should. And against all my better judgment."

"But why is that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you"—Garcia paused and rubbed a hand over his mouth—"love me?"

"Huh." The conversation had turned an unexpected corner. "Look, man, if you expect me to quote you Shakespeare or some shit like that, you're going to be sorely disappointed," Wyatt replied.

Garcia shot him a withering look over his shoulder; Wyatt snickered and raised his hands in surrender. "All right." He clapped his hands together once, then dropped them to Garcia's shoulders. A comfortable silence unspooled around them both while Wyatt considered Garcia's question.

"I like...seeing your neat stack of books next to Lucy's messy mountain on the nightstand. It's weirdly comforting." He cleared his throat and let his fingers etch slow circles into Garcia's shoulders. "Um, let's see… Oh, I know," Wyatt said, sitting straighter, "I like how you blast Rachmaninoff when you clean your gun, and B.B. King when you unload the dishwasher. I don't know…" He trailed off, still thinking. "I guess, I like that you've made me like doing crossword puzzles with you—on paper. All that stuff, it makes me feel like...like things are how they're supposed to be. You and Lucy, you're...You're my home." He sighed heavily, a little sad and a little frustrated that he didn't have a better answer for Garcia. "Sorry. That was lame."

"It wasn't."

"I mean, I don't know that anyone can really say why they love somebody." Wyatt shrugged, and his hands went still. "That doesn't mean they don't," he said quietly. That doesn't mean I don't.

"Don't be sorry," Garcia said, low and rough, "What you said is still more than I expected; I didn't expect an answer. "

"Well, I'm glad I exceeded your low expectations for me."

A tired sigh, one Wyatt was on very familiar terms with. "You know very well that's not what I meant, Wyatt."

"I know," he said, relenting. "I'm just being prickly."

"I hope I'm not rubbing off on you," Garcia replied, voice dry.

Ignoring the comment, Wyatt said, "Hang on. I thought of one more thing." Wyatt hooked his chin over Garcia's shoulder.

"Yes?"

It was a little risky, what he planned to say next, but Wyatt wasn't risk-averse. "I like how you let me see inside you." The last was spoken on a breath near Garcia's ear. Despite not being able to glimpse Flynn's face, the way he shivered against Wyatt said it all.

"And what do you see?" Garcia prompted.

"Probably more than you'd like," Wyatt replied, keeping his voice matter of fact.

Garcia covered Wyatt's hand where it rested on his other shoulder. "Hm." Non-committal. But with a distinct hint of shy pleasure, if one knew what to listen for. (Wyatt did.)

Wyatt lifted his chin from Garcia's shoulder and pushed him forward just enough that he could slide his hands under his t-shirt and rub his back. "You know, my mama warned me about men like you."

"Oh really?" A half-skeptical, half-amused note twined around Garcia's voice. "What was it she said about men like me?"

Wyatt waited, intentionally drawing it out. "Nothing." He shrugged—and increased the pressure of his fingertips. "But I'm sure she would have said something about guys like you if she'd known I was bi."

At hearing this statement delivered so deadpan, a startled laugh bubbled up from Garcia's throat. Hearing it, and feeling it vibrate through both their bodies, made Wyatt's lips curve in response, and a feeling of contentment spread through his chest like warm honey. Garcia laughed much more easily and much more often now than when they were part of the anti-Rittenhouse squad. It was...nice.

Wyatt worked on Garcia's lower back, silently trying to convey so many things that words could not adequately captureーwith no other intention than to give pleasure and induce relaxation. When Garcia's head dropped forward and a sigh seeped out of him, taking with it some of the tension in his muscles, Wyatt smiled, peering down the long slope of Garcia's neck. (Flynn was always wound too tight. That hadn't changed.)

Moving slowly, he rucked Flynn's shirt higher, until it caught at his armpits and couldn't go any further. He closed his eyes and let his hands move entirely by feel, without sight. Gliding over worn cotton, and warm skin that was smooth in spots but held small, raised puckers in others. Old wounds from various battles. A broad canvas life had painted on with multiple brushes...

Several cycles of inhalations and exhalations passed before Wyatt opened his eyes again. He swept his palms over Garcia's lats, then gently dragged his fingers to his traps. The smile fell from Wyatt's face. He chewed his lip before he finally spoke, eyes cast down toward the cruel crosshatch of faded white scars painted on Garcia's backーa living mural. "I hate him." It was abrupt and probably seemed without context to Garcia.

"Who?" Garcia's head came up swiftly, his black hair back in Wyatt's direct line of sight.

"Your fa—" Wyatt began to say, but swallowed the rest of the word; the man in question didn't deserve that designation. "Asher Flynn," he said, tracing cautious fingers over the scars emblazoned on Garcia's back.

Garcia yanked his shirt back down—Wyatt almost regretted opening his big mouth then—but Wyatt caught it midway; imprisoning the fabric in his clenched fist. The moment spun out, glass-fragile, too close to shattering; he sensed it from the uptick in the rhythm of Garcia's breath and the rigidity that surfaced in his muscles and snaked into Wyatt's as well.

"That makes two of us," Garcia said, after more than a moment, and released his grip on his shirt. "How ugly are they—the scars?"

Wyatt exhaled sharply against the sudden pang in his chest. He hated himself for being the one to put that tension back in Garcia's body. He felt it, how unnaturally still and taut the other man suddenly sat, like small prey caught in a hunter's scope. "No. Listen to me: your scars, they're not…" He fumbled the words, but he meant them. He had to make Flynn understand. This was too important to get wrong. "They're not ugly." Head bowed, Wyatt tried, unsuccessfully, to clear the tightness from his throat. "They're just part of you, and you, you could never be ugly to me."

Wyatt let the shirt drop from his fist and flattened his palms to Garcia's back. Not rubbing. Not scratching. Not massaging, either. Just touching. Present. "If he were still alive"—the angle was awkward, but Wyatt leaned in anyway and placed his lips against Garcia's back—"I swear I'd kill him." For you, he mouthed silently.

In the time it took for Wyatt to blink, Garcia moved so that they were looking into each other's eyes. Long fingers curved 'round the nape of Wyatt's neck and the ball of his bare calf. "No." Garcia shook his head, jaw drawn tight as a bowstring. His gaze, dark and vehement, chased Wyatt's. "I would never ask you to do that."

"Ask me? You wouldn't have to."

"No. You don't know what you're saying, Wyatt." A muscle in Garcia's cheek twitched.

"Don't fucking patronize me, Flynn." Scowling, Wyatt shook off Garcia's hands and scrambled back, putting space between them. "I'm a soldierー"

"I'm not patronizing you. I simplyー"

"Okay, I was a soldierー"

"Don't delude yourself, Wyatt; we'll always be soldiers."

"You think?"

"I know."

"Fine." Wyatt stood and paced to the opposite side of the room, scrubbing rough hands through his hair. "I'm a soldier. I've killed before." He turned and strode back toward Garcia, stopped with his arms over his chest. "I know what it means to take a life. Don't you think I would kill for the people I care about? God knows I've killed for less."

"I know you would. I know you have." The expression on Garcia's face was pained—horrified, almost. His eyes shuttered, but only briefly, before they opened and stared at Wyatt. "Why can't you understand that I don't want that for youーthat I don't want that weighing on your conscience?"

"Why can't you understand that that's not your decision to make?" Wyatt knew how he sounded—angry and ridiculously bewildered. The fury roiled in his chest, a burning mass. But he felt powerless to reign himself in; to pretend a calm he certainly didn't feel. How could he be calm when he could picture it all so clearly, the scars inscribed on Garcia's back; the terrible story they told; the little boy with green eyes that Garcia must have been, all those years ago?

"Why are we even fighting about this? It's a moot issue; the man is dead."

"That's not the point, Flynn."

Garcia crept forward, hand outstretched, reaching for him. "Then what is the point?"

But Wyatt retreated. "Don't touch me," he bit out, and as much as it hurt Wyatt to say it, he knew in his bones how much worse it hurt Garcia to hear it. He didn't mean it, not really—some still, quiet part of him knew it even as he spat the acid words—but he couldn't stop himself.

A spark of hurt flared hot in Garcia's eyes but was extinguished so quickly Wyatt might have imagined it. Garcia's hand recoiled, and he froze, except for the nearly imperceptible trembling of his mouth. Eyes wide, he shaped his mouth around Wyatt's name. Even soundless, the plea pulled at Wyatt against his will. He felt the tug like a wicked hook snagged in his throat; his chest; his belly. Death by a thousand microscopic cuts.

Silence hovered between them, painful and stagnating, where it had previously been easy.

Wyatt broke it first. "Just—" He shook his head and planted his feet. Widened his stance. Jammed his hands on his hips and blew out a jagged breath through his mouth. "Be quiet," he said, words directed toward Garcia, but gaze aimed roughly below his neck. "Just this once, please shut your mouth and listen to me: The point is, he hurt you." He sniffed and folded his arms across his chest. "Families...They aren't for hurting." Wyatt's voice cracked on the last word. A film of moisture coated his eyes, rendering the world a soft-focus blur until he swiped the wetness away with his sleeve, angry and impatient with himself.

But sometimes Flynn could be patient where Wyatt could not.

"Yes," Flynn said, and his voice, his voice was so gentle his expression must be, too, if only Wyatt could bear to look at it. "You're right. You know that as well as I do, don't you? Your father, heー"

"Was a mean sonofabitch. I don't know if he's six feet under or somewhere doing belly flops in a bottle of Jack, and I don't fucking care. But it's not the same. It wasn't as bad for me as it was for you."

"That's where you're wrong." Garcia moved toward him again, but halted a few feet away, waiting, as if unsure of his welcome. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side in a silent question. Wyatt nodded jerkily, just once, mouth dry and stomach a rock of discomfort. This time, when Garcia reached for him, he didn't retreat. Garcia drew his fingers carefully through the salt that had spilled below Wyatt's eyes. "Abuse is abuse. It's all bad. It's not a competition. What did you say? Oh. Yes. 'Families aren't for hurting.'"

Wyatt's eyes closed. He couldn't look at Garcia any longer; he felt gutted and raw—like his nerves were exposed live wires. "No, they're not." He cleared his throat. "You had Lorena and Iris… I had Jessica… Now I have you and Lucy. When I was married I was so scared that I'd… But I never did… I would neverー How could he…? How could they…?"

He probably wasn't making sense, but he couldn't bring himself to complete the questions.

It turned out he didn't have to, though. "I don't know, Wyatt. I think sometimes...some people are just broken."

Relief surged through Wyatt; relief at being understood when he couldn't force himself to say what he meant, no matter how badly he wanted to. But the relief was followed by a wave of sorrow. "Do you…? Are you broken, too? Am I?"

Garcia sighed, face weighed down with what Wyatt thought was both compassion and sadness. "I think perhaps I'm the wrong person to answer that question. But no, Wyatt, I don't think you're broken. Me? Maybe."

A hand touched Wyatt's face. Softly. So softly that he turned his face into it, and when strong arms surrounded him, Wyatt let himself be gathered up and held by the man who had, impossibly, become his safe place. "If you are— If I am— I want you anyway. We can be broken together."

A/N: Thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is always welcome; flames will be dipped in barbecue sauce and eaten. :)

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