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extasiswings · 4 years

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“Among the faithless, faithful only he.” - for Garcy

This has been in my inbox for-freaking-ever, but I got to it? It went a very different direction than I expected so it’s more Flynn feels with very minor Garcy, what can I say, they will do what they like...

After the end of it all, Flynn goes back to church. It isn’t planned—he’s out walking one day around Lucy’s neighborhood, or rather, their neighborhood since he’s living in her spare room, and when he passes the church, he just...stops. And he goes inside.

It’s the first time he’s been in a church in years, since the trip he took before he went back to Chicago to meet Al Capone. He isn’t entirely sure how to feel about it, but he doesn’t fall down dead the moment he crosses the threshold, so perhaps he and God are more square than he thought.

There’s a sign on the back wall that says confession will be held at 3PM. Flynn crosses himself and slips into a pew, but he doesn’t expect to stay long.

Then again, he never does.

I’m asking for absolution.

Flynn stares at the cross, at the tabernacle in gold behind the altar. The afternoon light filters through the stained glass and washes the scene in fractals of reds and blues and yellows. And he thinks about war, and Lorena and Iris.

And he thinks about Lucy. Lucy who loves him. Who he loves. Lucy, who is still waiting for him to be ready.

What if He led you to me?

“Sir? Are you here for confession?”

This priest is older than the one Flynn remembers meeting before Chicago, hair neatly combed, but stubble flecked silver and white.

He should say no. But when he opens his mouth, what comes out instead is, “I’m not sure you would have the time to hear all my sins, Father.”

The priest raises a brow and pulls back the curtain of the empty confessional.

“Why don’t you try me,” he replies. And Flynn, despite himself, gets up.

“Do you remember how to start?”

Flynn clears his throat roughly and stares down at his hands. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—” how long? A decade? Longer? “—many, many years since my last confession.”

How long has he been fighting wars? One after another after another, leaving blood on his hands and scars on his mind long before Rittenhouse. And when Rittenhouse came, that was just another war of a different kind.

It’s hard to believe in a righteous God after you’ve spent half your life in a warzone.

I’m asking for absolution.

“I can’t,” Flynn says, at the end of it all. He doesn’t know how long he’s spent in the confessional, staring at his hands, at the pattern in the wood of the partition—long enough that his throat is raw and mouth dry. But he can’t finish it.

“Why?”

“Because, I—” He rakes a hand through his hair and stares up at the ceiling.

“You don’t think you deserve to be forgiven,” the priest fills in. “Many people don’t. Usually, the ones who are the most truly contrite. So perhaps it’s for the best that isn’t your decision, but God’s.”

I’m asking for absolution.

Flynn rubs at his eyes and clears his throat again.

“I—ah. I never learned it in English,” he says. “The prayer.”

“The Act of Contrition? That’s fine. I’ll take you at your word you aren’t just reading a grocery list.”

After, Flynn can’t decide whether he feels different. Or whether he’s meant to.

But he does know there’s one thing he has to do.

“Hey,” Lucy says, smiling at him over her shoulder when he walks through the front door. “Good walk?”

“I—” The words stick in his throat.

Lucy’s smile drops as her brow furrows. “Garcia? Is everything okay?”

It only takes a few steps to close the distance.

When he kisses her, it tastes like peace.

#prairiepirate #chapel writes #coping with coronavirus prompt fills #garcy #garcy ff

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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Walker, Texas Ranger

[put a fictional character in my ask]

#is this chuck norris?#i feel as if it may be chuck norris #but alas #my knowledge ends there #inbox games #prairiepirate #ask

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oldshrewsburyian · 5 years

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Hmmmm, how about something off that second prompt list? No 27 - Ritual, for Garcy.

Hello! Thank you for this, and I think that this might be as close to fluff as I get.

It starts after they get back from the Rabotnitsa mission. Lucy’s teeth still ache and her ears still ring, and she wasn’t the one who jumped through a window. Something about Flynn’s breathing makes her think that he’s trying not to groan aloud.

(They have been sharing the narrow bed in the narrow room almost since Chinatown. At first, he had taken the couch. After two weeks, she told him not to be ridiculous. They had stayed up late, nodding over piles of books. She had bitten back the question Are you all right? four times, and then stopped counting. “I should…” she had begun, and been cut off by his “Stay.” And in the ringing, dreadful silence she had realized that if she slept alone, next to the Lifeboat, he would not have assurance that she was safe. So Lucy had nodded, and learned how to fit between the steel of the wall and the curve of his arm.)

So here they are, with Flynn’s heartbeat under her ear and his muscles still tense. “It’s hard,” says Lucy softly.

“Hmm?”

“To imagine what comes after.”

“Yes.”

Lucy swallows, and forces herself to breathe deeply before replying (he must not hear in her voice that she fears for him, that she aches for him though she has no right to do so, and that this is almost worse than thinking about her mother’s empty house.) “It’s one of the things I challenge my students to do,” she says. “To imagine what comes after they sit through Colonial and Revolutionary America. What do they want to have discovered? What do they want to do with that knowledge?”

Flynn hums softly; she hopes she’s right in thinking that he also relaxes slightly. “Have I mentioned recently that you’re a genius?”

“Thank you. I know it sounds cheesy,” says Lucy, “but I think we should do the same thing. Imagine what comes after. One thing we want — how does that sound?”

The silence is too long, this time. Unambiguous is the quickening of his pulse, the tight control he keeps over his breath. But: “All right,” says Flynn at last.

“Coffee,” says Lucy promptly. “I want coffee at my favorite coffee shop. I like yours,” she adds quickly. “And it’s far better than coffee made in an ancient drip machine from underground water has any right to be. But I want stupid latte art and stupid flavored lattes, specifically the seasonal one that has carrot and turmeric in it. There. Your turn.”

He takes a deep breath, and she has time to fear his answer. The unspoken rule is, of course, no families. She hadn’t mentioned Amy. But still.

“The Ash Wednesday service,” says Flynn at last.

“What?”

“The Ash Wednesday service,” he says, more steadily. “In my own language. I repent, my God, of all my sins, and my heart cries out, for I have grieved thee. But greater is thy mercy than my transgressions.”

Lucy tells herself that she should find words. And then she thinks that perhaps there are none. She covers his hand with her own, and like that, they fall asleep.

After the Titanic, she asks it still shivering. “Tell me what you want after this.”

He looks at her for a long moment, and then says: “Mountains. To hike up into the mountains, and to see the sea spread out below.”

“I want,” says Lucy, “to go out on the bay. Mom always scoffed at it. But I would like to go out on the water. It’s the opposite of being shut in, isn’t it? I’d like to be out on the bay at sunset.” She nudges him with her shoulder. “Close enough to land to swim back in an emergency.”

“And no icebergs,” observes Flynn, with perfect gravity; and she leans up, and kisses him.

“Lucy,” says Flynn after Antietam, “what do you want after this?”

For you never to get blown up ever again. Lucy takes a deep breath. “I think I would like,” she says, “to do a tour of some of the battlefields. Pennsylvania, Virginia, diner food, tourist tat, photos to use in my lecture slides… We could go in autumn, and do apple-picking at the same time. And I’ve never seen the leaves change properly. Typical Californian.” She realizes only belatedly that she has said we, has presumed he’ll be with her.

“That sounds nice,” says Flynn quietly.

He is silent for long enough that she says: “Your turn.”

“Music.”

“Music?”

“In a club. Not — not a modern club, but a place with good jazz, good whisky. That would be nice.”

“Yes,” agrees Lucy.

“I want,” says Lucy, after the 1910 mission, “for you to take me dancing.”

Lightly he kisses her hair. “Is it against the rules to wish for the same thing?”

“Mm, I think so.”

“May I wish to take you for dinner beforehand?”

“You may.”

“Thank you.”

She is lying on top of him, after Hanoi in 1955. “I want you to stay,” says Lucy. “I don’t care if I’m breaking the rules. I want you to stay. I want to go on bike rides with you, and I want you to laugh at my cooking, and I want…” She breaks off. She clutches his shirt with both hands, and allows herself to cry into it.

“Yes,” says Flynn simply. “Shall we have a tandem bicycle?”

She chokes on her laughter. “You don’t really want that. I’m not nearly coordinated enough. We’d fall over.”

“In that case,” says Flynn gravely, “I say only that I would like to try it once.”

“On your own head be it,” says Lucy, and he kisses her, and they speak no more that night.

“Two kids,” says Lucy, after they go to Savannah, in 1859. “Or three. I want to read them Winnie the Pooh and history books and Anne of Green Gables. Two kids. Or three.”

Flynn’s free hand finds its way into her hair. She can feel his breath quickening beneath her. “Fairy tales,” he says, “in all the languages I know. Živjeli su sretno do kraja života.”

“I hope that’s Croatian for ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”

“It means more than that,” says Flynn. “It means that they lived well.”

Lucy reaches for him in the dark. “Say it again,” she demands; and he does.

#i have a lot of feelings #prairiepirate #garcy ff #flawed humans loving each other!

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sweetestinthegale · 5 years

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Spoke with Hilary (qqueenofhades) today and just wanted to update people that Tumblr finally responded today that they have recieved her complaint and are working on it.

She says she loves and misses everyone and is hoping to get it resolved soon.

Tagging @extasiswings and @prairiepirate as I know they are close to her and probably can get this to more of her followers than I can.

#qqueenofhades #extasiswings #prairiepirate

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gremlin2 · 5 years

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would you rather date ask: Frank Castle or Garcia Flynn?

oh goodie my two favorite murder boys!!!

hmm yknow ill go with frank partially because flynn belongs with lucy but also bc,,, its Frank and he deserves love

#prairiepirate #minty says a thing

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squidproquoclarice · 6 years

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Garcy for the headcanon AU: "Hey I'm visiting this country because (reasons) and I seem to have gotten lost + don't speak the language and you take pity on me and help me out."

All right, so it’s going to be more of a narrative than a five-point essay, but here you go.Lucy is on vacation. Time to make herself get away from Amerocentric history for once and just enjoy a vacation, and she also deliberately wants to get away from the usual destinations like Paris and Rome. She wants somewhere more off the beaten path, and somewhere quieter. Lucy being Lucy, though, she needs somewhere with some history, and the long history of the Balkans is a pretty rich ground. Sadly, her timing is poor for quiet by the time she gets to Split to check out the Palace of Diocletian. With the World Cup going and Croatia’s improbable dark horse run, things are a bit chaotic and the air’s charged and excited and all, so it’s harder to ask for help. She also speaks like 5 phrases of Croatian, which doesn’t help.She gives up on getting back to the hotel, ends up in a bar sitting on a barstool drinking a beer before the Russia game starts, and awkwardly surrounded by cheering fans and trying to get into it but she’s really sort of clueless about soccer so she’s just awkwardly raising a glass here when everyone else does and badly echoing their cheers. Basically, she’s that person who’s there but visibly sticks out like a sore thumb as not being there with anyone else, and not being part of the event going on.Some tall, dark, and handsome fella comes up to the bar during the continuing post-game celebrations and says, “From the look on your face, either you’re a Russia fan who’s very much in the wrong bar, or you’re American? I’m guessing the second.” OhthankyouGod someone who speaks English and with very little accent to boot.Turns out one Garcia Flynn “Seriously, how is that a Croatian name?!” has an American mother, is a former soldier/spy turned history teacher who lives in Philly, but is visiting his hometown for summer vacation, and hey, my soccer team’s winning! She ends up at his table. He’s read her books, which makes her giddy. He has some criticisms and counterarguments, which makes her less giddy, but he enjoys how fiercely she argues about it. He only puts his foot in his mouth somewhat very responsible Garcia good job. Somehow, Lucy ends up seeing more of the Dalmatian coast that week and enjoying her new Amerocroatian tour guide, and by the time of the Croatia/England, she’ll pretend to have a clue about soccer, but mostly she’s just wondering how she can make a long-distance California/Philly relationship work. Though with how much of a jerk Stanford’s being about tenure, maybe it’s time to make a professional move...

#garcy #timeless #5 au facts meme #garcia flynn #lucy preston #prairiepirate

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daeneryskairipa · 6 years

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prairiepirate replied to your post “FYI I’ve been kindly asked to delete one of my Emilia Gif Sets today…”

this is the Worst. Tumblr, why don’t you actually do something GOOD for this community and work on getting rid of pornbots instead of picking on nice, creative blogs??

@prairiepirate Right?! I need to block like 20 porn blogs a day because they leave disgusting comments and links on my edits, but 50% of my things get flagged as nsfw because there are two people standing two close to each other in a gif. Not to mention that the mobile app is complete garbage and gets more useless with every update. It’s ridiculous.

#prairiepirate #reply

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unfolded73 · 6 years

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prompt: Captain Charming + spiked eggnog

Anonymous said:A prompt for you! Captain Charming trying to figure out what to get for their wives. Bonus points if Charming gets grumpy over Killian’s ease at finding presents.

I combined two prompts together for this one: Merry Christmas, everybody! Captain Charming, Rated G, 1145 words

“Aha! I found it,” Killian said, Henry’s old laptop computer open in front of him on the kitchen table.

David turned from his eggnog experimentation (in preparation for the party he and Snow were hosting on Christmas Eve, to which it seemed the whole town had been invited) and squinted at Killian over a glass he was holding. “Found what?”

“Emma isn’t doing as much magic these days,” Killian said absently, still absorbed in his find on the computer. Emma had noticed during the first trimester of her pregnancy, when she was so tired that she’d nearly fallen asleep at the dinner table a few times, that she had to exert a significant amount of energy to do magic. And even though she was feeling less exhausted now, despite it being almost her eighth month, she still was refraining from using magic for reasons she considered frivolous. “So I found this,” he continued.

“And I ask again, found what?”

“A seat warmer for Emma’s car.” Killian turned the computer around and pointed at the screen. “She used to warm the car in winter with a wave of her hand, and while she insists she doesn’t need her seat warmed, I know she’d appreciate it.”

“Oh.” David frowned at him, looking irritated. “That’s a clever idea.”

Killian eyed him for that odd reaction. “I thought so.” He began the process of purchasing the thing, which was long and involved and gave him a headache half the time, but he’d mastered it a couple of years before in the service of obtaining items that weren’t available in Storybrooke without a trip out of town.

“I mean, it’s not a very romantic gift,” David said, back to mixing ingredients for the eggnog that he insisted was a necessity during the holidays. Killian found the stuff to be repulsive, although he usually ended up holding a glass of it to be polite.

“Oh, I know, I already got her a romantic gift,” Killian said as he painstakingly typed their address into the little boxes using his one hand. “A charm bracelet to which I will add a commemoration of our daughter’s birth date when it occurs. For now, it has a few charms to symbolize other significant milestones in our relationship.”

Killian expected David’s face to clear of worry once he’d assured him he wasn’t buying Emma only a car seat warmer for Christmas, but instead, David’s expression only got stormier. “Huh,” he said.

“What is it, mate?”

“Nothing, nothing,” David said, picking up a bottle of rum and adding a generous pour to the eggy cream mixture.

Rather than pressing it further, Killian returned to his online purchase, because he knew you had to finish these things quickly or risk the web page “timing out,” Henry used to call it. And since Killian was at a disadvantage with his slow typing, he couldn’t afford to get into an argument with his father-in-law right at this moment.

When he’d finally finished with the infernal process, Killian closed the laptop with a sigh and folded his arms across his chest, leaning back in his chair. “You seem to think I’ve chosen inadequate gifts for your daughter.” Killian knew he hadn’t; he knew Emma and he knew what she would appreciate. So he was curious what the reason for David’s ambivalent reaction was.

“No, I don’t. Here, try this one,” David said, putting a glass of eggnog in front of Killian.

“I’m not a qualified taste-tester for this stuff, mate.”

“I know, you think it’s a waste of good rum, but I usually have Emma as my tester. Since her not being able to drink alcohol is partially your fault, you get to test the nog.” He gestured toward the back of the house, where presumably Emma and Snow were snuggled up in front of a warm fire, chatting. “You put that baby in her, so drink up.”

Killian watched the way David was overenunciating his words. “Seems you’ve been – what is it the kids say? Getting high on your own supply?”

David blinked slowly at him. “What?”

Grinning widely, Killian picked up the eggnog and sniffed it. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not.”

“You just obliquely referenced the conception of your future grandchild, which is wildly out of character for you, Dave. You’re drunk.”

“It’s possible I’ve sampled a bit,” David said. “I don’t drink much these days, you know. My alcohol tolerance isn’t what it used to be.”

Killian smirked. He didn’t drink much these days either, mainly to spare Emma needless resentment that she couldn’t join him, but he still didn’t think he’d ever been (or ever could be) as much of a lightweight as David Nolan apparently was.

Feeling magnanimous, Killian took a sip of the eggnog and tried to keep his disgust off of his face. “It’s fine.”

David pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and collapsed into it. “You hate it.”

“So? I always hate it. It’s a terrible waste of good rum.”

“I still haven’t found a gift for Snow this year,” David said, hanging his head.

“Oh.” Killian shrugged. “You’ve still plenty of time. That amazon thing will ship packages here in–”

“I know, but I just don’t have any good ideas this year.” He grimaced. “I’ve never been the best at finding gifts to make my wife happy.”

“Mate, I’m sure that’s not–”

“No, it’s true. I’m too cheap, or I get something that’s too practical.” David picked up the glass of eggnog he’d given Killian and drank from it. “I still haven’t lived down the year I bought her a vacuum cleaner.”

Killian winced. “Aye, that’s perhaps not a gift that tells a woman that she’s the love of your life.”

“And to make it worse, Snow is great at buying gifts. She’s annoyingly thoughtful.”

Killian thought about the rare, first edition book of seafaring tales that his mother-in-law had given him last Christmas. She was an excellent gift-giver, that was certain.

“She’s my true love; this should be easier,” David said, draining the glass of eggnog.

“All right, first of all, lay off the eggnog,” Killian said, taking the glass out of David’s hand. “Second of all, a practical gift is fine if it’s something she really needs. It shows you’ve been paying attention to what she says. As far as romance goes, it doesn’t have to be something that costs anything. Write her a letter expressing the way you feel about her.”

“She has been complaining about the toaster burning her toast lately,” David said.

“There you are, then! Problem solved.”

David clapped Killian on the back. “Thanks, mate. I owe you one.”

“No problem.” He pointed over to the mess on the kitchen counter. “Just hand me that rum and don’t make me drink any more of that abominable eggnog, and you can consider your debt repaid.”

#captain charming ff #cs ff #captain swan ff #my fic #my prompt fic #prairiepirate

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extasiswings · 5 years

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Flynn/Lucy vs. Asher/Maria

Okay, well, if we’re talking JUST in TAW/TSAS I may…actually have to go with Asher/Maria? Because GOD the sheer weight of their love and devotion for one another FOR TWO AND A HALF THOUSAND YEARS and the tragedy of that loss leaps off the page to the point where they literally have not even had a scene together and yet I am positively feral over how perfect they are (as noted by the fact that they got me to write 7K of fic for them during the last two weeks of bar prep).

But in everything else, Garcy ALL the way because my LOVES.

#prairiepirate #chapel for ts #ask

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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How about the excellent trio of Jim Hawkins, Matthew Rogers, and Jack Bellamy from TRAT?

Jim:

Matthew:

Jack:

[put a fictional character in my ask]

#i deeply appreciate how you are asking me to rate my own characters lmao #it's like asking a mother to choose among her kids #obviously i love them all to some degree #...though frankly there are some characters of mine i also decidedly loathe #but these are all Good Boys to some degree #matthew has the most to learn though #but we can presume that liam has whipped him into shape #since liam jones set on Dad Mode High is hard to resist #jim and jack especially are Precious and must be protected #tdh #trat #inbox games #prairiepirate #ask

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oldshrewsburyian · 5 years

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I love your Garcy/Timeless fics! Should you feel so inclined I have a prompt: Garcy + polyglot (one of my favorite things about Flynn, ahem).

Thank you! I loved your prompt! It took me a while because it got long. There is hurt/comfort and gratuitous historical atmosphere and these two are very solicitous of each other.

To the Time Team’s genuine surprise, and Rufus’ feigned indignation, Flynn’s languages turn out to be his most consistently valuable asset. (The missions requiring a singleminded and virtuosic violence have become more rare since Emma’s takeover of Rittenhouse.) To Lucy, who swotted dutifully for her Ph.D. reading exams, the most remarkable thing is the ease with which he seems to navigate them. She had, of course, realized at some level that he spoke the kind of Spanish that could get him an audience with Santa Ana, the kind of German that allowed him to navigate Nazi Germany with the language as the least of his worries. But she still finds it impressive to watch him work; she still finds it almost mesmerizing to listen.

***

Italian (New York City, 1928)

“This looks like the set of ‘The Godfather,’” says Rufus, eyeing the game of bocce in the public park across the street.

“I think this was the set of ‘The Godfather,’” returns Wyatt, squinting up at the awning of the DiLuca funeral parlor.

“This is not the time,” hisses Lucy. “Fiorello La Guardia is anti-racist and anti-corruption, and if Rittenhouse arranges a fatal accident, all his mayoral policies are finished before they’ve begun. The ma — er, the families — are the least of our worries. They keep order in these streets because no one else will. And we need to find La Guardia now.”

“Right,” says Wyatt. “The out-of-work-laborers bit. I’ll ask at the bakeries, Rufus’ll take the vegetable-sellers. We’ll keep our ears open. It’ll be all right, Luce.”

She is far from sure, but she manages a smile. These are her people, and she trusts them, and that has to be enough. As Rufus and Wyatt turn aside on 188th St., she and Flynn stay together. Since Chinatown, Agent Christopher’s official policy has been to treat Lucy as a potential target. So Lucy has grown used to Flynn’s hand at her elbow, his presence like a bulwark. (In a frigid eighteenth-century winter somewhere near the Canadian border, she had tried to suggest to the team that what Agent Christopher didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Wyatt had simply said “No,” just as Rufus threatened to tell on her. Flynn had said nothing at all; Lucy cannot forget the look on his face.)

What takes her by surprise in history, over and over again, is how much she loves it. The thrill and the terror of being on hand at pivotal moments in time… even those she has become halfway accustomed to. But places like this neighborhood — the warm sunlight on the bricks of the Catholic church to their left, the Sicilian pizza-seller with a face like a walnut, the seamstress on her stoop, the graceful scrollwork on the fire escapes of ordinary apartment buildings — these leave her with a lump in her throat and an ache under her ribs.

A lean man in a smock is setting out dried codfish at the corner grocer’s, where a Star of David is set into the tiled threshold. He watches them with curious eyes; Flynn greets him with a tilt of the head and a courteous Buongiorno, establishing their bonafides. They walk as far as the market. Lucy admires the artichokes, assesses the access routes, and reproaches herself for not expecting a language barrier in the Bronx. Two brothers argue amiably over their vegetable stand, a young couple flirts by the butcher’s, and nowhere does Lucy see anything suspicious.

Flynn presses a bunch of flowers into her hand, and she blinks up at him. The florist thanks Flynn — that much she can make out — and she does not think it is only for his purchase. The man’s son, a boy of about eight, follows them with dark eyes as they walk away.

“I told him,” murmurs Flynn, when they are out of earshot, “to send his son home. Let’s find the others.”

Lucy has to stop herself from glancing over her shoulder. “But I didn’t see anything!” She may not have the language, but she is a historian, and all the evidence is here. “No one — no one avoided anyone else, no one lingered too long at the delicatessen…”

“And with the woman selling dried goods no one lingered at all.”

“That could be because she’s a Protestant or because she’s taken the wrong lover or…”

“She was greeted respectfully and perfunctorily,” cuts in Flynn quietly, “and there was a gun in her mending bag.”

Lucy takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her yellow roses. She can’t help the familiar, twisting guilt that settles in her gut; she can’t help feeling that she ought to apologize for lashing out in anger against her own powerlessness. But with him, she thinks, she doesn’t need to. He knows that anger well enough.

***

French (Marengo, 1800)

Lucy’s French is passable. She knows this, and she also knows it to be just passable, passable with the right backstory or the right degree of incuriousness on the part of whoever is speaking to her at the time. Fortunately, with Napoleon’s forces sweeping down over the Alps and through the Piedmont, odd regional accents are ten-a-penny. The diction of the friendly locals offering information about the Roman forces is likely to be the least of the sentries’ concerns. So Lucy does the persuading, alight with the conviction that Melas must be defeated, earnest in explaining why it is vital that she and her husband speak to the Consul himself. (She had never thought she’d be grateful for the necessity to pander to the military history nuts in her survey courses; but oh, she is now.) Though the guard cocks an eyebrow at her halting attempts to describe topography, he calls over his superior officer — and they’re in.

“Essaie de ne pas paraître trop soulagée,” murmurs Flynn, and she straightens her shoulders, walks taller at his side.

The most astonishing thing about the camp of the French army is its size: the reality of cooking fires and canvas tents, latrines and laundresses, on the scale necessary to accommodate this many soldiers. There is more mud than Lucy had expected. There are more knots of men just sitting around, polishing bayonets or playing cards. There is far more singing, and Lucy itches to get her hands on pencil and paper, to transcribe the bawdy invented verses and the wistful folksongs, ephemeral and vibrant and achingly human.

“Let’s drink to Fanchon! I marched out to seek for glory, and I found it in her arms! Drink to Fanchon…”

“How sad the girls of Paris must be, pining for their soldiers…”

“Will a Gascon ever forget what he owes you?”

“The saints of France are a noble lot, but they ain’t got what our Bonaparte’s got…”

Together they wait. The June night is warm, and the army is at ease with itself, but Lucy can feel her heart racing. The Austrian army is waiting for the First Consul of France. The European Coalition is waiting to see what happens. And she is waiting for an audience with Napoleon. An aide approaches them.

“Je vous saurais gré de me suivre.”

It turns out that Napoleon Bonaparte — republican hero and future emperor, upstart Corsican and French hero, social reformer and ruthless conqueror — is not, in fact, shorter than Lucy. In a purely technical sense, she discovers, she can look him in the eye. But this is an academic point; he is an overwhelming personality. Lucy’s mouth goes dry. She can still smell the tomatoes and garlic from the first consul’s dinner (not yet poulet Marengo, but soon.)

Watching Flynn cover the ground with febrile steps, watching him supply information to one of the modern world’s most gifted commanders, it comes to Lucy suddenly that she loves this man. She loves this haggard, earnest, patient man, who has been so much more than a soldier, and who has had so little chance to be anything else.

Napoleon — Napoleon! — rearranges the maps on his desk. He demands that Flynn show him something; this much French Lucy understands without difficulty. And with steady hands, fluent gestures, Flynn does.

It won’t be the victory they know, whatever happens. They will return to the present not with Napoleon snatching victory from the astonished Melas after being taken by surprise himself, but with an outcome hopefully similar. Lucy’s head aches when she tries to think about the possible ramifications of Rittenhouse throwing their weight into the European balance of power at the dawn of the nineteenth century. But somewhere between instinct and professional opinion lies her deep conviction that she and Flynn cannot do other than they are doing. In the oily light of cheap candles, Lucy watches Napoleon Bonaparte’s face, grave in attention like that of any scholar listening to a fellow-specialist. She cannot help but feel that the strange, pyrotechnic attempts of this man to craft a new kind of empire must be preferable to an Austrian stranglehold on power, or to bloody in-fighting among the powers of Europe.

“…comment?” says the consul, and Lucy shakes herself slightly. The tension in the air warns her that it was a question unlike those that came before.

“Il y a quelques ans,” replies Flynn, “j’ai fait la connaissance d’un de leurs capitaines. Nous avons lutté farouchement contre les mêmes ennemis, selon ce que je croyais. Il m’a trahi. Il a tué l’un de mes amis. Je connais à présent ce qu'il est capable de faire. Contre un tel adversaire, nous mettons notre confiance en Votre Excellence.”

Lucy could swear that Napoleon’s mouth twitches briefly — in faint amusement at such formality from a man who had been communicating in professional jargon moments before, or in human sympathy, she cannot be sure. He nods briefly. “Je vous suis bien reconnaissant.”

It is their dismissal. Lucy suppresses the desire to pull Flynn out of the tent, away from the possibility of interrogation, towards the anonymous June darkness where she can kiss unfamiliar syllables from his lips.

***

Only at night do his languages become confused. Lucy’s body remembers the timeline when her mother was an invalid, and she wakes easily. So it is not a hard thing, to get a hand on his chest — his heartbeat racing under her palm — and call him to her out of dreams. Sometimes he rouses with a start; sometimes he wakes still muttering, until he sees her, and his vision clears. He covers her hand with his, and silence is all they need.

After Cologne in 1941, he speaks less during the day, and at night not at all. Lucy used her choir-and-exam German to charm an administrator, and Wyatt used his military German to converse with the guards, and between them, they had been able to get the plans that Rittenhouse had tried to place in the hands of the Nazis. And Flynn used his German to get himself apprehended, and then to say nothing at all. The team had reasoned that dealing with one threat would make the Gestapo less suspicious of another; the event had vindicated them, and Wyatt had gotten them out. But Lucy lies awake at night, listening to the breathing of a man who no longer talks in his sleep.

She does not always wake him. And she knows they cannot fight each other’s battles (she tells herself that the knowledge should not feel like a defeat.) But she does sometimes: if he breathes as though he had been running; or if he makes a noise choked off before it can become a keening. When he wakes, he never says anything but her name.

“Lucy?” Sometimes he says it as though it is a reality he cannot quite believe in.

“Lucy.” Sometimes he breathes it as though it is the only word he can remember, his shibboleth and his claim to sanctuary.

“Yes.” Sometimes she thinks that her heart will break with loving him. “Ich bin’s, it’s me, I’m here, je suis là, ja sam tu.” She whispers reassurance in all the languages she knows, and with the silence of her mouth against his.

#prairiepirate #asks and answers #garcy ff #timeless ff #lucy preston #garcia flynn

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lynyrdwrites · 6 years

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@prairiepirate replied to your post “@prairiepirate replied to your post “I’m so torn between Lyatt and...”

There's a good amount of Garcyatt fic out there. @extasiswings, @onlymorelove, and @qqueenofhades all have some. We can hook you up lol. And yes, Goran is PHOWAR. *swoon*

I’ve followed @qqueenofhades since she wrote for CS, and I knew she wrote for Timeless too... I just haven’t checked the fic out yet. Because her writing often makes feel an emotion and hurts my heart.

I’ll definitely check out the others, though. The OT3 feels are real.

#prairiepirate #Lynyrd watches Timeless

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gremlin2 · 5 years

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prairiepirate replied to your post “thinkin about punisher season 2: remembering that this is the last...”

Ack! It’s for sure being axed after this season, then??! Why do I even bother holding on to hope? *wails*

they havent officially cancelled it yet but id imagine they’ll announce it after the new season airs :// (announcing the cancellation beforehand would probably decrease their viewership even more).

#prairiepirate #it just seems impossible that they'd renew it after cancelling their more successful marvel shows so the same will probably happen to jessic

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squidproquoclarice · 6 years

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I realized I had one more outstanding prompt from @prairiepirate for the kiss meme, so here it is. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 75: Kisses Meant To Distract The Other Person From Whatever They Were Intently Doing Professional that he was, one of the first things Garcia usually did after a mission was break down and thoroughly clean all the guns used. His excuse was the shitty or obsolete weaponry he’d dealt with in several of his early campaigns, and the terrible conditions, and how maintenance was everything. “Can’t fault him on it,” Wyatt said with a shrug when he asked. “Soldier’s only as good as his weapon, and we get into all sorts of stuff out in the field. Besides, no telling what weirdness could happen to them, traveling back and forth through time over and over. Not like it’s been studied, you know?” Probably said something that Wyatt now thoroughly trusted a gun that Garcia had cleaned.

Out in the warehouse, she found Garcia bent over the worktable, parts from Garcia and Wyatt’s pistols, and a rifle--not sure what kind--neatly disassembled on the grease and powder-stained canvas. “Hand yours over,” he drawled lazily, putting down the oil-smeared rag he’d been using to clean parts, reaching his right hand back over his shoulder, not looking back at her.

She put the pistol in his hand. Whatever kind it was--she felt like maybe she should know, but she’d never cared that much about the details. It was a gun, she knew how to use it now, and it worked. Like some men could go nuts over different types of cars for hours, but couldn’t care about her excited rambles about the problems with the (motherfuckin’ Southern) Democratic-Republicans.

She sat down on the empty battered office chair at the table, watching him swiftly disassemble her pistol with brisk efficient motions, and add it to the pile.“I feel like Freud would have something to say about a man so obsessed with routinely cleaning guns,” she teased him lightly.

He snorted, now looking her way, giving her an arrogant glance down that long nose. “Freud was a dick. We already knew it, but then we got to see it firsthand.” She smirked at him, knowing she’d gotten to him, and he smiled wryly in acknowledgment of it. Though she should have figured that with her having gotten the ball rolling, he’d go with it, determined to have a good time. “So...Doctor Lucy, do tell. Are we assigning my cleaning guns to, shall we say, not ah, cleaning the other gun? Are you implying I’m suffering from latent sexual frustration?” He said the final three words with a certain relish of emphatic precision. “I don’t know. Are you?” She definitely was. Yes, he’d kissed her, more than once, kissed her well and thoroughly, and he had one hell of a flair for it, but he still held back. She knew so well how he kissed that she could easily imagine far beyond that, and she ached for it so much sometimes she wanted to scream. The humor in his eyes dimmed, and that awkward shyness seemed to come over him again. His shoulders hunched, and he glanced away, down towards the table. “Lucy…” She hadn’t played fair. She’d known it had been since Lorena for him, and on top of that, he wasn’t a man who could jump into bed easily with someone. Trying to figure out how things worked in that brain of his, though--bi, she readily understand. Demi was a mystery and Garcia Can’t Helpfully Use My Words In Any of the Languages I Speak Flynn didn’t help that. For her it was simple, clean. She wanted him. Had for a while. Could have easily enjoyed sex with him even before she loved him so fiercely. For him, it was a whole different animal, and he couldn’t compartmentalize. From the look on his face, the answer was somehow both yes and no to sexual frustration--yes, he wanted her, which she could have told from how they’d been making out like a pair of teenagers, but no, he wasn’t quite settled enough yet to make a move on it. “I get it. It’s not as easy for you.” “Maybe. Though you’ve seen what a mess it can be when things aren’t over. I owe you better.” She understood what he meant. In a single night she’d rushed to kiss and then sleep with a man who hadn’t fully let go of his wife, afraid she’d lose him if she didn’t seize the chance, and the blowback was spectacular. Probably it was worth the wait to be sure she had all of him, and she already knew that would be different, that he was going to be a hell of a lot to handle. That intent and intense as he was, he’d demand everything she had to give, but she’d get everything of him in return. Somehow her mind kept bring up the phrase making love when she thought about it. Something...different. More. Something that would leave her out in deep and endless waters far beyond the safety of land, but not afraid of it. “But...soon.” Trying obviously to drag it back to humor, he said, “After all, the longer you have to wait, the more you’re building your expectations.” She leaned in and said, “It’s been, what, only four years or so for you? Darling,” drawling the word in true high Hollywood vamp fashion, “don’t you know it’s been since 1941 for me?” She heard his low laugh at the joke, something in her thrilling at it. She held his eyes with hers, traced a slow line along his collar with a fingertip. “So I expect everything, and I know you’ll deliver,” and leaned in to kiss him. He caught her neatly around the waist, pulling her onto his lap, and she made it a challenge to make him utterly forget cleaning the damn guns for the evening. Maybe it was time Wyatt took a turn for once.

#kiss meme #timeless #garcy #garcia flynn #lucy preston #prairiepirate #fic prompts

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