HEllo! It's me again and boy do I have prompts! The one fic I want written more than anything in the world is Garcy + fake dating. Just give me all the "Oh we are totally pretending and there are no real feelings her AT ALL" pretty please I will love you forever
so as noted, i couldn’t quite think of a good fake dating idea, but please accept 2.3k words of angsty bedsharing + “we need to huddle for warmth,” because i am trash and have no self control.
The wind just about rips the door out of Flynn’s hands as he struggles to close it, swearing under his breath. The dark, howling, snowing night rushes at him, slashing sideways against his face, but after a moment more, he manages to wrench the latch in, and some of the tumult stills. Only some, though. It’s still beating against the greased-paper windows, the chinks in the logs, the tiny, sooty hearth, gasping and whining. Something in the wind sounds so much like a child crying that it raises the hackles on the back of his neck.
This, however, is not what he has time to be presently concerned with. They’re lucky to have made it here (a fur trapper’s cabin by the looks of it, cruel toothed things and hooked knives and snowshoes and drying skins hanging from the low rafters) and until the storm lets up, they have no chance of finding the idiot and his sidekick again. The Time Team has spent the last three days slogging through the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest in 1805, trying to catch up to the Rittenhouse operative planted in Lewis and Clark’s expedition, and, it goes without saying, they do not have a Sacagawea to save their asses. They have stuck together as much as possible, but splitting up has been necessary a few times, and, well. They can’t put Flynn and Wyatt together, seeing as they would probably kill each other within five minutes, and also because they can’t leave Lucy and Rufus unprotected. No one, least of all Rufus, is keen to pair Flynn and Rufus, and despite the lingering tension (and Wyatt’s 0% approval rating of the idea), everyone knows that Flynn/Lucy and Wyatt/Rufus are the logical pair-ups. That, therefore, has been the plan. As for where the latter two are in the blizzard, Flynn doesn’t really care.
Lucy is shivering so hard that her teeth rattle. Flynn double-checks that the bar is wedged in, then kneels by the hearth, stacking some of the damp wood from the pile. He takes out his lighter and tries to get it to catch, but it doesn’t. His breath is gusting silver in the freezing air, even inside the cabin, and he swears again. “I hate the fucking past.”
Despite her shivering, Lucy arches an eyebrow, as if to say that if so, he is really in the wrong line of work. It takes him a few more attempts, but he gets a feeble, guttering fire started, and they press in, shoulder to shoulder, trying to defrost their frozen hands. When they can finally move their fingers without them being in danger of snapping off, Lucy looks around. “Do you think there’s anything to eat?”
There are a few barrels and sacks and bunches of dried things, a rust-bottomed cauldron on a trivet, and something that, by the smell when they uncork it, has been there for about a hundred years. They grimace and hastily cork it again, trying to put together an edible stew. Makes you miss microwaves and five-minute meals, opening an app on your smartphone and getting dinner delivered to your door. Even the most intrepid pizza guy would have trouble making it here.
The stew isn’t that good, but it’s hot, and both of them are so hungry that they inhale it without complaint. There isn’t exactly a lot of washing-up to do, just stacking the bowls. Then Lucy says quietly, “I hope Wyatt and Rufus are okay.”
Flynn could give a damn if they are or not, but he supposes that if they get killed, Lucy will be sad, and he might get shanghaied into yet another stupid mission to save them. “I’m sure they’re fine. You three seem obnoxiously adept at surviving.”