The air in the bunker tasted of recycled oxygen and something vaguely metallic, a scent you’d long associated with the time shifts, like ozone mixed with old pennies. You peeled your flight suit off, the stiff fabric protesting as it separated from your skin, still tacky with sweat and something that was definitely not sweat. Ancient Egyptian dust, probably. It always got everywhere. You tossed it towards the overflowing laundry bin in the corner, missing by a good foot, and didn't bother to adjust it. Your internal clock was still recalibrating from the pharaoh’s court, a few hours of adrenaline-spiked pursuit through crumbling tombs leaving you feeling like every synapse was firing slightly off-kilter. You made a mental note to check the espresso machine; if it was acting up again, even after Wyatt’s last attempt at "field repair," someone was going to pay. Gently, you tapped your temple, a habit you’d developed years ago to reset your internal compass after particularly disorienting jumps, like a low-tech hard reboot.
Wyatt was already at the mission debrief station, meticulously wiping down his rifle, each click of the cloth oddly soothing in the sudden quiet of the bunker. Rufus, meanwhile, was hunched over a console, his fingers flying across the holographic projections, muttering about temporal discrepancies and rogue energy signatures. Lucy, ever the historian, was making notes in a leather-bound journal, occasionally glancing up, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow.
And then there was Flynn. He was leaning against a support beam, arms crossed, his jacket still on despite the evident grime and tear near the shoulder. A dark stain bloomed wider on his left side, seeping through the olive green fabric, catching the fluorescent light in an unpleasant sheen. Blood. Definitely blood. He wasn’t saying anything, just watching the others, his expression as unreadable as ever. His gaze flicked to you, a brief, assessing look that made the hairs on your arms prickle before he looked away, settling back into his silent observation post.
"Rough one, huh?" Rufus finally piped up, straightening from the console, rubbing the back of his neck. "Lost the coordinates for a minute there, thought we were going to end up in the Cretaceous period for a bit of dino-time."
"Understatement of the year, Rufus," Wyatt grunted, inspecting a scratch on his forearm. "Could’ve been worse, though. At least we got the artifact back." He nodded towards the lead-lined case sitting innocently on the central table.
Lucy closed her journal, her eyes finding Flynn. "Garcia, are you alright? You look… different." Concern softened her voice.
Flynn finally pushed off the beam. He walked over to the supply cabinet, pulling out a standard first-aid kit. "Just a scratch," he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual sardonic edge. He started to unbutton his jacket with his right hand, favoring his left shoulder.
You watched his movements, the subtle hitch in his breathing, the way his jaw was just a little too tight. It wasn't 'just a scratch.' You’d seen enough 'scratches' on this team to know the difference. Your gaze drifted to the torn fabric, the dark, rich crimson. "A scratch from what, a spear? That looks less like a scratch and more like a gladiatorial wound, Flynn."
He didn’t reply, just slipped his jacket off, revealing a deep gash along his bicep and shoulder. It wasn't actively bleeding now, but the edges were ragged, inflamed, and still crusted with dried blood. He’d clearly been hit hard.
"Flynn!" Lucy exclaimed, moving closer, her historian's curiosity momentarily eclipsed by genuine alarm.
"I'm fine," he repeated, reaching for an antiseptic wipe, but his left hand trembled slightly. "Just need to clean it."
Wyatt whistled low. "That’s gonna need more than a wipe, man. That's a good ten stitches, at least."
"Guess we know why he wasn’t climbing those crumbling pyramids with his usual enthusiasm," Rufus muttered under his breath, earning a withering glare from Flynn.
You bypassed the others, walking directly to Flynn, pushing his hand away from the first-aid kit. The espresso machine could wait. This couldn't. "Move. You'll make it worse." Your voice was sharper than you intended, the residual stress of the mission still buzzing under your skin, manifesting as impatience. You began rummaging through the kit, pulling out sterile gauze, a bottle of disinfectant, and a roll of bandage.
Flynn’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t fight you. "I can manage," he said, though his stance suggested otherwise.
"Clearly not," you retorted, pulling out a pair of sterile gloves. You snatched a pair of small, sharp scissors from the kit and started cutting away the surrounding fabric of his shirt. It was a good, expensive shirt, too, probably Italian. Oh, well. "Anyway, someone has to make sure you live long enough to annoy us all again. It wouldn't be as fun without you." You glimpsed a flicker of something in his eyes—amusement? Irritation? Hard to tell.
"I seem to recall a different trajectory for 'annoying us all again'," Flynn said, his voice now lower, a hint of his usual challenging tone returning. He paused. "For example, you nearly getting skewered by that royal guard in the antechamber."
You ripped the fabric with a satisfying tear. "Oh, is that what happened? I recall you making a rather dramatic entrance, swinging like Tarzan in some ill-fitting local garments, saving the day." You exaggerated the last part, a little too saccharine. You noticed Lucy and Wyatt exchange a glance, Rufus looking between you both with a wide, speculative grin.
"I recall you being precisely two seconds from having a very intimate conversation with a rather sharp, pointy object," Flynn countered, leaning back against the cabinet, his eyes fixed on yours. "A conversation I believe I interrupted."
You sprayed a generous amount of antiseptic on a gauze pad. It was a proper stinging kind, medical-grade, not the gentle stuff for kids. "And I recall you being incredibly dramatic about it. Honestly, Flynn, the way you threw yourself in front of me, you’d think you were trying out for a historical epic." You pressed the gauze firmly onto the wound. He winced, a slight, almost imperceptible flinch. You watched his face, seeing the muscle jump in his jaw. Good.
"I believe it's called 'saving your life'," he stated, his voice a low rumble, but that hint of amusement was back, buried deep.
You started cleaning the wound, wiping away the dried blood. It looked worse up close. "Right. And for that, I'm supremely grateful, obviously. But a little less flair, perhaps, next time? You nearly ripped your shoulder out of its socket trying to shield me. Now look at you." You jabbed a finger, perhaps a little harder than necessary, at the edge of the gash.
He gripped the counter, knuckles white, but he didn't pull away. "I could say the same for your tendency to stand there, mesmerized by ancient hieroglyphs, while palace guards practice their javelin throws."
"They were fascinating! And besides, I rely on my team to keep me from getting impaled, it's a team effort, Flynn." You grabbed a small tube of antibiotic ointment. "This is going to feel cold."
As you applied the thick balm, your fingers brushed his skin. It was warm, surprisingly soft beneath the grime. The air between you hummed, suddenly thick, the banter still present but underpinned by something else. The others had fallen silent, their attention ostensibly on their own tasks, but you could feel their gazes occasionally darting to you and Flynn.
"You really enjoy this, don't you?" Flynn murmured, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes locking with yours. His gaze was intense, unwavering.
"Enjoy what?" you asked, feigning innocence, even as your pulse quickened. You wrapped a sterile bandage around his bicep, pulling it taut. "Cleaning your self-inflicted wounds? It's riveting. Truly."
"My self-inflicted wounds?" he repeated, a low chuckle escaping him, devoid of humor. "The ones I incurred preventing *your* unfortunate demise?"
"Exaggeration," you scoffed, tying off the bandage. You tried to make it look effortless, but your hands felt a little clumsy. "I was perfectly capable of handling myself. I’ve read a lot about ancient combat techniques, you know."
He slowly unclenched his hand from the counter, then gently reached out, his fingertips brushing your arm. Just a light touch, but it sent a surprising jolt through you. "I'm sure you have. But sometimes, even the most scholarly of us need a little… outside intervention." His thumb traced a path up your arm, then back down, slow and deliberate. His gaze remained pinned to your face, searching. "You push your luck, you know."
You looked down at your hands, then back at him, the challenge rising instinctively. "Do I? Or are you just easily ruffled, Garcia?" You leaned in just imperceptibly, just enough to catch the scent of him – blood, dust, and something uniquely Flynn-esque, a mix of leather and danger. "Perhaps you just enjoy being fussed over."
His hand tightened subtly on your arm. "Perhaps," he agreed, his voice a low growl, the word loaded with an unspoken meaning that made your breath catch. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a possessive fire burning in their depths. The quiet hum in the bunker felt deafening. The air crackled. This wasn't just banter anymore. And you knew, with a sudden, unnerving certainty, that you might have pushed a button you shouldn’t have. But the thought, strangely, wasn't fear – it was exhilaration.