Archive of Our Own

At first she looks at you in wonder, with slight awe, a country bumpkin in wonder of the big city, and you admit to being flattered. That shine fades away the more she gets to know you, George, the more all of you get to know each other, but it doesn’t disappear entirely. 

Instead, it’s tinged with exasperation, a slight roll of the eye here and there, a gobsmacked expression at your nerve (she calls it recklessness, you call it daring), and most times she looks at you like she wants to wring your neck. You admit you are amused. You throw her a roguish smirk and part of you can admit you want to rile her up (-but mostly, mostly you just want to make her laugh, the same way you can’t help but laugh, smile, because of her from that first defiant “I’ll wait”, eyes dark and feral). She looks at you with challenge, demanding if you’re good enough for her, and you admit it’s irresistible. 

You’ve always been drawn to dangerous things, and the more you get to know her, you realize Lucy Carlyle is far more dangerous than any Visitor. 

Later, under a spell, a ghost’s hold, she looks at you like she loves you - ‘You love me, don’t you?’ It’s not her words, it’s not her actions, it’s not her, just Annabel speaking through her, but - her face, her smile, her eyes as she looks at you are sweet. You don’t know who’s really under a spell between the both of you. ‘You love me, don’t you?’ - the ghost asks through her. It should be an easy enough question to answer, so why can’t you?

She looks at you in pain - I am drowning - and you want so much to save her, even if you are the cause of it. Her tears make you feel as if you’re suffocating along with her, and you’re back to being a little boy again, helpless to save anyone who’s ever mattered. The moment those words leave her mouth, fear grips your heart. Better off dead? Her of all people? You didn’t matter, but she was Lucy Carlyle and that was not the way it was going to be. 

She looks at you with eyes full of understanding, absent of the blame you so richly deserve. With apologies falling from your lips and your hand in hers, you can’t help but draw the comfort that you hardly deserve. 

You’re still the cause of her tears, and though you don’t deserve it, deserve anything from her, after what you just put her and George through, she looks at you as if she wants you to live - just live. 

You’re tired, so very tired - of Kipps, Barnes, of everything. But you come home - to her, and though you admit to feeling a bit off-balance (even if Kipps does deserve it, the pompous prick), she just looks at you, bemused, and you can’t help but sigh. It’s not quite a smirk, not quite a smile, just a slight lift in the corner of her mouth that you are endlessly fascinated by. She promises you tea, and you would promise her anything and everything. 

Later on, you don’t know how it could have gone so wrong so fast but she looks at you like she hates you. And you feel like you could almost hate her too. There is bitterness, so much bitterness, that you wonder if you have another Annabel Ward at home, but this is all you - your insecurities, your vulnerabilities. You can admit that you only got that mad because she poked at the exposed heart of you, at open wounds that haven’t even scabbed over. 

No matter how you feel though - how she makes you feel - she is still your responsibility. She may prod at open wounds, but you’ll make sure hers are closed and have a chance to heal. She looks at you - she looks at you like she wants so badly for you to believe her. She looks at you like you could break her (which fair enough because you’re pretty sure she can break you too). She looks at you like what you think matters, like you - Anthony Lockwood, not just Lockwood - matter, to her. For the first time, your gaze isn’t fixed on her eyes. Giving in to instinct, it drops. 

We can’t let you go. 

(Who are you fooling?)

You trade toast for a smile—hardly a fair exchange in your opinion. Lucy frowns more often than not, and she keeps her smiles like a secret treasure stuck close to her heart. It is during quiet moments like these in the wee hours of the morning that you feel like an ungainly relic man who would do anything to claim it for your own. Rather than Lockwood’s dazzling acts of courage, it is Anthony who can coax those rare and precious smiles out of her. Pity that you find it so hard to be the boy you once were. 

You’re afraid, so very afraid. Once again you feel like that helpless boy, never good enough, never enough. What on earth could you have to offer against Fittes, when that had been her dream and you were just a last resort. You know you sound pathetic, close to pleading, hell you will plead if that’s what it takes, sod your pride - to get her to stay, just don’t leave, don’t leave (me). (Not again). But Lucy never does what you expect, does she? Because she looks at you, she looks at you like you are enough. She looks at you like home. You can’t help if your breath catches and the half-sob that rises along with it. But luckily, for all her Talent, she doesn’t hear.

You were naive. That earlier fear doesn’t even compare to what you feel now. That was juvenile, this is paralyzing. You don’t fear death, not anymore when you fight it on a daily basis for a living. Being ghost-locked doesn’t compare to this - fear, paralysis, desperation. For Lucy’s life to be snuffed out and for you to be the cause - your fault, always your fault - sucks all the air out of you. You can’t breathe. 

You could almost hate how she looks at you because she looks at you like she’s willing to give you a second chance. You want to so badly - to unburden yourself, to her. But she doesn’t deserve the ghosts you carry (-is what you say to yourself because you’ve always been a narcissistic bastard who wants to look good. Kipps’ voice echoes, in the end, she’ll leave and you’ll be the one to make her). Her disappointment is an easy enough pill to swallow because nothing else matters besides the fact that she’s - alive, alive, alive. 

She looks at you like you disgust her, as if you were worse than any Visitor. You’re worse because you’re a living corpse who’s already lost your heart. You’ve fallen far from that pedestal, but in a strange way, it comforts you because you’re finally being looked at the way you deserve to be looked at. And yet, with tears in her eyes (of which you are once again the cause, it’s always you), she looks at you like she still cares about you. And oh, what a right and proper bastard you are for letting this happen. Because you’ve vowed that you were never going to leave anyone behind the same way you were left behind, but you don’t want her to leave you behind either. (You’ve always been a walking contradiction.)

You’re shaking, you can’t (-breathe, you can’t breathe), but you grip her hair like a lifeline, and she grounds you like a lightning rod, hands cradling your cheeks. You lean in to that warmth (it’s cold, so cold). Her voice calls to you and while you’ve always been a shit Listener, somehow you manage to open your eyes. She looks at you, frantic and half-crazed, but somehow you can finally breathe.  

After your unexpected swim, you just want to draw her close, to cradle her as proof of life, but she pushes you away with everything she’s got. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does. You swallow your words with dirty water. For all that you thought that you couldn’t handle the way she looks at you, at the way it rearranges everything inside of you, the absence of her gaze pierces worse than any rapier. The silence worse. 

You would take her biting words over this, relish it even, the chance to parry or to let it land and litter her marks all over your skin. You’d wear those scars proudly. 

But then she turns and looks at you, with rage. And even through the haze of exhaustion, you cannot help but think she looks glorious, fiery even as she trails water from the Thames. But with that rage is something that wasn’t there before - fear. She looks at you like she doesn’t know you and that’s worse than anything you’ve experienced tonight. You tell yourself that you can live with her disappointment, but for you to be the reason why this defiant girl cowers and curls into herself is the most unforgivable sin. 

You realize you are selfish because even though you’ve sinned against her so much already, you still crave her forgiveness. Even though to remain with you is to risk being dragged down to the depths, you still don’t want her to let you go. 

You’ve always known it, Lockwood. You’re a hazard to yourself and the people you love. This is proof. 

You apologize, and you await her judgment. What she gives you is salvation.

She makes your heart pound and your blood boil. She makes you remember what it’s like to be alive.  And yet, she also quiets your mind and lets you breathe like nothing else. You can’t quite remember what it was like to live before her. She’s the adrenaline in your veins. She’s the great big gulp of air you greedily take in after drowning for who knows how long. She’s quite the walking contradiction too, his Lucy. 

With a bland look and a quip, she saves you anew, again and again she keeps saving you, and oh you finally get it. You speak softly because you don’t want to shatter this precious, tender moment. It’s not about how she looks at you, but it’s about how you look at her - how you’ve always looked at her. Her eyes are mirrors which reflect your own, and as you heave in a great ragged sigh, you realize you look at her like you love her - with ache, and tenderness, and gratitude, and awe.

You love her. 

Later you fight like you have a lot to live for - and you do - you fight for Lucy and George, and you fight for yourself, for the chance to see them again, for the chance to - just live. 

And in the dawning light, though she doesn’t quite smile that smile you adore, her relieved gasp is worth more than front-page news, all the tea in London, and chocolate biscuits combined, because it means that she - they are alive.

Just reckless enough.

And she finally looks at you like she’s proud of you.