Work Text:
There's a taste in my mouth that I try to explain
It's sweet like sugar with a drop of pain
And a hint of the kiss that kept me sane
And I'm really craving you
I'm really craving you
-Purple Candy by New Friends
Lucy hadn’t really planned it.
She had never intended to take Quill Kipps up on his offer for coffee.
Yet, after running into him while reading one of her favorite novels tucked away in a cozy, little coffee shop that she had discovered on her day off, their last conversation on the stairs following the Bone Glass case replaying through her mind, small-talk seemed to naturally develop between the two of them.
It was admittedly strange at first. Lucy had only ever interacted with Kipps a handful of times in the past, mainly accompanied by Lockwood and George. Who both possessed an unhealthy amount of animosity that seemed rather childish, and quite frankly, she could not understand it.
Truthfully, she didn’t know what to expect of him. She wasn’t daft enough to comprehend his intentions the afternoon he had confronted her outside of Portland Row on the sidewalk before the Fittes Ball. However, his intentions since then had clearly veered, which came as a huge relief.
Quill Kipps trusted her that much was obvious. Perhaps being one of the few individuals who knew about his deteriorating Talents gave her an advantage in unearthing the core of him.
“I’m scared, Lucy,” he would say. “I’ve dreamt about death nearly every night this week.”
The tick of a muscle in his jaw, the fidgeting of his small cup of coffee in his comparably large hands, would fill her with bereavement at his loss. Would this be her life someday? Pouring out her fears to another agent in the corner of an overcrowded coffee shop on a random Thursday?
Swallowing away the unease, Lucy would do her best to make him think practically. She never cared for the hypothetical, and she discerned Kipps didn’t either. “What are your interests outside of the agency? You’re a natural leader. Surely that can be applied to another field.”
Most of their conversations centered around the realities Kipps could not speak of with anyone else. To her surprise, he took her advice seriously, always contemplating her questions then responding with a type of vulnerability she rarely saw from the men in her life. Sometimes it felt a bit like she was becoming his shrink. Lucy didn’t mind though. It was a change she desperately needed. To be heard without the fear of him doing the opposite only moments later.
Kipps was also funny and a good-listener himself. She often found herself snorting at his petty comments toward the agency or baring her insecurities and pain with being one of the most gifted Listeners in the field.
“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You’ll burn out at this rate,” he would explain. “Don’t let Tony or Georgie rope you into more than you can handle.”
The stab at her friends made her roll her eyes, but ultimately, he was right.
Lately, George had been securing too many cases where the Visitors and their Sources made her physically ill, leaving her open to attack, and forcing both of the boys to risk their lives to ensure her safety. Lucy was growing weary of cleaning up the dried trickles of blood running from her ears, a new phenomena that would most certainly cause the boys to panic if they ever found out.
She would make a mental note to address her concerns later.
Quill Kipps had become something of a friend. An older brother she had always wanted. Their weekly visits were becoming an intrinsic part of her. Something she cherished because they were solely hers in a way that could not be evaluated or remarked upon by the other members of Lockwood & Co.
Perhaps that’s why she never bothered to tell them.
It wasn’t as if she was doing anything wrong by keeping it to herself. The boys rarely bothered with digging into what she did on their days off. So they could hardly blame her for not letting on if they didn’t ask in the first place.
Quill Kipps was her friend, and nothing like the major prick they had made him out to be.
++
“What do you think Lucy does on Thursdays?” Lockwood asked George casually, licking his thumb before flipping to the next page of his magazine.
George looked up from his spot at his built-in desk, casting him a shrug, before turning back to the dinosaur figurine he was in the process of painting. “Probably girl stuff. Shopping, sweets, stuff like that.”
“She doesn’t strike me as that kind of girl, though,” he mused, eyes roving the article conveying the latest interior design choices of some A-List actor’s seaside mansion.
His bespectacled friend scoffed, “As if you really know what kind of girl she is, Lockwood. You rarely ever spend time outside of Portland Row or a case with her.”
It was hard to deny that he had a point. “Only because she never asks.”
“Why does she have to be the one to ask?” he challenged, tongue poking out as he dragged the fine-tipped brush over the spikes of the triceratops. “Or did you forget that relationships are a two-way street?”
“Who said anything about a relationship?” Lockwood retorted, snapping the magazine shut before sitting upright on George’s bed. He hadn’t meant for it to come out as accusing as it did, desperately fighting the blush creeping up his neck.
“Ugh, I don’t even know why I bother.” Turning back around in his chair, he pulled his desk lamp down closer to the figurine, allowing Lockwood to stew at the implications he had made concerning his relationship with Lucy.
They were professional colleagues. Friends at best.
Occasionally, something more , but he forced those moments to remain strictly in his dreams.
Would it be crossing a line to ask her to do something together on their day off? Perhaps colleagues did not spend time together outside of work, but he knew friends did.
She couldn’t possibly reject the offer to grab a bite to eat at an actual restaurant. Lucy loved food. Maybe they could feed the ducks at the nearby park afterward. She was constantly leaving their leftover kitchen scraps around the garden in their backyard. He had nearly stepped barefoot into a pile of sad-looking berries on his way to enjoy a morning cup of tea while watching the sunrise.
Pushing the thoughts aside, Lockwood stood and stretched his legs before crossing George’s room to the door.
“I’m going to do a supply run before it gets too late. Care to join?”
“Knock yourself out,” George answered, eyes still glued on the figurine.
Taking that as his que to leave, he started toward the stairs, a list of supplies they needed already running through his head, when he heard, “Wait Lockwood! Can you pick up some of those scones we all like for the next game night?”
Lucy’s favorite were the blueberry-lemon flavored ones.
“I’ll add it to the list.”
He grabbed his signature overcoat and hailed a cab to avoid the light drizzle coming down from the gray overcast. Lockwood hoped Lucy would do the same on her way home.
Not that he minded switching into his role as a qualified doctor when she was sick– in fact, caring for Lucy in her times of need gave him his great deal of satisfaction–yet seeing her unwell never failed to stir a sense of helplessness within him at the reality of the situation.
His foot tapped restlessly against the floor of the cab on the way to town.
++
As an agent, Lockwood had learned to expect the unexpected.
Rarely, did anything manage to catch him off guard, much to the annoyance of his friends, who tried everything in their power to surprise him with a small party on his last birthday. George had invented a cipher on the thinking cloth to communicate with Lucy and it was only a matter of days before he cracked it then proceeded to read all of the messages about his preferred flavor of cake and party invitations.
However, nothing could have prepared him for sight unraveling before his eyes.
Lucy Carlyle and Quill Kipps were sitting together at a table for two near the window of a cafe on the other side of the street.
But not only were they sitting together. They were sharing biscuits and tea together. Lucy was laughing, quite profoundly, at something Kipps had said, giving his shoulder a playful shove in the process.
Lockwood was going to be physically sick. A wave of nausea nearly sent his lunch onto the sidewalk. Gripping the bags of salt bombs and flares even tighter, he fought the urge to send one directly at Kipps' big head. Lucy would be too close to the line of fire, and he would rather risk the skin on his back, then to put her in harm's way.
Lucy and Kipps. Lucy and Kipps. His brain could hardly compute.
What the fuck was Lucy doing with Kipps?
Lockwood desperately wanted to march across the road and drag Lucy away from the pretentious asshole. He was probably puffing up his minimal achievements and few successful cases to her right now. Why was she laughing though? What could he possibly be saying that would cause her to laugh so whole-heartedly?
He hated him. He had never hated anyone more than he hated Quill Kipps at this moment.
Quill Kipps should not be making her laugh. Quill Kipps should not be with her at all.
Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste iron, he turned away from the scene, before it truly drove him to the brink of insanity, and marched home, the rain effectively soaking through his clothes and shoes. George nearly had his throat after spotting the soggy bags of weapons and scones thrown haphazardly on the kitchen table.
Lockwood huffed past him, mumbling that he wouldn’t be down for dinner, and made his way to his room. He carefully shut the door like a normal person before turning around to angrily kick his basket of dirty laundry. He could practically feel the steam fuming from his ears like he was some hokey cartoon character.
Quill bloody Kipps.
++
To his frustration, Lockwood found himself unable to brush off the discovery as he had hoped. Suddenly, he didn’t understand how to be–well… himself –whenever Lucy was around. Whether they were sharing meals, unwinding in the study, or battling Visitors, Lockwood could hardly string a coherent sentence together in her presence without the overwhelming desire to berate her for hanging out with Kipps.
It was ridiculous of him. Logically, he knew he had absolutely no claim when it came to Lucy. They were free to do whatever they wanted with whoever they wished. And he would never consider himself to be the type of man who viewed her as nothing more than a possession that belonged to him.
Lucy was her own person. A free spirit. A soul much better than his own. He would never be the man who clipped her wings when she had only just figured out how to use them. It was an honor to watch her take flight. A privilege so few were permitted to witness up close. Majestic. Beautiful.
Despite the pain it caused, Lockwood would bury his jealousy if it meant Lucy remained happy. Even if the person bringing about that happiness was–quite literally–the bane of his existence.
Thus began his new act. He talked when appropriate. He smiled when appropriate. He questioned when appropriate. Yet he never touched. Nor did he linger for longer than necessary. Sure, the ache in his chest deepened with each passing day. Having to play off his hand reaching for hers at the end of a case or averting his eyes to the floor when he caught himself glancing toward her lips wasn’t exactly easy.
He had bore a knife in his heart for practically his entire life. It didn’t matter if she had begun to gently ease it out after arriving on his doorstep. Lockwood would brave the hurt as it cruelly lodged itself back where it belonged.
This was his fate. It was foolish to think fate had given him another chance.
++
“Kipps—Can I ask you something?” Lucy said softly, twiddling with her stirring stick on the table where they sat together some random Thursday.
“Anything Carlyle,” he answered, folding the newspaper he brought with him this week.
Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Lockwood’s been acting…strange lately.”
This was a risk, bringing him up to Kipps, knowing fully well that it could either go in one of two directions. The first being that he’ll actually act like an adult and be reasonable. The second being that he’ll act like a schoolboy bully on the playground.
“Stranger than usual?”
Option two it was then. Lucy sighed at his sarcasm, dropping the remainder of the stick on the table after breaking it apart into tiny pieces. It was times like these where she needed a girl to talk to. Someone like Norrie. Her ghost-locked friend would know what to say about Lockwood’s weirdness. Norrie always had the right advice to give no matter the situation.
“I jest Carlyle. Tell me more,” Kipps added after seeing her expression, holding up his palms in surrender.
Lucy hesitated, trying to formulate the differences she had seen in his behavior these past couple of weeks.
“He—he doesn’t hold my hand like he used to,” she began, glancing down at her chipped fingernail polish. “He used to do it after every case. Sometimes in the evenings too after a particularly bad day.” That part hurt the most. His long fingers finding hers under the table in the kitchen brought her as much comfort as it brought him.
“It’s like—there was a spark. Between us. And now—now he’s capped it. It’s hard to explain. I know— it probably all sounds silly,” she scolded, nervously tucking a loose strand behind her ear.
This was a mistake. Revealing the parts of herself that screamed her obvious feelings about Lockwood to none other than Quill Kipps. What could he possibly say that would provide her any sense of peace over the incessant worry that had been gnawing at her ever since Lockwood had shut himself off?
Kipps sat there considering all she had said, then laced his fingers on the table and leaned in, “Don’t run me through for saying this, but have he tried talking to him about how you’re feeling?”
Talk to him about it?
“As a man myself, we’ve been known to be a bit slow in terms of making sense of the female brain. You’ve got to make it black and white for him, Carlyle,” Kipps finished, picking up his mug for a sip.
Lucy chewed on her lower lip, considering this advice. Kipps was onto something. Lockwood had always been notorious for hiding parts of himself from her, rarely the first to initiate physical contact unless he had her permission. So what happened that caused him to put a halt to all of it? Was it something she did? Lucy tried wracking her mind for any moments where he appeared opposed to her touch, yet she was drawing a blank.
“Besides, I may not have had much experience in the area myself, but it’s plain as day to see the lad is over the moon for you. Don’t lose hope.”
“Thanks Kipps,” she murmured, feeling a bit more confident with figuring out the puzzle of which was Anthony Lockwood.
Perhaps Kipps wasn’t so useless when it came to boys after all.
++
“If you had listened to me when I said we needed to pack the extra flares just in case, it wouldn’t have been such a close call,” George exclaimed, tossing his hands up in the back of the cab, where Lucy was pressed far too close for comfort against him. He could have sworn she was purposefully brushing her knee against his thigh at this point.
Her touch burned, flashes of Kipps tracing his fingers along her edges causing him to reposition his legs closer to the door.
“You told me–and I quote–it’s only one wraith, Lockwood. Why would we waste the resources by packing more?” he retorted, trying to steady himself.
“I believe I said there appears to only be one—”
“Oh would you two shut it?” Lucy suddenly exclaimed angrily, effectively silencing them both from continuing forward in their argument.
They locked eyes over the crown of the blonde girl’s head, exchanging a look of concern at the unexpected outburst. Lockwood proceeded to turn, opting to stare out the window at the quiet city, illuminated by the greenish glow of the ghost lamps. He had a tendency to replay the events that unfolded after every case, considering areas where they could improve as a team. Where he could improve as an agent.
That’s when the feeling of tiny, warm fingers brushed his hand on the seat, immediately causing him to recoil in fear, hand clutched to his chest like she had poured boiling water over it. He hadn’t meant for his reaction to come off as strongly as it had. Even the driver in the front seat peered back at the commotion through the rearview mirror.
He needed to get out of this cab before Lucy turned him into a pile of ash. By sheer luck, the driver stopped at the curb of Portland Row, Lockwood immediately throwing the door open and lunging for the steps.
“What the hell was that all about back there?” George called from behind as he clumsily shoved his key into the lock, his breathing frantic, wanting nothing more than to escape the presence of the girl closing in.
The door mercifully gave way and he hastily dumped his gear, feet pounding for the next flight of stairs, his fingers pulling at the tie threatening to suffocate him.
“What have I done, Lockwood?”
His pace came to a sharp halt, the desperation in her small voice unmistakable.
He gulped down the hurt, reflecting on what to say next to the girl standing helplessly at the bottom of the staircase. Unable to stop the words from tumbling out of his tightly pressed lips, he coldly remarked, “I doubt Kipps would appreciate knowing you were trying to hold my hand.”
Lockwood wasn’t sure why he had decided— out of every possible response he could have chosen— to pick the one involving Quill Kipps. But it was too late. And he instantly regretted it as he watched Lucy’s whole body shift from anguish to blinding fury. She blinked multiple times, mouth opening and closing as if searching for the words that would pierce him the sharpest.
“Dickhead move, Lockwood,” George murmured, reminding them both of his presence before quickly making his exit to the kitchen before he was caught in the line of fire.
“You have got to be kidding me!” Lucy finally burst, shoes echoing loudly on the hardwood floor as she made her way to the landing. Stopping when she was head to shoulder with him. “Is he the reason you’ve been acting so–so detached these last few weeks?”
Lockwood shifted, jaw tense, opting to glance at his shoes instead of meeting her flaming eyes. “You don’t have to go into detail, Luce. Just promise me he isn’t acting like a major prick. Otherwise he’s dead.”
“You mean like the prick standing in front of me right now? For gosh sake, Lockwood, Quill Kipps is only a friend,” she urged, her small hands sliding into his, pleading with him to understand. Obviously he didn’t. How could he?
“It sure looked like more than that,” he said bitterly, trying to pry himself free of her grasp.
“Anthony bloody Lockwood, would you just listen to me?!”
This caught his attention. Daring to meet her ocean-blue hues, he waited, his shoulders slumped. Lockwood had never heard her sound so determined and frustrated all at the same time.
Nodding, she continued, “Kipps is losing his Talent. Since before the Bone Glass case. And I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve turned into someone he trusts. Someone he can talk to without the fear of being judged. What’s even weirder is he’s kind of become the older brother that I never had in the process.”
He remained frozen, letting everything she said sink in fully. Kipps was losing his talent. She thought of him as a brother. Lucy was definitely going mad if she thought of him as a brother of all people. He figured now was not the moment to comment on this thought. However, he could not contain the relief beginning to flood through his body at her revelation.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” he queried, fingers tightening a fraction of an inch around hers.
“Why didn’t you ask?” she quipped, stepping closer into his space, their chests nearly pressed against one another.
Touché.
“I suppose George is right. I am a bit of a dickhead,” he relented, corner of his lips ticking upward. He didn’t miss her gaze tracking his mouth. Heat crept up the collar of his neck at her expression, which was no longer filled with disdain, but replaced with fondness. He definitely deserved the latter.
“Maybe sometimes. But you're my dickhead.”
And then the world melted beneath his feet because Lucy Carlyle’s soft lips were pressed against his, her toes providing the extra height she needed to close the gap. Her lips moved longingly under his, the weeks of distance being made up for through each tender press she bestowed. She dragged him even closer, abandoning her grip on his fingers to twine her hands around his neck instead.
Pausing for a moment of air, their breathing quickened, his considerably ragged in comparison, he whispered, “I reckon you don’t also view me as a brother then.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, letting out a huff of breathless laughter, “You’re ridiculous, you know that right?”
He grinned, unable to stop himself from digging into her sides where he knew she was ticklish from experience. A fit of giggles burst from her chest as she dragged him down to her level. By this point, they were practically hugging, holding onto each other like familiar lovers.
“How would you feel—,” Lockwood began lowly near her ear. “About feeding the ducks with me sometime at Hyde Park?”
“As in a date?” Lucy whispered gently in return.
“If that’s what you want.”
She pushed back on his shoulders until they were eye to eye, a radiant smile on her face. “I think I can squeeze you in somewhere on my calendar. But I must warn you, I’m already booked on Thursday afternoons,” she teased, running her fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
He let out a groan, the reason for this whole situation in the first place rushing back into his brain. “This means I’m going to have to try acting cordially toward him, doesn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t kill you.”
“It actually might.”
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen whipped open below. “If you two are done making out up there, I have some tea and biscuits ready,” George said with disgust.
Lucy gave him a final peck, promptly causing his thoughts to go dizzy, before grabbing his hand and leading them down into the homey kitchen, their fingers remaining firmly intertwined. They split apart only when absolutely necessary. At which George teased them mercilessly for.
Maybe fate didn’t have it out for him after all. It certainly had a twisted sense of humor though.