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Touching was always easier than talking for Anthony Lockwood.
While he could pop off as many compliments- true or ingratiating for a purpose- as stern rebukes, vulnerability with words was not his strong suit. Whenever he tried to put the tempest of thoughts and visceral feelings from inside him into words, they seemed to utterly fail at his lips, inevitably falling short and often somehow pissing off the opposite party in his attempt.
Arguments and misunderstandings with Lucy were a dime a dozen, but somehow it still felt full of heart and purpose. Every messy tangle of words and tussle of hurt feelings felt intimate somehow. He didn’t have those conversations with other people. She was always pushing him, and it felt like he was starting to grow, but not fast enough.
So touch it was.
It started in the throes of violence. He was wary of making her uncomfortable at first, so he only showed himself in the subtle acts of service he granted her. Making tea or toast, leaving water or snacks at her bedside, sometimes even doing the dishes for her when George was on strike and it was technically her turn. Or sneaking her extra biscuits out of George’s line of sight.
But then their business had gotten nasty. Nearly dying in Combe Carey, head rattled and bleeding from a minor concussion, he’d reached out a shaking hand for hers, and she’d taken it.
Just like that, things changed. But he was still afraid, still a coward. So it went on for a considerable while that he allowed himself the luxury of reaching for her when they were mortal danger. Until the medieval prison under Aickmere Brothers- and the painful ensuing separation- changed everything yet again.
Down there, he’d found Lucy in a state like he’d never seen her. She was sobbing uncontrollably. It had taken her a moment to even recognize that he was real, and even then she was still crying so hard she could barely manage a word. She was on her knees, shaking like a leaf, torn up and bruised. He’d been steeled until that moment. Jumping into a death pit, navigating down razor sharp splinters of wood beams and crumbling stone, navigating an ancient labyrinth of death with minimal light and dodging the swaths of dead- all that he could handle, but this? This is what broke him. It tore him apart like the poltergeist wished it could.
So he’d done all he could do in that moment. He reached down and pulled her into his chest, holding her tight until she was starting to breathe normally again. When her choking sobs faded to sniffles and quiet gasps in the stillness, he brought her out of the ritual chamber to rest. There, he’d taken off his coat and draped it over her to stop her trembling. Then he silently wrapped his arms around her suddenly frail form and tucked her under his chin.
To his surprise, she fit like a glove. He was ashamed. Here she was, clearly traumatized and clinging to him for comfort, and he was thinking how it felt so right for her to be here. He was thinking how nice it would be to find themselves in this position under different circumstances. Tucked together reading books in the library, folded together on the couch watching movies on a rare night off. It was wrong. Sickening.
And then she left.
By God those were the worst four months of his life.
In a way, Lockwood hadn’t known what that feeling was until she went away.
He hadn’t known he was in love with her.
Not until that lovely afternoon, a time that should have been for celebration, when she’d broken the news so casually and tried to stride right out the door with all of him in tow. It felt like she’d carved something out of him physically and torn it away.
At first they all thought she was joking of course. No one understood- they all refused to grasp it. It was nonsense after all. But then she’d grown serious. There were tears in her eyes, but resolution too. That’s when he’d known it was over. That’s when his body started feeling light and wrong.
He got that tightening feeling in his chest as he started to bicker back with her, challenge her on every point. He couldn’t figure out why his body ached and buzzed and suffocated just like when Jessica had died, just like when he realized his parents were dead. He felt like he was losing something irreplaceable. Some part of him that would never heal.
So he’d fought for her. He argued and followed her straight across the park as debate turned into begging turned into a silent standoff at the café. The last thing he’d been fighting when he stormed out of that place, turning his back on the picture of her with her arms folded and puffy eyes fixed away from him, was tears. He was embarrassed and angry.
But nothing was as humiliating or shameful as the row he’d subsequently kicked up over the bed.
George and Holly knew. He wished they didn’t, but there was no way it was the case after that argument.
It wasn’t long before George offered to let poor, exhausted Holly stay at Portland Row after a case. It only made sense, if it was closer than her place at the time. In a daze from the mission, Lockwood had breezily agreed- before he’d realized what it meant. Lucy had long since midnight run with all her belongings, so Holly naturally made for the attic room.
He’d cut her off with a bark quite suddenly. In fact, he’s still ashamed, he’d even gotten quite snappish at George- ever blunt and pragmatic- when he’d rebuked Lockwood’s silly request. Then the embarrassment had set in, the realization of what he was revealing by failing to restrain his emotions. So he’d walked it back poorly, claiming it was only right to let Holly sleep in his bed, as a good host, since it was the biggest and best. No one bought it, but he dutifully slept on the downstairs couch anyways.
The next time they argued again, Holly saying she couldn’t bear him sleeping on that lumpy old sofa, so he’d had to compromise and take Lucy’s bed himself. And that became dangerous.
Because up there, he could still smell her on her pillows. This room that had once been his was nothing of the sort anymore, it was just a three dimensional memory of her. Tucking her pillow against his chest, he felt like a dog whose owner had gone away on a long trip, or perhaps died, desperately clinging to this feeble piece of her. Some nights, after George had gone to bed, even when Holly wasn’t there, he’d sneak up to her room and sleep there anyway. He just needed to be close to her.
But eventually that time of crisis came to a glorious end.
Lucy moved back in.
Suddenly, with a rush, brushes of the hand and soft shoulder squeezes were within his reach. He found himself placing gentle hands on her back as he shuffled past her on the stairs or in the kitchen- wholly unnecessary but she didn’t seem to care. One thing led to another.
When George got hurt, he’d been a wreck, and in a moment of weakness he’d crossed the distance and thrown his arms around her for comfort. She hugged him back with warmth and force, forcing the air back into his lungs which felt like they hadn’t breathed since he’d heard the news.
And then the whirlwind that followed until finally, finally, they were safe. They’d come out of Fittes House hand in hand, and it seemed right. But the world was still in chaos and needed their aid.
So for the following months, progress had been slow. He’d given her the necklace in cowardly lieu of a confession. But she’d taken it. She kept it safe.
She reached for his hand more often. Sometimes they walked arm and arm down the lane. He had taken to brushing the hair from her face, or giving her hair a few strokes when he was listening to her explain something on the Thinking Cloth over her shoulder.
Then one morning, before George was awake, he’d been making her tea to perk up. The poor thing was dead tired, dark circles prominent under her eyes from several long nights at work. When he put down the mug he’d instinctively bent down and pressed a light kiss to the crown of her head. He’d just been caught up in a moment of affection, not a thought given to consequences. She’d frozen for a moment, then looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes and slightly pink cheeks and simply said, “thanks.”
So he kept doing it. Neither of them said anything about it. Nothing had strictly changed.
Until about a year after the events at Fittes House. With things at the agencies winding down and ghost attacks becoming less and less frequent, their brains finally had chance to process. It was hard on everyone. But the two of them were prone to gruesome nightmares.
It was a sleepless night for Lockwood, pattering about the kitchen and other room of the house aimlessly when he heard a soft whimpering noise. It was so quiet he barely registered it from the landing at first, but then he’d gone still, listening. It continued. Cautiously, he’d made his way to Lucy’s door and lingered outside.
She gasped awake with fright. Instinctively, he turned the knob and stumbled into her room, up the steps. She started when she saw him, then registered his face in the dark and let out a sigh. He halfheartedly explained that he’d heard her poor dreams and come to check on her.
Lucy’s initial face had been hard to read. He found himself edging closer, sitting down on the edge of her bed where he could now clearly see the tears drying on her soft cheeks. He brushed them away and asked if she needed anything. She’d paused and finally said:
“Can you just hold me?”
He’d say she needn’t have asked, of course he would, but he never would have without those words. Thank God she said them, so he could end up there beside her in bed, curling up against her plush form. He wrapped one arm around her middle and let her rest her head on the other bicep, tucked part-way beneath her pillow. Her breathing slowed and they’d both drifted off into the first peaceful sleep either had had in a long while.
The next morning, he’d awoken to see the face of the most beautiful woman he knew, coiled into his chest and breathing deeply. He pressed his forehead to hers longingly and she fluttered awake. When she did, they’d just stared at each other for a moment, eyes soft and faces too close to ignore.
It was Lucy who pitched forward first, tentatively pressing her lips against his own. He drank in the warmth and plushness of her lips, kissing them again and again until they were flushed deep pink with use.
So they had kissed for the first time. The first of many.
So too the first of so many nights spent side by side, sharing body heat and pleasant dreams.
Eventually, Lucy just moved all her belongings into his room for ease of access. It made more sense than trekking back upstairs for her clothes every night.
Gentle kisses of adoration gave way to long cozy nights of hot breaths and soft moans, making themselves perfectly acquainted with every slope and crook of one another’s bodies. But by that point, he already called her Darling, kissed her at the breakfast table every morning as he brought the toast. She tiptoed to lay a peck on his cheek as he fixed the teas and rested her head on his shoulder when they watched a film or listened to George lecture on about something or another.
Lockwood thinks of this a few years later when he finds himself holding each of her hands, shakily falling to one knee.
Words are hard. He isn’t sure he can possibly fit all the things he feels about her, the way he wants her to know just how badly he needs her, the future he dreams of.
“Lucy Carlyle,” He begins, but he has no idea where to go. He shakes his head, squeezes her hands, and forgoes the whole speech. He sees it in her eyes, he only needs to say a few words. “Will you marry me?”
She understands.
And she says yes.
And that is how he ends up pulling Lucy Lockwood close under the blankets, a smile on his face in the dark, every night for the rest of his long, happy life.