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Lucy had always had an uncertain relationship with food. When she was young, her mother often wielded food as a weapon against her. Undesirable behavior had led to withheld meals, except Lucy could never be quite sure what actions would result in not eating. Certainly, talking back or disobedience, but her mother had always seemed ready to pull food privileges for even the smallest of infractions. Lucy had long grown familiar with the ache of hunger, and had learned to guard her food and eat selfishly. After all, one could never be certain of their next meal in her house.
After the tragedy at Wythburn Mill, her mother weaponized food even further. Withholding food for days before cooking a feast and forcing Lucy to eat every bite- even when she was bent double and begging to be allowed to stop eating. When the pressure in her stomach threatened to send the food back the way it came, Lucy had to breathe shallowly to avoid the punishment vomiting would result in. She didn’t know what was worse: the complete emptiness that left her weak and lightheaded, or the overwhelming fullness that left her nauseated and desperate for relief.
Portland Row had certainly been an adjustment for her. She had seen the glances exchanged between George and Lockwood during her interview. She knew she had seemed desperate, gnawing at her biscuit the way she had, but in reality, she had been desperate. At that point, it had been nearly three days since she’d had a full meal. The simple digestive biscuit tasted better than almost anything she’d ever had- until dinner when George had made aush reshteh and served her a portion with a strained smile. She’d eaten every bite, far too quickly for her painfully empty stomach, but she’d never eaten anything that tasted like home before. She stopped herself from going back for seconds, too afraid of the fullness, but compromised at reheating a portion in the oven in the middle of the night.
Suddenly, all the food Lucy could ever want or need was well within her reach. Discussing cases in the kitchen always included tea, toast, and biscuits. Arguments never stopped George from cooking a feast before a case. Her boys kept her fed better than she had been her entire life, and she loved them for it. Just now, Lockwood is placing a mug of tea made to her exact preference in front of her while George mans the hob, spatula held aloft like a parrying rapier.
“Thanks, Lockwood,” Lucy grins, tilting her head back to catch his gaze.
“No problem, Luce,” he replies, bending to drop an absentminded kiss on her forehead.
“Oi, what have I said about PDA in the kitchen?! This is my sacred space, the heart and hearth of our home-"
“Yes, yes, sorry Georgie, won’t happen again,” Lockwood interrupts, eager to cut George off before he can gather steam. He skirts around the table to place his own mug down, throwing Lucy a wink once George has returned his attention to scrambling eggs. She takes a sip of her perfectly prepared tea and savors the sweetness, the warmth of their kitchen, and the banter now flowing freely between her two boys. Fullness has never settled quite so well before.