Chapter Text
Lucy
The door to 35 Portland Row opened with a gust of wet wind that nearly pushed the two agents through, and rustled the heaps of mail and bills on the sideboard. The agents bustled in and forced the door closed behind them, shutting out the weather. They stood for a moment in the entryway, catching their breath and pushing their hair out of their eyes.
One of them had a short bob and wore her trademark blue and black work jacket. Her leather kit belt was strapped around her waist to hang from her hips, a rapier on her left side and various pouches and pockets studding the rest. She stamped her black boots more out of frustration with the weather than anything else, before placing her rapier into the chipped pot next to the sideboard that served as a rapier stand.
Behind her was a slightly taller boy, shaking his curls out of his eyes and pausing to polish his glasses against the t-shirt he wore underneath an unbuttoned flannel and blue puffer coat. His jeans were ill-fitting and his trainers a bit raggedy, but his mesh kit belt and rapier were kept in top form. He took off his puffer coat and moved to hang it in the coat closet, pausing to place his rapier beside the girl’s in the chipped pot.
The girl, Lucy Joan Carlyle, was leaning with one hand against the wall, unlacing her boots, when the door pushed open again, admitting yet more wind and wet. Lucy exclaimed a bit, flinching from the sudden onslaught, and moved aside as two other agents pushed their way into the entryway.
The curly-haired boy, George Kaspar Karim, stuck his head back into the entryway.
“How did the wraith hunt go, Lockwood?” he asked.
The tallest agent among them, slim, with dark hair and eyes, looked up to meet his friend and deputy director’s gaze. “Your research was spot on again, George; thanks for that. There were actually two separate hauntings. I was able to hold them at bay whilst Holly located and sealed the Sources. Don’t you think it went well, Hol?”
The last agent to come through the door was as beautiful as her partner was handsome. She had smooth, creamy dark skin and sleek, dark hair that had somehow avoided mussing despite the rain and wind. Lucy ran her own hand over her frizzy bob self-consciously.
“By the book,” the older girl answered. “What did yours end up to be, Luce?”
“Ugh, a raw bones,” shuddered Lucy. “I do hate those.”
“It’s somehow worse when they’re missing parts,” agreed George. “Are you staying over, Hol? Want me to open the vents in the guest room?”
“No, thank you,” answered Holly, who had not removed her coat. “I’m sure Eloise will be waiting up to see how the case went.” Her eyes sparkled, and Lucy smiled a little to herself. She wondered if she looked as obviously in love when she talked about Lockwood.
The young man in question was walking toward the kitchen, loosening his kit belt as he went, and using the toe of one trainer to free his long foot from the other.
“Are you coming to dinner at Barnes’ later then?” continued George to Holly.
Lockwood stopped abruptly and turned back to the rest of them. “That’s tonight?” he asked, startled. “I thought we were eating with him on Thursday.”
“Today is Thursday, Lockwood,” George said with a wry smile. “Just when was the last time you slept?”
He likely meant it literally rather than rhetorically, but Lockwood just huffed a laugh and loosened his other shoe.
“Yes, we’ll meet you lot there,” Holly answered George’s earlier question.
“We?” asked Lucy and George together.
Holly’s lovely face got a little pinker over her high cheekbones. “Yes, Barnes told me to bring Eloise round next time we ate there, so, you know…”
“But that’s wonderful!” said Lucy, smiling at her friend.
Holly cleared her throat, slightly uncomfortable. “Anyway, I should be off,” she said, and gave Lucy a light hug on her way back to the front door. “See you all at 6:00?”
“Yes, and Barnes said to bring dessert, so that’s you, Hol; you know I can’t bake,” called George. Lucy shot him a look, but Holly just laughed and agreed. The boys called out a chorus of “bye”s along with Lucy’s, and then Lucy bolted the door behind Holly, shutting out the noise and fury of the weather again.
She gathered up her belt, and took George’s from him. “I’ll get them today,” she said, and George smiled at her gratefully before heading upstairs.
Lucy moved into the kitchen, catching Lockwood in the act of filling the kettle with one hand and holding his kit belt dangling from the other.
“No tea!” she insisted to him, taking hold of his kit belt.
Lockwood turned to her, scandalized, his eyes bright with exhaustion over the dark circles that underlined them. “No tea?!” he repeated incredulously.
Slinging his kit belt over her left arm with her own and George’s, Lucy took the kettle out of Lockwood’s hand and set it back into the sink. “No tea,” she confirmed. “No caffeine at all. You really must sleep, Lockwood. I’ll put away the equipment and restock our belts. You go to bed.”
“You need rest as well, Lucy,” protested Lockwood as Lucy placed her hand firmly on his back and began pushing him toward the door. “And food. It’s been a long night.”
“George packed us sandwiches just as he did you and Hol,” Lucy reminded him. “No. More. Excuses. Shower, then bed.”
As if on cue, she heard the bathtub begin filling, and Lockwood turned to her triumphantly. “Use mine,” Lucy said, pushing him toward the stairs. “If you hurry,” she continued as he began to climb the staircase in defeat, “you’ll even get some hot water before George uses it all up in his bubble bath!”
“I heard that!” came the protest from behind the door. Lucy and Lockwood both chuckled, but Lockwood picked up the pace as he went upwards toward Lucy’s bedroom.
“Towels are under the sink!” Lucy shouted up after him and he waved a hand in acknowledgement before Lucy turned away, smiling.
Lucy took the kit belts downstairs and carried them into the store room, laying them on the battered metal desk there. It was kind of peaceful, listening to the pipes bang as the boys ran out the hot water, refilling the pouches and pockets with flares, salt bombs, and lavender water, safe in the basement at Portland Row while the weather raged outside. George had recently instituted a new inventory system. At the end of each shelf hung a clipboard, and Lucy put tally marks next to each equipment category as she took items to refill their kit belts. She re-coiled the chains and hung them in order by weight, and shook out the bits of dried lavender, salt and iron filings into the trash bin.
The pipes stopped their noise, and Lucy made her way upstairs. She had told Lockwood no tea, but she wanted just one cup before settling in herself. She took the kettle Lockwood had filled and plugged it in to heat. She heard Lockwood’s steps coming down the stairs from her room, and steadfastly refused to imagine him in his towel, him in her shower just moments before, the water streaming down… Stop it, Lucy, she told herself firmly.
Lucy put a bag in her mug, and some white sugar, before pouring the steaming water over top. She heard the kitchen door creak open, and could feel Lockwood moving to stand behind her. She’d been trying to block the mug with her body, but with Lockwood’s height, he could look over her shoulder and see it anyway. The rich, sweet scent floated up from her mug. Lucy bit her lip.
“Mmmmm, the double standards are strongly in play I see,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
Lucy picked up her mug and turned to rest against the countertop behind her. Lockwood leaned one hand on the countertop beside her, hair wet and brushed back over his forehead, dressed in only a white undershirt and a pair of joggers. His eyes were dancing with his smile, the one he saved just for her, but they still looked so, so tired. Lucy took a sip, watching Lockwood watching her over the rim of her favorite mug. “Thought you were going to sleep,” she said instead, smiling back.
“I am,” he answered. “It’s… We were on different jobs again tonight, and…I just wanted to spend a few moments with you first.” Lockwood was trying, really trying to be more open with her, but it was still hard for him. Lucy ducked her head, feeling her cheeks get warm.
“No tea, though,” she said. “Would you like some juice instead?” She felt his hand covering hers and looked up. Without dropping her gaze, Lockwood gently removed her mug from her hand, took a long swallow, and then handed it back.
“Juice would be lovely,” he answered, and Lucy turned to get his favorite mug and fill it with some orange juice from the carton. When she handed it back to him, he let his fingers brush over hers again, before moving to sit at the table.
Lucy sat beside him, and they both sipped a few moments in companionable silence.
“So, want to talk about your case?” Lockwood asked as he drained the last of his juice.
“The rawbones? Not over tea or juice,” Lucy admitted, making a face. “You?”
Lockwood shrugged. “The wraith was the primary haunting, like we’d considered. But there was a spectre as well, just a Type 1, that was causing the creeping dread the client reported. We decided to do the wraith first since it was the more obvious threat. Holly did quite well. She’s really gaining back some of the confidence Rotwell crushed out of her. Your friendship, the way you two work well together, it’s good for her, you know?”
Lucy smiled again, basking in his praise. “We didn’t always, you know, but even then, you said we complemented each other, and you were right. You’re a good leader, Lockwood. You see the strengths in all of us and bring them out.”
Lockwood looked obviously pleased, and a little surprised, by Lucy’s praise. She made a mental note to compliment him more often. When she thought about it, she and George didn’t praise him very much, and it obviously was something he craved, like touch.
Tentatively, she let her hand rest on his forearm where it sat between them. “You were careful, though? As careful as one can be?”
Lockwood pulled his arm back a tiny bit and turned his hand over to hold hers. He looked down at where their fingers were interwoven as though fascinated that this had occurred. “As careful as one can be,” he agreed softly, gently running his thumb over the back of her hand. “Were you?”
“Just a rawbones,” Lucy said, her voice oddly shaky. “And George was with me. We were never in any real danger.” Lockwood caught her eye, held her gaze. “Yes,” she said. “We - I - was careful, like we promised each other we would be.”
Lockwood nodded, his eyelids half closed as he dropped his gaze to her lips, and then back down to their interlocked hands. He sighed a little, “Just like we promised,” he agreed.
Lucy stood up, pulling him up as well. “Now,” she said gently, “Please go to bed.” He nodded in agreement, let her lead him out of the kitchen door and up the short staircase to the hall where his and George’s bedrooms were. George’s door was shut, and no noise escaped from within.
Lucy turned to continue up the stairs to her attic bedroom, and Lockwood reluctantly let her hand fall away from his. Then, “Lucy?” he said and she turned back. With her a few steps up, she actually stood taller than him for once. He smiled at her and reached up to coil the white lock of her hair around his finger. “Sleep well,” was all he said.
“You too,” she told him, and watched to make sure he walked all the way to his room before going upstairs to her own.
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Lucy
When Lucy woke up in her comfortable bed in her little attic bedroom hours later, the quality of light was such that she couldn’t quite tell what time it was. This time of year, especially when the weather was poor, it could be any time that wasn’t technically night. Lucy sighed and got out of bed, brushed her teeth and washed her face, and stared dismally at the pile of clothing stacked beside her chair. She glanced over at Skull. He wasn’t showing his face yet, but she could see the telltale flashes that meant he’d be awake soon.
She settled on leggings and a longer t-shirt for now, piled her dirty laundry into a basket, and balanced Skull’s source on top. Luckily he wasn’t awake enough to complain about resting amongst her dirty pants. With her arms full, she carefully negotiated the stairs down from floor to floor, trying to remain quiet in case any of her flatmates were still asleep.
When she got to the floor with the library, she saw a telltale glow pooling in the hall from the doorway. She set her basket down for a moment and poked her head in. George was sitting cross-legged on the floor, several books open on the table in front of him and even more on the couch behind and the floor to either side. He had one of his notebooks open and was scribbling inside it. She watched him for a moment as he glanced from one book to another, flipped forward several pages, and then twisted around to grab a newspaper from the stack. He saw her in the doorway again, and gave a start.
“Lucy! What are you doing lurking in doorways?” he asked peevishly.
“Watching your amazing mind at work,” Lucy teased with a smile, and George blushed a little. “Is Lockwood still sleeping?”
“No,” answered George, “but I was up before him for once, so he must have got some sleep. He’s downstairs, having rapier practice.”
Lucy looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen and then back to George. “How long before we leave for Barnes’?” she asked.
“Lockwood said we can spring for a cab, due to the weather, so not for another hour,” answered George.
“Drat,” answered Lucy. “That’s not enough time to wash and dry any skirts.”
“Serves you right for waiting until the last minute to do your laundry, and getting all snippy with Holly when she offers,” George replied, but his attention was already back on his research.
“Well, you’re in a mood,” Lucy huffed, turning to recover her basket of unmentionables.
“Sorry, Luce,” George called back. “I’m just hungry and you know how I get when I’m hungry.”
“Eat an apple, then,” Lucy called back over her shoulder as she walked away, but she was smiling.
Sure enough, as she headed through the kitchen with her basket, pausing to put Skull on the table, Lucy could hear the shuffling and whishing sounds of feet sliding on the basement floor and a rapier cutting through the air. After Floating Joe and Esmeralda had been lost in the line of duty during Winkman’s attack the previous Autumn, the agents had been left without training dummies. Finally they’d worked together to create new ones out of some of George’s old clothing and a few choice pieces that Holly and Eloise had picked up in the thrift shops. Their new dummies had been christened Archibald and Beatrice. Archibald had an old newsboy cap on his stuffed head, and Beatrice wore a ragged bonnet, but it was good to see them gently swaying again as Lucy made her way down the spiral staircase, the metal steps unusually silent under her bare feet.
Lockwood stood with his rapier forward, side front to the dummies, with one hand held back elegantly for balance. His hair was wet at the temples with sweat, and there were damp patches on the back of his white button shirt. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, as he often did when not wearing a jacket, and no tie.
Lucy walked past to the laundry area and set down her basket, watching him lunge forward and impale Archibald somewhere near where his kidneys would be in real life, and then gracefully spin his sword around to stab behind himself at Beatrice. She smiled and turned to begin sorting through clothing to put in this load and what to save for the next. As she bent over the basket, Lockwood completed his spin and noticed Lucy. He must have been startled, because he didn’t react until Archibald’s swinging form came back to bump into his head from behind.
He stumbled forward a step, cursed quietly, and then said, “Morning, Luce. Sleep well?”
She looked over to see him steadying the swinging dummies with one hand, and holding the rapier at rest with the other, smiling widely at her. “Well enough, I’d say, by the lateness of the hour. You?”
“Fairly well, actually,” Lockwood admitted. “Perhaps you were right about the tea.”
“Mmmm,” Lucy agreed, turning the dials and starting the washer. When she turned back, Lockwood was still gazing at her, smiling. It made her feel a little self-conscious, and she tugged the hem of her shirt down to make sure it covered the top of her leggings. “George says we’re taking a cab to Barnes?” she said, to make conversation, “And we need to leave in an hour?”
“Ah, yes; guess I’d better go clean up,” said Lockwood, but he waited for Lucy to pass him and start up the stairs before following behind her.
In the kitchen, he rested the back of his hand against the kettle. “Still warm enough, probably,” he said, but Lucy shook her head.
“I’ll heat it up again. If you’re quick, your cup will still be hot when you get back down here,” she urged.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lockwood said with a wink, and disappeared through the kitchen door.
Interesting outfit choice, Lucy suddenly heard, and turned to see the ghost of a rangy youth appearing to lean against the countertop. Boy couldn’t take his eyes off you. Bit embarrassing, really.
“Oh, leave him alone,” Lucy said, refusing to blush. “You’re always so critical. Anyways, if you must know, I haven’t got any clean skirts.”
The ghost quirked an eyebrow. That’s surprising to absolutely no one, considering how long you let the laundry build up. I’m surprised you can even find the top of the stairs sometimes.
“You know, George and Lockwood both have said I ought to put your source back into a silver glass jar. Then whenever you got too foul, we could just close the valve again.” Lucy retorted.
The ghost’s expression darkened, and even Lucy felt nervous enough to take a half step back. As though you could contain me, now I’ve been free, he said. I’ve only grown more powerful in the years since my demise. He seemed to notice Lucy’s discomfort and broke eye contact, taking once again an air of unconcern. Shows the gratitude I get from the living, even after saving your life and the life of that prat Lockwood.
Lucy swallowed, and turned back to heat the kettle again, taking a couple of packets of tea out of the box. “Did I ever thank you for that?” she asked the Skull’s ghost. It was easier to say these things when she wasn’t looking at him.
As a matter of fact, you haven’t, he answered, and when she ventured a look over her shoulder, she could see that he had stopped appearing either angry or aloof. He was peering back at her with interest, and the openness of his face made him appear younger. Lucy wondered how old he’d been when he died, and what his life had been like to cause him to become Bickerstaff’s acolyte and meet his end in a sewer. He must not have, she assumed, had many people who cared for him in his life, and she had a sudden and irrational desire to offer him tea.
She turned to face him completely, and took a step toward him, locking eyes with his apparition. “Thank you,” she said earnestly and simply. “Thank you for saving us both.” The ghost looked back at her for a moment, surprise and something deeper flashing across his face for a moment before he faded away.
What a convenient way to avoid uncomfortable situations, Lucy thought idly. It would certainly be something she’d have liked to have been able to do, from time to time.