Work Text:
Someone’s screaming off in the distance. Lucy’s not sure who it is, but she has a vague sense that she has to save them. She sets off running, but she doesn’t move, the world around her frozen, cold, still, and eerily silent, except for that scream. Where is it coming from? Her stomach twists into knots, her chest rising and falling, the feeling of creeping dread prickling at the back of her neck. Miasma? Where is Lockwood? She turns and comes face to face with her own ghost, who reaches for her, long fingers outstretched –
The door to the attic bursts open and Lockwood comes rushing up the stairs, face white, hair disheveled, the gray in his bangs visible from the ghost lamp’s light pouring into the room.
“Lockwood,” she gasps, sitting up in bed, startled. Her throat feels sore.
He walks over to her bed, kneels down so his face is level with hers, and puts a warm hand on her cheek, frowning.
“Luce,” he whispers, “You were screaming.” She swallows and nods, her eyes meeting his. “Okay,” Lockwood says. “Okay.” He walks to the other side of her bed, lifts the quilt, and climbs in.
It’s been four months since they went to the Other Side.
She can’t pinpoint how it all started - who had the first nightmare, how the other had known, how they started to talk to each other without speaking. All she knows is that they wake up like this more often than not - tangled limbs, knotted sheets and quilts, and unspoken words heavy on their tongues. And like usual, Lockwood is usually the first to break the spell, just when Lucy thinks she’s found the right words and put them in the right order to try to get him to talk about it.
Holly makes them take it easy on cases, still. And well, once Fittes got their hands into things, they didn’t have much of a choice, either. They both hate it, this sense of restlessness, and Lucy often finds Lockwood pacing in the library or cooking to keep busy, to George’s general annoyance. Lucy’s read most of the pulp thrillers on the bookshelves at this point, doodled across several Thinking Cloths, anything, anything to keep her mind from wandering to that frozen tundra. But still, the nightmares come for them both, and when they do, they wake up in the morning like this.
Lockwood’s still asleep, which is surprising, because he usually wakes up first and finds a way to look somewhat put together, while she frets about her morning breath. Lucy looks at him - he’s facing her, his breathing slow and steady, his face smooth and calm. The late summer sunlight streams in through her little attic window, even though it’s still early, his dark hair becoming burnt caramel colored in the rays of the sun. Stubbornly the gray persists though, just like the white flecks in her own hair, a constant reminder that they’ve been marked by death. He’s in his striped pajamas, his chest rising up and down, and she’ll never tire of this sight, Lockwood. Alive.
His eyes flutter open. He reaches out, and touches a white strand of her hair, as his eyes become soft and sad. He tucks the white lock behind her ear, letting the back of his nails drag down her cheek and against Lucy’s jaw. Sighing, he looks at her, then blinks rapidly, and the sad look is gone. He smiles a small smile.
“Morning, Luce.” And it goes like this. These small moments, gone in a flash. He yawns a little, another thing she rarely sees Lockwood do, these simple little human things that he’s hidden away. “Sleep well?”
She scoffs, “You know damn well I didn’t.”
And then he laughs, a genuine one, “I meant after I joined? Just can’t sleep without me anymore, it seems.”
She rolls her eyes at him and shoves him a little, “Yeah, if you hadn’t kept kicking me.”
“Bold statement from a girl who steals the blankets. I woke up freezing in the middle of the night,” and the laughter fades from his words, because they both know it’s not true. She woke up with him shaking beside her from his own nightmare, and when she looks at him, his eyes betray the truth. Even if he’ll never admit it aloud, he knows she knows. She aches for him to speak it into plain existence, but this thing between them and its intensity sometimes terrifies her.
He throws the quilt away from his body and leaps out of bed, “Shall we see what George has made for breakfast?” He stretches, his arms over his head, his pajama shirt rising up, and she sees the pale, smooth skin of his stomach, lightly dusted with dark hair. Blushing, she looks away.
“Doubt he’s up yet, Lockwood.”
“Who wouldn’t be? Fine day like this.” He grabs his robe from her chair, tosses it at her, and says seriously, “Up and at ‘em, Luce. We have to keep moving.”
He moves quickly down the stairs, and she knows he’s going back to his room to get himself in order before everyone else wakes up and Holly comes by with donuts to review their upcoming cases. She’s thankful for the normalcy of her life still, but she worries any moment now, they’ll both come crashing down.
“Y’know, Lockwood and you. Closer to death than you’ve ever been. He seems happy about it, doesn’t he?”
“Shut up, Skull,” she says and throws Lockwood’s robe over his glass. She sighs, worrying that the Skull’s right.
By the time Lucy’s showered and dressed, Holly is there with donuts, George is making bacon and eggs, and Lockwood is reading the paper at the kitchen table, left leg bouncing over his right knee.
“Lucy, hi!” Holly says, and Lucy smiles back at her. More than ever, she’s thankful that Holly is determinedly steadfast in clinging to routine and normalcy. “Sleep well, I presume?”
She glances at Lockwood, his left leg stills. She knows Holly means well, is trying to keep up the charade. She drops into the chair next to Lockwood, “Uh huh.”
“Any cases?” George asks from the stove, “Or is Fittes still trying to fuck us?”
“George!” Holly reprimands.
“C’mon, Hol, y’know it’s true! How’s that case book looking then?”
Holly sighs, “Well, I can’t say it’s great.”
“See? I don’t know why we keep pretending that we aren’t getting frozen out–”
“We’ll find some cases,'' Lockwood says, confident as ever, “like we always do. And meanwhile, we’ll figure out what the hell is going on with Penelope being Marissa as the Skull claims.”
And so the day passes slowly, but still too fast. Lockwood practices with Joe and Esmeralda. Holly makes calls. George does research. Lucy cleans out Jessica's room.
At one point, Holly finds her. She leans against the door, and Lucy knows that look - Holly wants to say something, and she will, she’s just figuring out the best words.
“Out with it, Holly,” Lucy says.
Holly sighs, walks over, and sits down next to Lucy. “I can buy you makeup.”
Out of all the things Lucy is expecting, it wasn’t this. “Um, Holly, thank you, but um–”
“No, sorry! I just meant. If you’re going to lie about how you’re sleeping, you’re going to need a way to cover up those dark circles under your eyes,” Before Lucy can protest, she adds, “Lockwood too. George and Kipps have both been talking about it,” she says. “And well, I try to lie for you two, Luce, but…”
“It’s –” she starts to say, but Lucy finds she can’t really talk about it. So much for Lockwood being the only one who is emotionally stunted.
Holly puts a comforting arm around her. “I’ll find you something that’ll match your skin, Lucy. I promise.”
She pauses, debating something, then says in a small voice, “When my team at Rotwell, well,” she swallows, and Lucy knows. Of course, she does. She pats Holly's knee. “Well, I wasn't sleeping. And I know that doesn’t compare to what you and Lockwood went through, but I also, well I thought a lot about what it would be like to die. What it must have been like for…” she trails off.
A long time passes, before Holly says, “I spent a lot of my days in like a fog. I think that’s the best way to describe it. My brain felt slow, sluggish, detached, and I had no motivation to do anything.” She looks at Lucy, and Lucy wants to look away. She can’t handle the pity in Holly's eyes right now. “I didn't shower for a week.”
Lucy lets out a laugh, she can’t help it. Holly gives her a squeeze. “I thought you would enjoy that part,” she says, then stands, her hand on Jessica's doorway. “Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you both have each other,” she says, then leaves, her sweet-smelling perfume lingering in her wake. Lucy looks around the room, her mind everywhere and nowhere at once.
An image of Lockwood's face, hollow and dead, floats to her mind. Her eyes go to the bed, the echoes of Jessica's death reverberating in her ears.
Tonight, she’s kept her light on, and determined not to have another nightmare, she’s rereading one of the pulp mystery novels from the library. Sure, she won’t get any sleep if she keeps up like this, but at least she’ll be thinking about death the normal amount rather than someone who’s gone to the Other Side.
She's about halfway through her trashy novel, but really, none of the words are hitting her. She thinks of Norrie, of Jessica, of Lockwood's parents, of the haunted look she sees in his eyes when he wakes from a nightmare.
“Thinking about death, are we now? ”
“No, this book,” she points at it, “it’s really interesting.”
“So engrossed, you haven’t flipped a page in an hour?”
God, she really does hate the Skull sometimes. Lockwood must have stolen up into the attic and grabbed his robe, because the Skull’s evil little face is grinning at her, waggling his eyebrows.
“Death isn’t all bad news, y’know. Especially if you ditch that doldrum and kick it with me.”
“Yeah, why didn’t you cross over then?” She asks. “Scared?”
“Well, you’re lucky you have me here, huh? No way you’d have lasted this long without me.”
She hurls her book at him. The stupid, terrified bastard. She’s not going to talk to a skull about death. She looks over at her clock on the nightside. 1:53 am. A full night to go.
Sighing, she creeps down the stairs, walks to the kitchen, and flicks on the lights. She pours herself a glass of water, then tiptoes to the library. The lights are on, and Lockwood's in his favorite armchair, reading a gossip magazine.
He turns as she walks in, plopping down on her favorite couch. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.
He smiles at her, “We’re pretty hopeless, aren’t we?”
“Speak for yourself, Lockwood, I’m getting along just fine. In fact, I was in a nice, happy little dream before the Skull woke me up.”
He laughs, “The Skull just can’t let you have anything nice, can it?”
“No, he’s a right ol’ bastard,” she clears her throat, “Anything interesting?”
“Oh, the usual,” he sighs, closes the magazine, and tosses it haphazardly on the coffee table, his voice becoming serious. “The truth is, you’re right, Luce. I couldn't sleep. And the usual culprits aren’t working. Y’know before this, I was at it for bloody hours in the basement.”
“I assume tomorrow you’re going to try and teach me whatever new fancy move you were practicing?”
“Naturally.”
“Well, shit.”
He turns and looks at her, his eyes serious, and she feels the mood in the air shift. She both craves this, when they choose not to ignore it, but she hates it too, and like him, she tries to run from it. The joking, the laughter, how easy and amazing it is to see him throw his head back and truly laugh and know it’s because of her, that’s always easier. And she knows they both need that too.
“Lockwood,” she says warningly, as he walks over to her, his hand extended, palm up, an offer.
“Luce.”
And how can she deny him when he’s like this, his dark eyes pleading? She knows what he’s asking, and he’s right. She stands, puts her hand in his, and follows him to his room.
“Holly talk to you?” she asks.
He sighs, “I assume she offered you makeup too?”
“Of course. Though if Kipps found out you were using some, you’d never live it down.”
“I’d willingly run to the Other Side before I’d wear makeup in front of Kipps.”
He says it to make her laugh, she knows, but she doesn’t, because she worries about this with him sometimes.
“Lockwood,” she whispers, as he walks over to his bed and pulls the quilt and sheets back for both of them. He climbs in, but she hesitates.
“Don’t worry, Luce. I showered after the basement. I don't smell.”
“You’re changing the subject. Don’t do that.”
“Fine. But just,” he runs a hand through his hair, annoyed, “Come here.”
She walks over to his bed, looking at him, as she does so, his face bathed in the moonlight filtering through his curtains, the light striking his cheekbones and his jaw. She hates that she naturally charts his cuts, bruises, and scars and makes a mental catalog of them in her mind.
She slips into his bed and turns towards him. “Lockwood,” she whispers.
He inhales deeply through his nose, and closes his eyes as he exhales from his mouth, his breath ghosting across her face. “I know, I won't joke about it.”
“You always promise me that and then never actually do it, you prick.”
“Luce, you know why.”
She reaches out, and puts her palm on his chest, where she can feel his heartbeat against his warm skin. She closes her eyes, breathes deep, the scent of his soap - woody and fresh - filling her nose. They’re alive.
She wakes to Lockwood thrashing against her. She glances at the clock - 3:57 am.
She wraps her arms around him, and he stills, as she slips her hands under his pajama top, touching the skin of his back, where he’s broken out in a cold sweat. His eyes flash open, confused, then settle on her face, and she feels him ease into her, though his breathing remains fast and shallow.
“When I first came to London,” she starts to say, because she knows this works best, to talk about anything else, as he pulls himself away from his nightmare, “And tried to find 35 Portland Row, y’know why I turned up as your last candidate?”
He slowly shakes his head against her chest.
“I got lost. I was aiming to be the first person there, because I was so desperate. I couldn't risk you hiring someone else, but I got so lost trying to take the tube and buses, and then I had to call a cab anyway after I headed in the wrong direction and paid through the nose, since the driver had to retrace basically all of my steps.”
She runs her nails against his spine, and he shivers into her. “Not that hard to find,” he mumbles into her chest.
“Well, as you like to point out when you joke about me not reading the papers, I come from a tiny Northern town,” she says.
“Yeah, swear like it too.”
“A fact that you and Holly never let me forget.”
“Remember the first time you really cursed in front of her?” Lockwood asks, chuckling. And she can feel it against her body, relieved that she’s pulled him back to her.
“I felt kind of bad.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“No, I guess, I didn't.”
She takes her hands out from under his shirt, runs them through his hair, her nails lightly brushing against his scalp. He sighs deeply, his breathing fully normal again. He slips a hand under her shirt, his fingers playing with her hip. The first time he had done it, she had wanted to wriggle away, wondering what he’d be thinking of the roundness of her stomach, the flesh on her hips, compared to his slim profile, but now she focuses on the warmth of his hand, the splay of his fingers.
“You had died, Luce.” Her breath catches, as he continues, “Usually, it’s about Jessica or my parents, and them being stuck. Not being able to move on like the Skull, and calling for me to help, to fix it. Or Jessica telling me that she’d be here, alive, if I had just helped, or sometimes it’s me, with them. And–” he swallows, thickly, “And those aren’t always nightmares, Luce.”
His fingers ghost her ribcage, slip around her side, skimming the edge of her bra line, and her body shivers into him, while her heart breaks. She wants to scream, but instead she feels like she might cry. She opens her mouth to say something or maybe to shout at him, that he can’t leave without her, but he says, “I know.” He sighs, “I know.”
“Lockwood,” she chokes out. His hand is holding her shoulder, his fingers toying with her bra strap, as he works his way to her collarbone. He takes his head off her chest, shimmies up and puts his head back on his pillow, and looks her in the eyes.
“You died. And when,” he looks down, “I tried to join you, tried to walk to the Other Side. But I couldn't. It wouldn’t let me through. And then, your ghost, she came back. And of course, I couldn’t hear you, I could just see you, and you were so angry at me, and I just,” he swallows, continues, looking at her again, “I couldn’t die, Luce. I kept trying, but I couldn't die.”
Of course. Of course, that would be his nightmare. She reaches out and unbuttons his pajama top, fingers trembling, because this has never happened before.
“Lucy,” he says, firmly.
“Lockwood,” She says, just as determined and forcefully back.
When she reaches the last button, he sits up a little to shrug it off, and in this moment, when he’s distracted, she lifts her own shirt up, and tosses it aside. Realizing what she’s done, he looks at her, takes her in, and the ghost lamp turns on, sending more light into the room.
She takes in the moles on his shoulders, a scar that dots his side, the rise and fall of his chest, and how, as he looks at her, and mumbles a soft “oh,” his stomach clenches so that she can see the muscles there. He’s so beautiful, this boy living and breathing in front of her.
She reaches out, grabs his hand, and puts it on her chest. “You can feel that, right? I'm here, Lockwood. Alive.”
He looks at his hand, almost as if it’s not real, then nods at her. “Plus,” she says, “I at least am determined not to die, so clearly dream you has no idea how stubborn I am. And we both know that with you telling me you’d die for me all the time, if anyone was going to die first, it’d be you, so… even if I tried to die, you’d find a way to beat me to it.”
“For once in my life,” he says.
She grabs ahold of his face. “Promise me, no matter what your nightmares tell you, neither of us is dying, okay?”
“Hard not to think about though.”
She knows this is what his mind cycles through when he gets into his moods, but hearing it out loud nearly breaks her.
“Guess I gotta be Lockwood then,” she says.
He looks at her, surprised. “What?”
“Well, you’re always pushing us on when it matters most. You did it for me on the Other Side, so now I’m pulling a Lockwood and doing it to you. Let's talk about death.”
“You’re a really bad Lockwood.”
“Maybe my methods are just better,” he tries to interrupt, but she barrels on. “I don't think death has to be like that, Lockwood. And I think you know that. I think for your parents, for your sister, and for you and me, we’ll have done what we needed to do on Earth. And we’ll know that our loved ones are safe and strong and that we can pass on, peacefully. We’re not the Skull, we’re not cowards.”
“You’re right,” he sighs.
“Now your turn, no avoiding.”
“Death? It’s nothingness. A void.”
“Maybe, but maybe not,” she hears herself say, but deep down she thinks he’s probably right. “No one really knows, do they? So maybe it’s something better. Maybe there’s pearly white gates and everything.”
"Lucy.”
“Look, you say this stuff all the time, it’s about believing, daring for a better future, so why should this be any different?”
He smiles a small smile at her, looks down at his palm still on her chest, clears his throat, and moves it up to cup her cheek.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “Some things are worth believing in.” He tucks the strand of white hair behind her ear, and rests his forehead against hers.
She sighs deeply, breathing him in. She doesn’t know what the future holds, and she still can’t get the Hollow Boy ghost out of her mind, and it scares her that might be his fate all too soon, but he’s here in front of her, and in this moment, they’re alive together.
All credit goes to the wonderful genniearts!