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The case had been bad. Lucy kept trying to tell herself it had merely been messy, but it had been a bit more than that. Even the most experienced agents didn’t like things dropping on them out of the ceiling, and while it had been a far cry from the red room at Combe Carey, prying a source out of the ceiling while it dripped ectoplasm all over the floor below was hardly a picnic. Especially when the source was a body.
Lockwood had done most of the heavy lifting, purely because his arms were longest. With the use of a stepladder, he’d been able to stay largely clear of the ectoplasmic drips while he cracked a hole in the ceiling with a crowbar, but that had all gone to pieces when the body had slipped clear and knocked over the ladder. After a short period of chaos, the source was contained, no one had been badly injured, and their clothes had all been smoking heavily, spattered thickly with ectoplasm. It was frankly a miracle none of it had touched their skin, but Lucy had dived in to rescue Lockwood when the ladder had toppled, and had taken a thick splash of the stuff in her hair.
Which was why she was now standing in front of the downstairs bathroom mirror, craning her neck and holding a pair of scissors.
The thing was, ectoplasm bleached hair. It was a hell of a lot better than getting ghost-touched, but it wasn't exactly a fetching look, and it didn’t wash out. She could just deal with it in the morning, but every time she closed her eyes for too long she was faced with the image of Lockwood sprawled flat on his back, legs tangled with the fallen stepladder, trying unsuccessfully to scramble out of the way as smoking drops of plasm rained down around him. He’d been fine, they all had been, but this was the way it went sometimes after cases. Lucy was well aware of how little sleep she’d be getting tonight if she bothered going to bed.
She needed a haircut anyway, may as well do it now. It had gotten quite a bit longer than she liked it these days, and the ends had gone somewhat ragged. She’d been maintaining her fringe, that was easy enough, but Lucy wasn’t actually sure how to cut her own hair–it wasn’t as if she’d grown up getting it done at salons, but her mother used to cut it. And then she and Norrie had cut each others’ hair when it needed a trim. Norrie had been good at it. Lucy had been…passable. And now she just wasn't sure how to get it straight across the back, not with how she’d have to twist to reach behind herself. She could have asked Holly for help, but by now Holly had gone home, and although they got along perfectly well these days, Lucy wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear Holly’s helpful advice on her split ends. There really wasn't anything for it, she’d just have to give it a try and hope she didn't muck it up too badly. Better than having a massive bleached spot splashed across the back.
She was surprised by a quiet knock at the doorway. Lucy had left the door open, but it was nearly three in the morning–she’d expected the others to have gone to sleep by now. Although to be entirely fair, Lockwood looked like he had been asleep, barefoot and in pajamas. His hair was tousled, and he leaned against the doorway as though not yet fully dedicated to the whole standing upright thing.
“Alright, Luce?” He still sounded half-asleep, too.
“Sorry, do you need the loo? I can do this later.” Lucy put the scissors down on the sink, but Lockwood shook his head, yawning.
“I was going to get some water and saw the light. Do you want a hand?” He gestured to her hair. “I assume you’re cutting that bit?”
“If I can figure out how to start.” Lucy grumbled, earning her a tired grin from Lockwood.
“I can do it. Here, the angle’s–since I’m taller–can you hop up on the counter maybe?”
Too surprised by the offer–and too stumped by trying to do it herself–to turn him down, Lucy turned, hoisting herself up onto the counter and then turning so that her back faced Lockwood. He took the comb and scissors off the counter next to her and got to work trying to get her hair to lay flat so he could cut it evenly across. It was at this point Lucy realized she’d made a mistake, because–sure, they lived together. They’d evaded death together. They’d–sort of–talked about what they meant to each other. Lockwood had given her his mother’s necklace. Sometimes they even battled for space at the sink while brushing their teeth late at night after a case. But this was…different. It was a kind of intimate Lucy hadn’t anticipated, because–well, getting a haircut from her mother had always left her ears red and her scalp feeling raw from the scrape of the comb. Norrie had been quick and sure with the scissors, keeping up a stream of commentary that usually had Lucy laughing, making Norrie scold her to hold still. But then, Norrie had cut everyone’s hair at Jacobs’, one after another. And Lucy’s mother had always lined her and her sisters up like a firing squad and finished the whole lot of them in less than half an hour.
It was just Lockwood and Lucy here, no running commentary, no line of people waiting. Just the sound of the comb in Lucy’s hair, Lockwood’s quiet apologies when he hit snags–unavoidable, with the number of split ends–and the soft sound of the tap dripping in the tub. Lucy had her back to Lockwood, but she was sort of facing the mirror, and could see him in the reflection. He didn't look remotely awake, but he seemed to know what he was doing, and wet the comb under the tap to slightly weigh down the waves in Lucy’s hair.
It occurred to Lucy that she rarely saw Lockwood this relaxed. Living together as they all did, it’s not as though she hadn't seen him nod off in the library or anything, it’s just that he never really let himself stay drowsy. If he was awake, he was alert, always just a bit on guard. He certainly didn’t seem on guard now, frowning slightly with concentration as he worked and leaning his hip against the sink near where Lucy sat. Lucy could hear the scissors now, the decisive snik of hair being cut, and tried to keep still.
“I didn't really figure you’d be one for home haircuts.” She said, trying not to break the quiet moment with her voice. He glanced up and gave her a small smile in the mirror.
“C’mon Luce, you figure I’ve never gotten plasm in my hair? George’s is the worst, it gets so deep into the curls.” He turned his attention back to her hair, working steadily in silence for a few moments. She was surprised when he kept talking, and stayed very still. “When you inherit a house as young as I did, you–you have money, technically, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into being able to buy things like groceries and haircuts. It’s all tied up in the house. I figured out how to cut my own hair pretty young.”
Lucy took a moment to process that–both what he had said, and the fact that he’d volunteered it at all. “I would have thought…what do you mean groceries ? Didn’t your parents leave you with enough to get by? I mean–you have a massive house, I assumed...”
Lockwood’s smile was still unguarded, but it was a little distant now. “Well I wasn’t about to sell Portland Row, but…Jessica had to take out a second mortgage after my parents died, just to free up enough money for us to manage. My parents had a lot riding on that lecture they were going to give, and the grant money they’d been funding their research with wasn't exactly a usable source of spending money for a pair of kids–especially since it had nearly run out when they died. I actually took out another mortgage myself when I started the agency, but when I was a kid that mortgage of Jessica’s mostly just meant more bills to pay, or I’d lose the house. There was a reason I got a job so soon after she died. My uncle helped at first, but–I’ve told you what happened to him. I needed a source of income pretty badly, and I was cutting corners wherever I could. My first few home haircuts were…well, let’s be generous and call them creative. Anyway they weren't very good. I got better, eventually. I still cut it myself, but it’s hard to get the back straight.”
For Lockwood, it was a frankly shocking amount of information about his past. Lucy was hesitant to ask more, but he was still steadily working on her hair, the comb moving more smoothly now that he’d removed most of the split ends, although he still went slowly.
“So, your job with Sykes…paid that well?”
Lockwood gave her a slightly wry look in the mirror.
“Not quite. I could just about cover the official bills–at least enough to keep from defaulting on any of them, but why d’you think I always leave so much money in the tip jar at Arif’s? He still sends over food he knows I’ll eat, if it’s near the expiry date. That’s why we get the doughnuts he doesn’t sell by the end of the day.”
He didn’t come right out and say it, but Lucy’s stomach twisted at what Lockwood had just implied. It was a wonder he’d gotten so tall, living off the local grocer’s charity for as long as he apparently had. She made a mental note to start leaving her own money in Arif’s tip jar. Knowing Lockwood, he must have been in pretty bad need if he’d accepted the help at all, and suddenly his preoccupation with their bills made a lot more sense. Lucy had assumed, based on the size and comfort of Portland Row, that Lockwood had grown up comfortable–at least financially. Or at least certain where his meals were coming from. Now, she suspected she knew why he was so stubbornly determined to do the house maintenance himself rather than calling anyone. She wondered how long he’d been fighting with the quietly dripping tap in the tub. He’d built up the habit of saving his money to pay what Lucy’s mom had called ‘bills with a sting to them’ –utilities that would get shut off, a mortgage that could lose him the house– and that meant the things he’d needed to actually live had come last. The image of him as a kid, lanky and awkward with it, coming home from a job, sitting alone in his too-big house, paying the mortgage diligently and eating bags of expired crisps for dinner, was both a little too vivid and a little too awful for Lucy to contemplate for long–partly because she could imagine it so easily and partly because she could relate. Her mother had kept them fed, but it had been a catch-all, and a far cry from George’s nightly home-cooked meals. Lucy made a mental note to buy George biscuits next time she had the chance.
“Thanks.” She said quietly. She meant for telling her, for trusting her with what he’d just revealed, but in true Lockwood style he just gave her a slightly crooked smile and deflected.
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m still not sure I’ve got this straight across the back. I didn't realize your hair had this much curl to it, Luce, am I the only one with straight hair around here?”
“In the middle of a London summer? Yeah, you are. Even Holly’s has a little wave to it at the moment.”
Lockwood huffed a laugh, and there were a few long moments of silence where the only sound was the soft snipping of the scissors. “Alright, I think I’m done with this bit. D’you want me to do the front, too?”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” The offer stayed hanging in the air between them for a few seconds, then Lucy turned so she was facing Lockwood, still seated firmly on the counter.
“George is going to kill us when he sees the state of the sink tomorrow.” She said.
“Maybe just one of us.”
“Yeah, but which one?”
“Probably me. It’s obviously your hair, but there’s more stairs to your room.”
Sitting on the counter like this, Lucy was slightly taller than Lockwood. He’d stepped back to let her turn around, but now he moved closer, and it was strange to be looking down at him from this angle.
“We could always clean it, I suppose.” Lucy didn’t really believe they would, but she felt like she should say it.
“You know perfectly well we’re not going to do that. It’s too late for cleaning.”
“Then I say we blame Holly.”
Lockwood snorted. “Foolproof. Here, bend down a little.”
Lucy ducked her head, and Lockwood ran the comb gently through her fringe, the movements of the scissors careful as he began to cut. What little distance he’d been maintaining between them vanished as he focused on the task, and Lucy shivered as she realized he was now standing between her knees, his pajamaed hip brushing slightly against her thigh. With anyone else, it would have been unsettling. But this was Lockwood, gentlemanly to a fault, and Lucy trusted him with a good deal more than a haircut. All the same, she thought it was best to think about something else.
“Lockwood?”
“Hm.”
“Did you always want to be an agent?”
The scissors stilled for a moment, then resumed.
“Not when I was little. I think I always assumed I would be an agent, but that's a different thing. Ever since my parents died, at least. Jessica didn't have much Talent, and it turned out I did…and well, we needed the money.”
“Well, what did you want to be when you were little?”
Lockwood’s smile was difficult to read, especially this close up and at this angle. There was genuine wry humor there, though.
“A ghost.”
“ What? ”
“Stay still, I don’t want to mess this up.” Lockwood swept the comb through Lucy’s hair again, carefully. It was true, she’d jerked her head back to look at him. She hoped she didn't have a massive crooked spot in her fringe now.
“Fine, but–Lockwood, what do you mean you wanted to be a ghost ?”
Lockwood shrugged. “I was little, Luce. There isn’t really much to explain. My parents studied ghosts, and I didn't really get what that meant at the time, just that they’d go away on trips to see ghosts, and everyone talked about ghosts all the time, and I thought I’d quite like to be one. It was typical little kid stuff.”
Lucy doubted that. She’d never met anyone who wanted to be a ghost, not even as a little kid. It did give her a picture of a tiny Lockwood, though, chasing after his parents’ attention, wanting to be in the middle of everything. That at least, hadn’t changed, even if his stance on ghosts rather had.
“How about you, what did you want to be?”
“Anything but an agent. But I always figured I’d end up one too. It paid well, and–my mom didn’t give me a lot of choice.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded it, too. Lockwood never sounded as sad talking about his own past as he did when Lucy mentioned hers. “It should’ve been your decision.”
“Worked out ok in the end. Wouldn’t have ended up here otherwise, would I?” Lucy let out a long breath. “I’m a hundred times better off in London with you than I would have been working as a shop girl or something there.”
Lockwood put the scissors down. “I don’t believe for a second that you needed us to end up extraordinary, Luce. Shop girl or no, you would have figured it out.”
There was something soft in his eyes, and he was very close to her. His hair was still rumpled from sleep, and she pushed a bit of it off his forehead, warmed by his confidence in her.
“Glad I didn’t have to, though.”
“Me too.”
Before she could think better of it, she reached for him, pulling him into a hug. He folded himself against her, fully between her knees now, and she rested her cheek on the top of his head. His hair was soft, and she could smell his shampoo, something vaguely spicy, and the hint of magnesium all of them carried after a job, no matter how long their showers were. She marvelled a bit at hugging him from this height–hugging him at all, really, it was all somewhat new–and the easy way he leaned into her, the way they fit together like puzzle pieces. For a long time they simply stayed like that, breathing together to the tempo of the dripping faucet, until Lucy thought they might both fall asleep.
“You never answered my question.” Lockwood eventually said, without pulling back. His voice was a mumble, Lucy thought he might actually be half-asleep.
“Which one?”
“What you wanted to be when you were little. You got my ridiculous answer, what’s yours?”
Lucy flushed. “I wanted to be queen.”
She felt Lockwood’s laugh against her chest. “What, of England?”
“No, just generally. Everyone always talked about wanting to be a princess, but I thought princesses were boring, I thought they’d get bossed around. So I wanted to be queen.”
“Makes sense.” Lockwood finally drew back, although he left his hands looped behind Lucy’s back. He was grinning, his expression painfully fond. “This also explains a lot about how well you take directions.”
Lucy rolled her eyes, although she couldn’t help but match his smile. “Use that against me, and I will find a creative way to embarrass you in front of Kipps.”
“Fair enough.” Lockwood pulled fully away from her, but only to stifle an enormous yawn. “Sorry.”
“Thanks for cutting my hair.”
“No problem.”
“Next time I won’t do it at three in the morning.”
“Yes you will.” Lockwood looked sleepily at the hair trimmings on the floor, and kicked some of them vaguely into the corner with his foot. “We’ll…deal with that tomorrow.”
“Go back to bed, Lockwood, you look like you’re about to fall asleep standing.” It was catching, too. Lucy caught herself stifling a yawn. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Or the afternoon.”
“Probably that one.”
Lockwood shuffled towards the door, and lingered awkwardly on the threshold for a moment. “Y’know, if you…didn’t want to climb all those stairs…”
Lucy blinked at him, startled by the apparent offer. “D’you mean–?”
“Well, when George comes to kill me for the hair clippings in the morning, I’d quite like to be able to blame you.”
“Oh, so it’s a defensive strategy.”
“...Only a little.” He held out his hand, and Lucy only hesitated for a moment before pushing off the counter and going to him.
In a way, it helped that they were both already half-asleep. Lucy was fairly sure if she thought too hard about it, the idea of sharing Lockwood’s bed would have had her much too wound up and anxious to actually get any sleep. Instead she just felt warm. The blankets and the pillows smelled faintly like him, still rumpled from where he’d already been asleep, and after their hug in the bathroom she felt a great deal less shy curling up against his side, his arm looped around her. His room was a lot brighter than hers, closer to the ghost light on the sidewalk below, and for a while they just lay curled together in silence. She thought he’d already fallen asleep when he spoke.
“Thanks for the rescue tonight, Luce. Don’t think I ever said it.”
“It’s what we do, isn’t it?”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. Suppose it is. All the same.” She thought she could feel his lips brush the crown of her head, but it was too soft to tell for sure.
“Night, Luce.”
“Night, Lockwood.”
She dropped off much faster than she expected to, reassured by the feeling of Lockwood beside her, and for the first time she could remember in years, Lucy didn’t dream at all.