Chapter Text
Five
“Lucy!” George heard Lockwood gasp from where he and Holly were dancing just a few feet away. “Lucy! We haven’t crossed the threshold!”
George watched Lucy pick her head up from where it had been resting on Lockwood’s chest, the two of them swaying together slowly beneath the fairy lights Holly had painstakingly hung across the back garden last week. Lucy looked up at Lockwood and smiled at him, both indulgently and as though Lockwood was the biggest idiot she’d ever met. It was a smile only Lucy could pull off, and she always saved it for Lockwood alone. “Anthony, what are you talking about?”
“The threshold!” Lockwood said; he sounded nearly agitated. Lockwood and Lucy had both consumed enough champagne that night to be happily tipsy. George was rather sure one more glass would place them firmly into the realm of drunk. “I have to carry you over the threshold!”
Lucy rolled her eyes fondly. “Sweetheart, we’ve lived together for over a decade. I can think of at least four times you’ve already carried me over our threshold.”
“Bad times,” Lockwood countered. “Those were bad times. And I wasn’t your husband then.”
Lockwood drawled out the word “husband” dramatically. George looked down at Holly, saw her eyes crinkling with mirth, and knew she was listening in on the conversation, same as him.
“Don’t you want to wait for everyone to leave?”
“No. No, I think we should do it right now.”
Lucy rolled her eyes again, but a smile was still playing on her lips. She stepped on her tiptoes to kiss Lockwood, then grabbed his hand and led him to the garden gate.
“Come on then, Mr. Lockwood.”
Lockwood lifted Lucy’s hand to his lips and kissed it once. “I’d follow you anywhere, Mrs. Lockwood.”
“I am well aware,” Lucy told Lockwood with a smirk. And, nearly unnoticed by the small crowd of family and friends gathered to dance and drink and eat in the garden of 35 Portland Row to celebrate their marriage, Lucy and Lockwood slipped away.
But George noticed. Holly noticed. They both simultaneously stopped dancing and made their way to the house’s back door. George grabbed his camera off a nearby table on the way.
The kitchen was dark with the lights off, dusk falling out the windows. The tables and counters were strewn with the mess of leftover catering boxes and used cake knives; champagne glasses were stacked in the sink in rather precarious tower. Tomorrow’s problems, George thought to himself, as he and Holly slipped through the kitchen, up the stairs and hid themselves behind the doorway to the sitting room.
At the last moment, just as George could hear Lockwood and Lucy’s voices on the front path, Holly scrambled forward from their hiding place and unlocked the front door.
“All right then, Luce,” Lockwood said jauntily.
“Don’t you want to wait until we’re up the stairs?”
“Not much room to maneuver on the top step,” Lockwood admitted. “It’ll be easier to pick you up here.”
“If you drop me, I’m filing for divorce,” Lucy warned. Lockwood laughed.
“Noted. And up we go.” George heard the rustle of a dress, then swift footsteps up the stairs.
“Er, Luce,” Lockwood asked, only slightly breathless. “Any chance you have your key?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lucy muttered. George bit back his laughter. Holly clapped a hand to her mouth to hold back her own snort. “Does this dress look like it has pockets?”
“No, it does not. Incredibly beautiful, though. Almost as beautiful as the person wearing it.”
“Nice try,” Lucy said, though her voice was fond. “Well, we’re here. Maybe we left the door unlocked.”
The door swung open, revealing a flushed and beaming Anthony Lockwood with his dark hair slicked back, still dressed in his tuxedo. Lucy Carlyle (George shook his head. Lucy Lockwood. She was Lucy Lockwood now, and wow, that was going to take some getting used to) was cradled in his arms, the end of her ivory dress held carefully in his right hand. Lucy’s arms were around Lockwood’s neck, and the smile from earlier was on her face as she looked up at him, small and fond and prepared to indulge the most wonderfully idiotic person she’d ever met.
George timed his picture carefully, allowing the click of the camera to coincide with the door thudding against the doorstop and the great creak none of them ever bothered to oil; he and Holly remained hidden as Lucy and Lockwood stepped into the foyer.
“Well,” Lucy said finally. “I hope we weren’t robbed.”
“I don’t care,” Lockwood replied idly. He had eyes only for Lucy. “I have everything I need right here.”
“You’re such an idiot,” Lucy whispered. And then they were kissing in the middle of the foyer, Lucy still in Lockwood’s arms. It was dragging on long enough that George was beginning to regret all of his life choices when Lockwood thankfully began walking toward the stairs.
Lucy pulled away from the kiss and began pounding on Lockwood’s chest. “No, no, absolutely not. Once this dress comes off it is not being put back on and we have guests, Anthony!”
“Lucy,” Lockwood whined pitifully. Lucy was not swayed.
“I said we should elope, but you wanted a party. Let’s go back to our very lovely party, Anthony. You can do whatever you want once everyone leaves.”
“Whatever I want?” Lockwood raised his eyebrows.
“Consider it a wedding present,” Lucy said with a smirk.
“And everyone said marriage was going to be such hard work.”
“You had better work me hard--,”
“Nope!” George yelped, standing up and grabbing Holly’s hand. He dragged them both through the foyer; had he more wits about him in the moment, George would have raised his camera to document the shocked looks on Lockwood and Lucy’s faces. The picture would have been priceless. “Absolutely not. Let us out then you can do what you want. I don’t care if it’s your wedding, I cannot repeat the storage room debacle of last Christmas. Oh my God.”
“We wanted a picture of you carrying Lucy over the threshold,” Holly explained as George dragged her through the kitchen door. “George got it, it’s going to be really very lovely, so sorry to interrupt--,”
The door slamming shut could not block the Lockwoods’ loud and helpless peals of laughter from carrying through.
The Lockwoods. Huh.
George couldn’t help but like the sound of that.
***