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“George, did you notice that Lucy-” Lockwood started one morning before the Listener in question joined them in the kitchen.
“No, Lockwood, I didn’t notice how Lucy’s hair looked yesterday or whether she blushed when you complimented her on it.” George shot him a look over the rim of his mug.
Lockwood felt his face heating and cleared his throat self-consciously.
“That’s not - I wasn’t trying to say anything like that. I’m just a bit worried about her, is all.”
That got George’s attention. He set down his mug and waited for his friend to continue.
“She’s been…quieter, lately. A bit more withdrawn.” Lockwood weighed his words carefully before continuing. “Especially during mealtimes. Did you…did you have a row with her recently or anything?”
“Oh, so it’s my fault?” George snapped defensively, but then his expression turned thoughtful. “I know we didn’t exactly get along at first but I have been trying.”
Lockwood nodded. George had been making an effort lately with Lucy. She hadn’t been with them for very long, and they were all still figuring out how to live and work together. But something was clearly bothering Lucy and he wanted to figure it out.
He wanted her to be comfortable at Portland Row, to be as at home there as he and George were.
Before they could discuss the matter any further, Lucy plodded into the kitchen. She was still in her pyjamas, hair mussed from sleep. Lockwood hid his smile behind his mug, taking a sip before standing up. He quickly fixed her tea just now she liked it and slid it towards her.
“Toast, Luce?” he asked, already reaching for the bread.
Lucy nodded, accepting the tea gratefully and taking a sip. Lockwood frowned as he realized there were only two pieces left.
“You’ve already eaten, right?” Lockwood asked George, who nodded. “Great, last two for you, Lucy.”
Lockwood realized his mistake immediately as he watched her face close off. She picked up her tea, standing back up.
“I’m not hungry, actually. I’ll just take this in my room.”
And then she was gone, Lockwood staring dumbfounded after her.
“I think I know what’s wrong,” George said after a moment. “I might have made a comment yesterday about her breaking the biscuit rule again.”
Lockwood nodded, having guessed it was something like that. It wasn’t the first time Lucy had acted…funny, to borrow the word from George, around food.
The first time Lockwood had ever seen Lucy eat was during her interview. She had devoured her biscuit like she hadn’t eaten in days. He had seen behavior like that before when he had taken night watch kids to the all night cafe, exchanging a small meal for information.
They always ate quickly and then looked embarrassed after. Even when he slid them the rest of his food, they always eyed him suspiciously. There was no ulterior motive, he promised. He’d even had one or two of the younger kids burst into tears, confessing that they didn’t have any information for him.
He knew that for those kids food and money to buy it came and went. When Lucy had first arrived in London, Lockwood had chalked it up to travel fatigue and not having eaten on the way. But he watched her face when George explained the biscuit rule for the first time, and instantly wanted to have him take it all back.
Lucy accepted food that she was directly handed, less likely to simply take it for herself. It was how Lockwood got into the habit of making her toast in the first place. He knew he shouldn’t have called attention to the fact that there were only two pieces left. There had been enough of a pattern that he should have figured it out by now.
With a sigh he resumed the motions of making toast, shaking his head.
“But she said she didn’t want-” George started but Lockwood cut him off.
“I’m going to bring this up to her,” he said as he cut and buttered the bread. “And I think we need to reevaluate the biscuit rule.”
“Yeah, I think you might be right,” George said with a sigh. “I have to do the shopping today anyway, you can let her know that there will be more bread and she doesn’t have to worry about it.”
Lockwood made his way up to the attic with the plate of toast, knocking to make sure he didn’t walk in on her getting dressed or something.
“Come in,” she called softly.
Lucy was on her bed, curled up around a pillow. Her tea sat almost untouched on the bedside table. She glanced at him as he entered, frowning at the toast.
“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” she mumbled into the pillow.
They both knew that wasn’t true, she was always hungry when she woke up. Especially if they had been on a job the night before.
“I’ll just set it here with your tea, in case you change your mind,” he said softly.
Lucy hadn’t let go of her pillow, pulling it tighter against herself. Technically he had accomplished what he came up there to do, but Lockwood didn’t want to leave her just yet. He stood awkwardly next to her bed until she shifted over just slightly, giving him room to sit down.
“George said he’s doing the shopping today,” he tried after a moment. “Is there anything you want him to get?”
She just shook her head, which he had been expecting. Every time they asked her about picking where to order takeaway from or what George should make for dinner, she always deferred to them. Lockwood tried to pick up on her favorite foods but she didn’t make it easy.
“Nothing?”
Lucy shook her head again, hands grasping at the pillow tightly. He glanced at it and back at her face, and she sighed, pushing herself to sit up.
“It’s an old trick,” she whispered, staring at the pillow now sitting in her lap. “It helps to - to not feel as hungry, when you’re trying to fall asleep.”
It took him a moment to process her words. There had been little signs ever since she arrived that things had been bad for her growing up. Moments when she flinched away from a raised voice, refused to talk about her family (something he related to), or withdrew into herself.
Each realization hurt him, to know that she had been treated with such neglect. But hearing her say it cut him even deeper.
“Lucy, were you hungry a lot, growing up?” Lockwood asked softly.
A tear slipped down her cheek and she nodded. Without thinking he reached out to wipe it away, his finger brushing gently over her skin.
“I don’t want you to ever be hungry here,” he said firmly. “You’re allowed to eat the last of any food here, ask for things that you like to eat, and - most importantly - have as many biscuits as you want.”
“But - George-” Lucy started to protest.
“But nothing. The biscuit rule is stupid and now it’s null and void.” Lockwood used his agency head voice, the one that made people listen to him.
Or so he liked to think.
Lucy reached for the plate of toast, nibbling at it as she thought.
“Thank you,” she said after finishing the first piece.
“For the toast?” he responded with a smile.
“That, and for…noticing.” Her cheeks blushed the prettiest pink and he felt the tips of his ears heating.
I notice everything about you, Lucy Carlyle.
But Lockwood couldn’t say that, so he jostled her shoulder playfully.
“Gotta make sure my agents are fed, you know,” he said with a wink.
The quick flash of disappointment and hurt that flashed across her expression told him that he had said the wrong thing. Again, he reminded himself, recalling his ill-advised comment about her being an asset.
“But that’s not the only reason,” Lockwood added before he could stop himself. “I want to look out for you, to make sure you’re alright. I care about you, Luce.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love, not exactly. Even their friendship was still tentative, in a way. Still being built as they each let the other in a little more. To his surprise, Lucy reached for his hand, playing with his fingers for a moment before entwining them with her own.
He had told her that they would go carefully, sitting here on this same bed with her. The shy smile she gave him was perfect, the feeling of her smaller hand in his own. Not for the first time, Lockwood wondered if what they were building went beyond friendship.
“I’m not used to anyone looking out for me. Not since…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence, her eyes straying to the Polaroids on her wall.
Lockwood knew that the girl in the pictures was named Norrie, and the broad strokes of what had happened. He squeezed her hand, telling her that he understood.
And then he wasn’t sure if he should stay, but she didn’t tell him to leave. So he sat with her as she finished her toast and tea. Gently, he managed to coax a few items from her to add to George’s grocery list.
She gave him that little smile again as he left so she could get ready for the day. It settled warm in his chest, even as he replayed the image of a younger Lucy, curled up with her pillow to mitigate the empty ache in her stomach.
Never again, Lockwood thought, hands clenching at his sides. He would make sure that she never felt small, unsafe, hungry, or unloved again. Not while he was alive and breathing.
That thought gave him pause, the notion that he had found something, or someone, to live for. And maybe, just maybe, he had.