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Lucy liked the feeling of hands in her hair. More specifically, she enjoyed the way Lockwood's hands were in her hair now, combing little pathways through the strands and scratching her scalp ever so lightly. Snow was falling down-soft outside, a fluffy white damper on the world. Inside 35 Portland Row, a fire blazed in the hearth and flannel blankets swaddled the agency. George was curled up in the armchair closest to the flames, reading a new paper and dutifully ignoring the couple, only acknowledging their existence to share something interesting from within the pages. Lockwood was also reading, a book that he had picked up on the way to a job yesterday. They hadn't been hired for tonight, something that was more common since they had fixed what Marissa had undone, but it was still a peace to be reveled in. The glow of the fire hid the greenish light of the ghost lamps outside, and with her head in her boyfriend's lap, her best friend just across the room, and the sleepiness of the evening overtaking her, Lucy could almost pretend she was a normal teenager.
"I'm going to bed," George said. He gathered the discarded pages of his paper. "Don't do anything weird when I'm gone."
"Gross, George," Lockwood replied without looking up from his book. "Sleep well."
Lucy listened to all of this in a half-awake daze. The fire was getting low and cracking enthusiastically, which was almost a lullaby to her.
"'Night, Lucy,"" said George. Lucy made a noise that might've sounded like 'Goodnight' in return.
Once George had gone, Lockwood tapped Lucy lightly on the forehead. "Hey, sleepy. Don't go passing out here."
"Mm..." Lucy groaned. "But I'm comfortable."
She opened her eyes nonetheless, meeting his smiling ones above her. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead.
"Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in bed?"
"Not particularly."
They both knew she would get up and move to her attic eventually, but this teasing dance had become routine on quiet nights like this. Sometimes the roles were reversed, and those times were Lucy's favorite: the discussions were always adolescent and goofy, rife with the burgeoning romantic love for each other that they had been (officially) testing and exploring for the last 18 months. These sorts of childish interactions were a vulnerability Lockwood had fought hard to learn to show, and one that was reserved almost exclusively for her as they teetered on the line between night and morning.
It hadn't been the easiest for her either. The blame she carried for Norrie's ghost-locked state for so long, whether or not it was justified, still sprung unbidden into her mind at the worst of times. When it made its reappearance, it split her between two fears; that she would make the same mistakes again and lose Lockwood or George, or that she would end up hurt or worse herself and add her name to a long list of people who had left Lockwood behind. He always noticed, though, when she was lost in retrospection like that. He would pull her into a hug and press his ear to the top of her head, then inform her that he could hear all of her thoughts and that she really ought to be kinder to herself.
His pinky brushed against her collarbone from where his hand had come to rest on her shoulder. He was playing absently with the chain of her necklace, rubbing the links between his fingers: she very rarely took it off now, the sapphire pendant at the hollow of her throat a constant, delicate reminder of his care for her. When Lucy wondered about it - which wasn't infrequently, a holdover from the ways she had been raised to believe people regarded her, love only in exchange for her usefulness, she would touch that little droplet and remind herself of the devotion carried in the stone. Lockwood's hands on it sent electricity shooting under her skin, each point of contact between her skin and his the beginning of a circuit.
"You're doing a very bad job of convincing me that I should move," she teased. His fingers paused on the necklace and she regretted saying anything.
"Suppose I am. If I told you my leg was starting to fall asleep, how would that affect your motivation?”
Lucy all but sprang up to sitting, sudden embarrassment flooding her esophagus. "I didn't mean-”
"I know you didn't, Luce, it's okay," he said, tracing a soft path along her spine. "Sorry that that didn't come off the way I meant it. But while you're up..."
She pulled a face at him, hesitant adoration wrinkling her nose. "Yeah, yeah. Fair enough."
Neither of them talked about how they didn't sleep well at night, whether it be the lingering effects of so many years running on the barest amounts of sleep or the effects of what they had seen during those years. It was something that they knew, running into each other on wee-hour trips to the kitchen for water or tea, but they didn't acknowledge it.
At the base of the attic stairs, he said goodnight with the barest brush of his lips over his. Lucy carried the kiss up to bed with her like always, letting it soothe away some of her tension as she readied for bed. This was the coldest part of her evening, the warmth of company and contentment fading in the dark attic. Three knocks on her door pierced through the chill - no matter if it was Lockwood or George, it signified a little longer that she wouldn't spend alone staring up at the ceiling.
It was Lockwood, as was most logical, stood there in his silk pajama set that Lucy loved to make fun of. There was immeasurable regret on his face, like he had committed to something on a whim and was now realizing that he had to follow through. Lucy's hand flew to her pendant.
"No, nothing bad, Luce, don't worry," he said when she moved, and she realized that he had noticed that little tell of hers. "I just, um. Remember how you said you didn't want to move downstairs because you were comfortable?"
"Ten minutes ago? Yes, Lockwood, I remember."
He blushed. "Right on, of course you do. Well, I was thinking that I was rather comfortable too, and that maybe you'd like to sleep in my room? In my bed with me?”
Those last five words were barely louder than a whisper. If there had been anything but old house noises disturbing the night, Lucy was sure she would have missed them. As it was, she wasn't entirely sure she hadn't imagined it.
"...What?”
Something akin to hurt flashed over Lockwood's face so quickly it might not have happened, and he straightened up like he did when they were talking to adults, collected and professional.
"No, you're right, sorry," he said, his voice measured. "Goodnight, Luce. I'll see you tomorrow."
She thanked God or whoever was up there for her reflexes when he turned to go, because, independently of her brain, her hand shot out and caught him by his shirtsleeve. It wasn't tight; if he really wanted to go he could, but he froze.
"I didn't say no, Lockwood. I was just processing out loud. Give me a moment."
Her words were firm but her tone gentle, reminding him that she wasn't readying herself to leave him behind at a moment's notice. Lockwood nodded and twisted his wrist so that he was holding Lucy's hand. His signet ring bumped against the knuckle of her ring finger.
"Just to sleep?" She asked a moment later. "I'm not ready to...maybe one day, but not tonig-”
Lockwood's eyes went impossibly wide when he realized what she was asking. Lucy found it endearing.
"No, God, no. Not tonight. Just to sleep."
She trusted him. She wouldn't have trusted anyone else.
"I'm a restless sleeper."
"I know. Me too. We can be restless together."
"Misery loves company?"
"It sure does." He brushed a kiss against her knuckles. "Are you saying yes?"
"I think so." She looked down at her pajamas, a combination of white tank top and strawberry printed sleep pants. "Unless you have a rule about matching pajamas in your bed, because then I'm not sure I meet your standards."
Laughing (oh, how she loved his laugh), he said, "No such policy. And I might just set it aside for you, if it did exist."
This back-and-forth of banter muddled with real care could have gone on forever, and Lucy would have stood there until a tree's roots grew up through the floor and pulled her down to Earth. But she was tired, and he was too, though he would never admit it. Sensing that the conversing part of the night was ending, Lockwood walked with her to his room, pulling the linens down on both sides of the bed. The right side had an ancient divot in it; a crater where Lockwood searched for rest, so she took the left, sitting cross-legged on the mattress. He settled next to her.
"Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? I can-"
She put her hand on his knee, rubbing her thumb over the sharp bone. "I'm okay, Lockwood. Can I lay down?"
It was an unreasonable question, she knew, and that was driven home further by the look he gave her.
"No, Luce, we sleep sitting up," he goaded. "Yes, of course you can lay down."
They both did, laying on their sides so close that their noses were nearly touching.
"Hi," he said.
"Hello," she replied, restraining a giggle in her chest. He was her best friend before her partner, she reminded herself, which is why everything was so easy with him. Her eyes drifted shut and she knew his had too, because the weight of his gaze was gone. Somehow, in the next ten minutes, they adjusted themselves wordlessly to curl front-to-back, Lockwood's arm thrown lazily over Lucy's waist. Just how they did in everything, they slotted together like puzzle pieces, everywhere that she protruded a cranny on his body and vice-versa. Her initial tension faded and she let herself breathe, timing her breaths with his.
Sleep began to drag her down, quicker than it had in all her memory. Here, with his chest against her back, the night didn't feel so cold.