Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Well, Mr. Ghost—” Lockwood glanced at the old skull in the jar “—that went much better than expected!”

Lockwood was back in the living room, hands twitching as he put away the remnants of the long day of interviews. He felt his blood rushing through his veins. The girl he just hired—Lucy Carlyle—was settling in upstairs. She was the start of something. Something great for Lockwood and Co.

Chatting to the ghost jar was a habit he picked up after George took to leaving it in different corners of the house after his experiments.

Lockwood loved having an audience. And it was especially nice to have an audience he was sure wouldn’t be able to spill his secrets or judge his feelings. Although, if he thought the ghost inside the jar could actually hear him, he probably would be offended by the grimaces, scowls, and what looked like eye rolls the smokey ectoplasm made during their one-way conversations.

But what could be more safe than confiding in a trapped ghost? Even if it could hear him, who would it tell?

“So much nuance in her Listening! I’ve never seen anything like it. Even George was impressed, and you of all people know how little that happens.”

He leaned over the coffee table, gently lifting his uncle’s knife from the collection of psychically imbued items, palming the handle and rubbing his thumb over the blunt edge.

“Most applicants got the gun shots,” Lockwood murmured, remembering the soft look on Lucy’s face when she closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and Listened. The way her nose slightly crinkled. The way the edges of her lips slowly lifted. “But no one ever felt his… his compassion.”

He swallowed hard and wrapped the knife and other objects inside their box and pushed them back into the coffee table drawer.

Lockwood tilted his head toward the ghost jar. “What was that Mr. Ghost? Oh yes, and how strongly she felt those psychic impressions. Yes, the sheer depth of her feelings.” He shook his head and he slumped down onto the couch.

He shot a conspiratorial look at the ghost jar. “And the way she stood up to George! I’m sure you appreciated that.”

Lockwood grinned at the skull. It was a charming grin, if he did say so himself. Although if anyone was immune to his charming grins by now it would be the ghost in the skull jar, since the old brown skull was what he practiced his charming grins on. If Lockwood wasn’t thrown off by the sudden and shocking grimaces the ghost would form whenever he grinned at it, he figured any regular old human stood no chance.

“And, don’t lie, I saw the way you looked at her!”

The swirling in the jar stilled for a moment.

“But, Mr Ghost, she’s a colleague now, so it doesn’t matter if you think she’s pretty. You have to keep that to yourself.”

Ah, there it was. One of those weird movements in the ectoplasm that he sometimes saw, the one that reminded him of an eye roll if Lockwood didn’t know any better.

“This is it, Mr. Ghost. She’s going to help put Lockwood and Co on the map. She’s special, the best Listener I’ve ever seen. Maybe the best since Marissa Fittes herself!” At that, Lockwood slapped his hand quickly on the coffee table and flounced out of the room.

___

Left alone in the living room, the smoke inside the skull jar swirled slowly, contemplatively.

Well, well, well. Best since Marissa Fittes, you say?

Chapter Text

She was looking better and better each week.

Lockwood had sped down the stairs in his joggers ready to get in his daily rapier practice when he saw that Lucy beat him to it.

They sometimes practiced together. Lockwood was conscious that, as experienced as she was in the field, she really hadn’t had her full Grade 4 training. And who better to help train her up than one of London’s youngest fencing almost-champions?

Today though, something was stopping Lockwood from joining in. She hadn’t noticed his arrival yet. He paused at the bottom of the stairs and took a moment to admire her form instead, the long line of the rapier, the flexed muscles of her wrist and forearm.

Lucy did a complicated wave with the rapier, taking a few steps forward.

Huh, he leaned back against the wall of the room, next to a rack of practice rapiers. He had taught her that move last week. Christ, she caught on fast, he thought, hitting the back of his head gently against the wall a few times.

She was panting hard when she finished the routine. Lucy turned away grabbing her towel where she had partially draped it over the ghost jar. Lockwood could see the soft green light of a distorted face glowing out of it. The ghost’s eyes, if you could call them that, followed Lucy as she leaned the rapier against the wall and used the towel to wipe down her face.

Lockwood started clapping. “Fine form, Luce,” he called.

Lucy jumped at the sound, turned, and finally noticed him. She gave him a small grin, chest rising and falling, her cheeks red with exertion.

“Why, thank you,” she giggled, giving him a curtsy. The green light of the ghost jar glowed brighter behind her.

Lockwood grinned. She was always a bit giddy after a practice session. The flush of exercise went straight to her head. It was infectious, especially since she was usually so hard on herself.

“I would say I had a wonderful teacher, but I think my recent success has more to do with my new trackies.”

She spun quickly, landing in a goofy pose.

His grin stuttered a bit when he noticed that, yes, gone were the drab and loose gray tracksuit bottoms she usually wore during rapier practice. These new ones were dark blue, tied at the waist, and were more form fitting than her previous pair.

Lockwood quickly turned and fiddled with the top rapier on the rack against the wall. It was his usual practice stick, and it seemed like the stupid thing was stuck.

“Well,” he said over his shoulder, “hope you don’t mind me cutting in on your practice time.”

“No, I was just finished,” said Lucy. He heard her gulp down some water. He turned back as she started walking up the steps, towel in one hand, water in the other. “Have fun,” she called down behind her.

Lockwood watched as she made her way upstairs.

He looked over to the ghost jar. The ectoplasm glowed an even brighter green as it, too, seemed to follow Lucy with, what you might be able to call, its gaze. It seemed to be much more active these past few months.

Lockwood pretended to listen for a moment.

“I completely agree, I’m not sure those joggers are decent in a professional environment.”

The ghostly shape seemed to direct its focus on Lockwood.

“You know, I never quite noticed before how different the bits are that girls have, you know, around their hips.”

The shape began slowly floating upside down. It was as if it was sticking out its tongue.

“They’re a bit—” he coughed “—tight.”

Lockwood tilted his head. Then he made a face, like the skull in the ghost jar said something particularly foul. “That’s enough of your crude talk, Mister. I’ve told you before. She’s a colleague. Can’t be going on about her like that.”

Lockwood straightened up and paused for a moment. He listened intently toward the door up the upstairs. He heard nothing.

Lucy must be up in the attic by now, and George, he knew, was at the Archives. His shoulders relaxed back down and he grinned slowly. Roguishly, if he did say so himself. He let the energy in the room shift.

Lockwood cleanly pulled out his practice rapier from the rack behind him and swiftly raised it in the jar’s direction.

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Brown Skull, the most infamous pirate of the Seven Seas.”

He slashed and feinted at the ghost in the jar. It grimaced back at him.

“But have no fear, my Lady.” Lockwood bowed to an empty corner of the room. “His ghostly magic is no match for my blade!”

He lunged and twirled, the sword spinning over head.

And if Lockwood spent the rest of his rapier practice dueling the Dread Pirate Brown Skull to win the hand of the beautiful maiden in the blue dress, well, no one would ever be the wiser.

___

Sometime later, after Lockwood bounded up the stairs, somehow still bursting with energy after a long and strenuous session of make-believe, the swirling ectoplasm started to fade.

It had stayed aware for most of the sparring session, filing away every moment in its memory for when it finally got Lucy’s attention and it could set her straight.

I swear, woman! What do you even see in this wanker?!

Chapter Text

It was late. Lucy and George were tucked happily asleep in their beds. Or at least that’s what Lockwood hoped. Someone in this house deserved to get rest.

His back ached. He had spent his evening sitting slumped in his armchair with a cup of tea in his hand. The periodic green glare of the ghostlight outside was his only hint that time was passing. The light threw stark shadows against the wall, drawing bent and grotesque shapes. He watched as they disappeared, leaving behind an echo in the darkness, some mockery of light, the inverse of a Death Glow.

It wasn’t until he brought the cup up to his lips and sputtered in surprise at the bitter cold taste of the tea inside that he decided that he could probably pass the hours more comfortably staring at his bedroom ceiling then he could staring at the library walls.

Lockwood slowly pushed himself out of his seat, both his back and his armchair creaking. He wondered if, in the time before the Problem, teenagers normally felt like their joints were barely stitched together, like their bodies were one large bruise. His bones were weary. He felt old.

Stale tea in hand, he shuffled to the kitchen, where he was surprised to see another green glow emanating through the glass in the door.

Lockwood was instantly alert. He set the tea down on the floor and retreated to pull a rapier from the umbrella stand. He crept his way back to the kitchen, counted to three, and swung through the door, rapier at the ready.

The kitchen was empty.

The green light was flickering from the oven.

Lockwood sighed, lowered his rapier, and leaned it against the wall.

“Is that where you’ve gone, Sir Skullington?” he asked the oven. “George has been looking all over for you.”

Lockwood opened the oven door and the ghost jar greeted him with a swirl of ectoplasm.

He pulled the jar out, raising it to eye level. “I know his experiments are unpleasant, but you mustn't hide from him, it makes him cranky.”

Lockwood’s eyebrows raised. “I know—” he leaned in and lowered his voice “—you’ll be wanting some revenge. I have just the thing.” The ectoplasm settled into the shape of a face. It looked intrigued, if Lockwood did say so himself.

He carried the ghost jar out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Let’s leave you in the bathroom sink. Just be sure to make your most wild face when he opens the door in the morning. It’ll be a real laugh.”

Lockwood chuckled, and the stuttering of light from the jar allowed him to pretend that the ghost inside was chuckling with him.

Lockwood’s chuckle faded as he passed by the least used door in the house. He paused.

His melancholy rose like a wave cutting off this breath.

He placed his palm on the door and leaned his head against the back of his hand. He tried to breathe deeply.

He thought of the ghostlight on the library wall. He thought of the Death Glows he’d seen, in the most horrid places. Small glows fading in cupboards. Bright glows at the foot of stairs. Glows hanging from trees, lying in the street. Two ghosts lingering in the back garden. And the brightest glow he’d ever seen, just behind this door.

He lowered the ghost jar to the floor and brought his other hand to the door knob. He turned it and pushed the door open the smallest sliver.

The bright white light of the Death Glow spilled from the room onto the ghost jar. Lockwood stiffened. He was positioned behind the door, out of the way of the light. He was suddenly afraid of what would happen if the light hit him.

Lockwood watched the light reflect off the surface of the ghost jar. He watched as the ectoplasm inside became a whirling tornado. It spun and spit, its mouth agape as if it were yelling brutal curses.

Lockwood swiftly shut the door. “I’m sorry!” he yelped.

The ectoplasm of the ghost jar still churned furiously. Lockwood felt the weight of all his own accusations in its glare.

“Sorry, sir,” he said again. Lockwood’s eye’s dropped to his pink-socked feet. “I should have tried harder, I know.”

The apologies didn’t seem to placate the skull, which was still whirling furiously.

What was he doing? Lockwood shook his head sharply. He wasn’t actually talking to the skull. The skull couldn’t really hear him. Sometimes his play-acting tricked even himself. He decided that this night had been long enough.

“Let’s get you back on George’s desk, Skullington.” Lockwood picked up the jar. “He’ll be thrilled to find you in the morning.”

With heavy limbs, Lockwood carried the skull in the jar back down the stairs.

___

After Lockwood settled the ghost jar on George’s desk, after he retreated up the stairs, the Skull was still sputtering with anger.

I always knew you had the intelligence of a fruit fly, but I thought there were some limits to your insanity!

How DARE you keep something so psychically potent in the same house as LUCY. She so sensitive!

What a twit! Idiot boy!

Chapter Text

“I think I’ve found it,” Lockwood said, half-way immersed in the old cedar trunk dragged to the middle of his bedroom floor. Fabric of every color was strewn out of the trunk, on the bed, on the floor, and half covering the ghost jar in the corner.

The flotsam included: a bright red military jacket, pink and purple clown pants, a pair of khaki cargo pants and a black t-shirt with a white band logo, a shiny bobby hat, a tangled blond wig, suede purple loafers, a smudged stage makeup kit with all manner of ways to fake gruesome injuries, white opera gloves, a top hat and tails, among many other lurid bits attire.

Their client was definitely hiding something, and he’d gotten George to admit that his research had turned up nothing unusual. Their only recourse, Lockwood had announced, was to case the joint. Do a bit of hands-on investigating. Lockwood was practically buzzing.

George took one look at the schemes manifesting behind Lockwood’s eyes before he very deliberately picked up a book, opened it, and proceeded to ignore Lockwood for the next ten minutes of planning.

Lucy, however, looked rather excited and joined in, bouncing ideas back and forth and settling on a time, place, backstory, and (to Lockwood’s delight) costuming.

George, behind his book, seemed a bit relieved to be left out of the whole thing. “Just come back in one piece,” George said. “You remember last time? With the longshoremen and the unexpected trip into the rubbish bin?”

“Total fluke!” Lockwood said breezily, successfully suppressing the memory of how many showers he’d needed to take in order to fully wash off that particular enterprise. “Shan’t happen again.”

George did not seem convinced, but he kept his objections to himself.

Lockwood pulled the t-shirt and cargo pants from the trunk. It was a sartorial disaster that Lockwood would normally never be caught dead wearing, but it brought a certain je ne sais quoi to his disgruntled youth persona.

“George doesn’t quite have the head for this sort of thing, does he?” he asked the ghost jar. “Lucy’s game, though, good ol’ girl.” The jar flickered a resentful green glow about the room, but nothing could dampen Lockwood’s spirits right now.

“I haven’t settled on an accent yet.” Lockwood started folding the rejected clothing back into the trunk. “I can’t sound like myself,” he insisted, “it’d give the whole thing away.”

“Ain’t tha’ right, guvna?” Lockwood screwed up his face. One eyebrow was raised, his nose curled to the side. It looked as if he could only use the left half of his mouth. The face in the ghost jar seemed to dematerialize in fright. “Wasstha?” Lockwood continued, as the ectoplasm cautiously lit back up, one swirl at a time. “Ain’t lookin for no Barney Rubble, Skully.”

Lockwood winked at the ghost jar. “That’s Cockney Rhyming slang. You have to be really in the know to pull that one off.”

The ectoplasm was swirling in a way he’d never seen before. It actually looked as if it were banging its face into the glass.

“Of course, might be best to match with Luce. Then we can be two northern kids down to visit the city, you know, boyfriend, girlfriend on a date, that sort of thing.” Lockwood furrowed his brow.

“Alreet there, pal,” he chewed out, his lips working overtime. “The weather’s proper naff today, innit?” He looked proud of himself, as he shoved a blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt back into the trunk.

He paused. “Although,” he said, rubbing at the meat of his shoulder, “she did throw quite the punch last time I imitated her accent. No, we’ll stick to the original plan.”

He sat on top of the packed trunk to get it to close. A quick flick of his wrist and it was locked shut.

Next was the hunt to find the proper footwear. Lockwood turned to his closet.

Inside was a row of neatly hung jackets, trousers, and crisp white shirts.

“It’s a shame we never have to go undercover at a party.” Lockwood pushed all his suits to one side, so he could see the shoes lined up on the floor. “I’d be very well prepared.”

“Oh,” Lockwood said as he leaned over, pulling up a thin blue tie that was crumpled in the corner. “Skully! Here’s the tie I’ve been looking for!” He’d had the urge recently to wear something a bit different than his usual black, but couldn’t find the blue tie no matter where he looked.

It was a royal blue. Might match Lucy’s jacket.

“Not sure Lucy would have anything appropriate to wear to a society party, though.” He folded the tie neatly over a hanger, “I should probably take her to Fenwick’s in case it ever comes up.”

After some more searching, he found the beat up work boots that would put the final touch on his outfit.

He turned back to consider the ghost jar. “Something strapless maybe? She looks awfully good in blue.”

The ectoplasm dimmed slightly, but twirled tendrils until it filled the entire jar.

A sly smile crept over Lockwood’s lips. “What’s that?” Lockwood tilted his head toward the skull. “Under her dress?” The ectoplasm quickly formed back into a face, its mouth agape. Lockwood gave a mock-disapproving look. “That’s none of our business.”

The ghostly face grimaced.

Lockwood leaned back against the closet door, dropping the boots at his feet. “But lacy, I should think.” He held his hands out and traced his fingers in the air. They flexed. “And structured, you know, for support. For that strapless dress I’d buy her.”

He tilted his head back and exhaled deeply.

“Maybe—” Lockwood’s gaze seemed stuck on the ceiling “—maybe something that laces up.”

The room was silent for a moment. Lockwood’s nails were digging into his palms. He coughed and checked his watch.

He swept past the bed, grabbing the black t-shirt, and locking the door.

“I know you’re not really there, Skully.” Lockwood grinned at the ghost jar. The face stretched and contracted, its ectoplasm spasming as if in panic. “But some things are really best done with no prying eyes.” He used the t-shirt to cover the ghost jar, hiding the grimacing face behind the band logo.

Five minutes or so later, he picked back up the t-shirt, pulling it over his head. He changed into the dreaded cargo pants and a pair of beat up work boots and strode, with a self satisfied smile, out of the bedroom. And if he looked a little flushed, no one but the ghost in the jar would ever know why.

___

The Skull was not sure that the last five minutes had been worth being conscious for.

Now that it was only a matter of time before it got an opportunity to talk to Lucy alone, the Skull was spending more time in this realm trying to gather as much embarrassing information about Lockwood as possible.

On the one hand, he now had what amounted to a lifetime supply of blackmail material. On the other hand… god the accents had been bad enough. There are some things you really didn’t want to know about another person, especially when that person is your sworn rival.

It’ll all be worth it, when I can finally speak to Lucy.

Chapter Text

“The ghost in the jar spoke to me.”

“What!?” Lockwood’s exclamation echoed through the kitchen. He stood up so quickly that his chair fell over with a muffled ‘thud’.

Lucy held her hands together tightly. “I know it sounds mental, but I swear I’m telling you the truth.” She glanced nervously between Lockwood, who was still standing in shock, George, who was sitting back in his chair, chin in his hand, considering, and the ghost jar she had placed on the kitchen table next to her. Its glowing ectoplasm settled into a smug grin. Lockwood wanted to knock it off the table.

“The Skull spoke to me—”, she insisted.

“Impossible!” said Lockwood. His tie was too tight. He tugged at the knot and undid the first few buttons of his collar.

“Not strictly impossible,” George said, peering intently at the ghost jar.

The ectoplasm face spread its grin so wide it split entirely in two.

“Why is it so damn hot in here?” Lockwood stalked over to open the window.

Lucy ignored him.

“George, I swear I’m telling the truth,” she said. “And he knows things, things about—”

“Not me!” yelped Lockwood, turning away from the window with such vehemence he cracked his neck.

“What? No, not you Lockwood, Biggerstaff, something about knowing him when the Skull was alive,” said Lucy. George looked intrigued, but skeptical.

“Lucy, you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, are you sure you didn’t, I don’t know, dream it?” George cleaned his glasses with the edge of the Thinking Cloth, “It’s awfully convenient it would know about the case we happen to be working.”

“Yes!” Lockwood abandoned his struggle with the window latch and stepped back to the table. He flattened one palm against it and pointed the other hand in Lucy’s face. “Yes, you’ve dreamed it, Luce. That’s got to be it.”

Lucy slapped his finger out of the air. “What’s wrong with you right now? Why are you so angry at me?”

The sting of her slap did nothing to help the harsh thudding of his heart against his rib cage or the sweat that had suddenly broken over his skin.

“I’m not angry with you, I’m—I’m concerned! You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, and—well, tell her George.”

George side-eyed Lockwood. At this rate, Lockwood might get slapped by both of his employees today. But George just sighed and said, “Lucy, it’s said Listeners often go mad. That their talent is volatile. You need to be careful.”

The fury drained from Lucy’s face. She covered her head with her hands, bunching her shoulders up to her ears. “You don’t think I considered that?”

Lockwood’s stomach turned. He collapsed into the empty chair beside her, reaching his hand out. To do what, he wasn’t sure. To rub her shoulder maybe? To run it through her hair? After a moment of indecision, he let it drop to the table between them.

“I’m sorry, Luce,” he said. “It’s just hard to believe.”

She took a deep breath. On the exhale she lifted her head back up and extended her hand forward to rest lightly on top of Lockwood’s fingers.

“Is it so mental, though?” she said quietly. “You said it yourself I’m the best Listener you’ve ever met, maybe even better than Marissa Fittes. Were you just saying that to, I don’t know, flatter me?”

Lucy looked so crushed. And Lockwood was the one causing it.

“No, Luce.” He turned his wrist, so their palms were facing each other. “No, I truly believe that. And_” he sighed. Something about all this made him feel like he was signing his own death warrant “—I believe you about the skull.”

She brightened, the corners of her mouth curling into a gentle grin. Lockwood was struck by the shape of her lips. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but he and Lucy seemed to be holding hands. He felt his own lips stretch into a smile.

George grumbled from across the table.

Lucy turned to the ghost jar and said, rather condescendingly, “See I told you they would believe me. No need for the secrecy.”

“Secrecy?” said Lockwood. He and George exchanged wary glances. George, quite possibly, was still concerned that Lucy was going mad and didn’t like watching her talk to an inanimate object. Lockwood was wary for other reasons.

“Well, it wanted me to keep our conversations between it and me. It said it would be more ‘intimate’.”

“Intimate!?” Lockwood yelped. He willed the ghost jar to spontaneously go up in flames. He held tighter to Lucy’s hands. “It wants to be intimate with you?!”

The light from the ghost jar flickered. Lucy tilted her head toward it, then her eyebrows shot up behind her fringe and she quickly pulled her hand from Lockwood’s.

“Did it talk just now?” George asked, sitting at the edge of his chair, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “What did it tell you?”

Lockwood’s heart fell to his feet. All of a sudden, he remembered at least a dozen things he would not want the skull to tell Lucy. “It’s an evil ghost, you can’t believe a word it says,” Lockwood quickly cut in.

“Oh, I already know he’s a liar, especially when he tries to pass off a big whopper like that one." She glared at the skull in the jar, who was doing one of its classic eyerolls. Lockwood pulled at his collar again. He didn’t like that he knew the ghost’s expressions so well. It reminded him of the many conversations he spent learning those expressions.

“Come on Lucy! Please tell us,” George urged, sliding his glasses back up the arch of his nose. George clearly believed her now. Lockwood could see his mind filling with ideas for future experiments.

“It’s not important,” said Lucy, the tips of her cheeks turning red. “And it’s definitely not true, so it should stop saying that." She said the last bit to the skull, who looked put out.

How dare the ghost make Lucy uncomfortable. Lockwood stood up. “I think we should burn it.”

Twin expressions of horror dawned on George and Lucy’s faces. They both opened their mouths to argue.

Lockwood put a hand out to silence them. “It’s clearly dangerous. We don’t know what kind of false information it’s going to try to feed us through Lucy. We can’t trust it, so we should destroy it.”

“Absolutely not!” George stood up and got closer to the ghost jar, as if Lockwood were going to start a bonfire in the middle of the kitchen. “This is an amazing discovery! Think of what it can tell us about the Problem. About the other side!”

“And I can tell when it’s lying!” Lucy joined in. “Look, it really did have information about Biggerstaff. About the asylum and where his papers are located.”

Lockwood was about to dig in his heels for a grand speech about the evils of grimy spying ghosts and how they are not to be trusted or believed under any circumstances, when Lucy shushed him and turned to listen to the skull again. George looked on with fascination. Lockwood closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache.

“I’m not going to say that,” Lucy looked offended. “He already doesn’t trust you.” She rolled her eyes. Lockwood was unpleasantly surprised to find it was similar to the eyeroll the skull was so proficient at.

“Oh, fine.” She turned to Lockwood. “It says not to worry and that if it can join us it won’t spill either of your…” She couldn’t look him in the eye, “dirty secrets.”

Lockwood sputtered, “Ah, well, I should think not!” He forced out a laugh, “Because, ha, it doesn’t know any secrets! What could he know?”

The face in the ghost jar narrowed its eye sockets.

“It says, if George doesn’t want us to know about the Shepard’s Pie incident or Lockwood doesn’t want us to know about his pirate adventures, you’ll let it come along when we go to the asylum.” Lucy translated.

George stiffened.

“Well, I believe Lucy and I vote it comes along,” he said in a higher voice than usual. “Erm, lot’s to do before we leave.” He rushed out of the room and into the basement.

The first moment Lockwood was alone with the ghost jar he was going to chuck it in a bin. Or personally escort it to the Fittes Furnace, nevermind if someone there recognized it as stolen. Or he could throw it in the Thames. Yea, the Thames was good. See how it likes it at the bottom of the river.

But a change had come over Lucy when George said he believed her. She looked pleased. It was a far cry from the tense and anxious way she had approached them with the skull just a few minutes ago. He saw the relaxed slope of her shoulders and the clear gaze she leveled on the ghost, which was apparently still speaking to her.

Ugh.

“No, you bully,” she looked a bit confused, but was laughing under her breath. “I’m not going to say that. I don’t even understand what you mean.”

Lockwood glared at the ghost in the jar. He locked eyes with its icky ectoplasm face. It grinned evilly.

Lucy, the nutter, was looking at it almost fondly. No, proudly. But, Lockwood realized, she was not proud of the skull; she was proud of herself.

He sighed, breaking eye contact with the ghost and staring blankly at the floor. He was stuck. Lucy, who was full of bluster and command when they were on a case, who didn’t let him or George get away with anything, Lucy, their incredibly talented Lucy, had rather low self-esteem. Something about talking to this evil ghost, however, was making her feel good about herself.

It proved to her that she was special, he supposed. She was always special, he knew, even before this discovery. He tried to tell her as much as possible, praise her when she did well, offer her supportives smiles when she looked unsure of herself. Lockwood wished that it was his words of encouragement that had put that proud expression on her face. But no. He was already losing to this stupid ghost.

“What did it say?” Lockwood asked, resigned.

“I don’t know, some nonsense about a t-shirt not blocking sound. Something about five minutes of his afterlife he’ll never get back.”

Lockwood could feel the heat flooding his face. He buttoned his collar back up, hoping that he could conceal as much of the blush that was traveling down his neck as possible. It was high time he copied George and took himself out of the line of fire. He forced himself to breathe, smooth back whatever hairs had fallen out of place, and tighten his tie.

He leaned forward, looming over the ghost jar in what he hoped was a menacing manner, and tried to blow it up with his mind. When that didn’t work he said, “You’ve backed me into a corner. And you know it, Jarhead.” The skull stuck out an awful green tongue. “But you better be careful with her. The minute she no longer wants you, you’re going right into the fire.”

Lockwood straightened up, winked at Lucy, and strode past her with his head held high, and a long, drawn out scream of desperation ringing through his brain.

___

The ectoplasm settled smugly inside the ghost jar. If he could, he would be leaning back in a chair, with his legs stretched and crossed in front of him, with his hands settled behind his head.

Now it was just a matter of time before he convinced Lucy to leave these plonkers. Maybe he could even convince her to let him out of the jar. He could ghost-touch Lockwood! Lucy would be angry at first, but she’d get over it, eventually.

Skull and Carlyle, he thought, has a wonderful ring to it.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, okay. I can see what you’re holding. That wretched DEPRAC statement. All right, I’ll sign it, but not now. Chuck it down somewhere.”

He hesitated. “I’ll just put it on the bed, shall I?”

- Jonathan Stroud, Lockwood and Co.: The Empty Grave

Lockwood fidgeted with the papers in his hand, his mother’s necklace sliding down the fold of the sheets. Whatever courage he had gathered on his way up to the attic had evaporated the moment he saw her. The dying light through the window silhouetted Lucy in a soft glow. Her auburn hair lit up like a halo.

He left the papers and the hidden necklace at the end of the bed. He felt distinctly that since he hadn’t even made it one sentence into the declaration of his feelings, he could not join her at the window, where he would maybe get to brush their shoulders together or curl his pinky over hers where it rested on the sill. He sat down on her bed, instead.

But he felt he deserved some reward for making it this far. He would take a few moments to admire her as his prize.

Lucy turned her back to the window and leaned against the sill next to the cracked skull. Her nose scrunched up and she could not suppress her grin when she noticed Lockwood staring.

She met his gaze for just a moment, her smile stretching wide across her face, before rolling her eyes and glancing down at the Skull. Her smile faltered. She crossed her arms over her stomach.

“I know I wasn’t his biggest fan,” Lockwood said. “But I am sorry he hasn’t returned, if that’s what you are hoping for.”

Lucy sighed. “Could be a good thing he hasn’t come back. Could be he’s finally at rest, or what have you.”

“But he was your friend, and you miss him.”

“Makes me feel a bit selfish, but yea.”

“S’not selfish. I understand.”

Lucy looked at the floor. Lockwood allowed her a few seconds of sadness. But there was so much to celebrate this past week, he couldn’t let her dwell for long.

He flashed her what he hoped was a winning smile. “I’m surprised he saved both of us, you know. Between you and me—” Lockwood winked “—I think he may have liked my impressions more than he let on.”

Lockwood was rewarded with a laugh.

“Wait, that was true?” Lucy pushed off the sill and sat cross legged on the bed next to him. “I mean, we would make fun of your awful Cockney—"

Lockwood scoffed in offense.

"—but the Skull also said I should be grateful I hadn’t heard your attempt at Scottish.” He groaned and fell backwards on the bed. “I thought he was just trying to knock you down a peg!”

Lockwood covered his face in his hands. Of all the things he meant to own up to in his planned conversation with Lucy, the mortifying things he did in front of the Skull was not one of them.

“Did you really subject the poor Skull to your impressions?”

"'Poor' Skull is not how I would describe him!"

“You're not denyiiiing it,” teased Lucy, in a sing-song voice.

Lockwood cleared his throat. “I can admit now that I…often acted in a manner around the Skull that I certainly would not have done if I knew it could—" he coughed again "—understand what I was doing.”

Lockwood felt the bed shift as Lucy stretched out and propped herself up on her elbow. He peaked through his fingers to look at her. He was almost blinded by her happiness.

“Why? What did you do in front of him?”

“No, no. We aren’t doing this.” Lockwood had often prayed he could take most of his behavior in front of the Skull to his grave. He naively hoped that maybe the Skull had kept those moments to himself as well.

Lucy pinched his arm. “Please, Lockwood!”

Lockwood’s heartbeat quickened. He did not pull his arm away from her attack. “Fine! Fine, but why don’t you tell me what he said, and I’ll let you know if it was true.”

Lucy rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on top of her folded hands.

“Hmmm, it’s hard to remember. He said so much bunk, I didn’t really pay attention sometimes.” She scrunched up her face. “He said you would practice smiling in different ways at him. And, ummm, introducing yourself.”

Lockwood rubbed his eyes. “I may have gone through a bit of a James Bond kick before you joined up.”

“Like—” Lucy sat up, stuck out her hand, and pitched her voice down in a better impression of him than he ever did of her "—I’m Lockwood, Anthony Lockwood?"

“Unfortunately.”

“HA.” She let her laugh carry her back down alongside him.

“Luce—”

“He said you would play all sorts of goofy games in the rapier room. Like, pirates and duels at dawn, that sort of thing.”

Lockwood turned over onto his stomach and smashed his face into her comforter, covering his head with his arms. Maybe he could suffocate himself like this.

“Well?” Lucy asked.

He nodded.

Lucy laughed so loudly she shook the bed.

“Said you slept with a teddy bear.”

Lockwood sat back up. “I’m not ashamed of that one! Mr. Fuzz was a gift from my grandfather!” His face was almost assuredly bright red, his tie and collar askew, and his hair out of place, but it was hard for him to care when he looked at Lucy and saw the pure delight in her eyes.

“What about the costumes? You own a clown get-up? A top hat?”

“Yes, and yes.” Lockwood flopped back down on the bed. “Pays to be prepared.”

“And I thought he was such a liar!” She leaned over Lockwood, blocking his view of the ceiling. She was still giggling, but every few seconds she would try and pull herself together. Whenever she glanced back down at him, however, she would lose that battle. She wiped a tear from her eye. “What about—”

But Lockwood had had enough of his own humiliation. “No, we are done with my torture session this evening! I think it’s your turn now.”

Lucy paused, tilted her head, and furrowed her brows. “But the Skull couldn’t have told you any—”

He only gave her one moment before he launched himself at her.

Lockwood couldn’t remember the last time he tickled someone. He knew the last time he had been tickled. It was a week before Jessica died. He was complaining about having to clean his room, when Jessica gave him a choice: pick up his dirty clothing or die by tickle attack. She chased him around this very attic, and he couldn’t escape until he begged her to stop the onslaught and just let him clean. Her arms were so much longer than his at the time. Much like his were longer than Lucy’s now. He took full advantage.

She fell on her back and squirmed, half trying to block his hands, half trying to pinch him. She shrieked between laughs, looking both extremely pleased and extremely astonished. Lockwood’s face hurt from smiling.

“Uncle!” She yelled, after a few moments of struggle, when she was running out of breath and most likely realized that Lockwood’s size gave him a definite edge in this fight. “Uncle!”

He stopped. She was lying on the bed and Lockwood was over her, hands bracketing her in. Their chests rose and fell as they caught their breaths.

Lockwood thought faintly about moving, but she didn’t seem unhappy with this turn of events. She was so, so lovely. Maybe he could push his luck.

“What about,” Lucy said softly, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes kept flicking lower down his face. “Well, the Skull said you would make comments.”

“Comments?” Lockwood repeated, not truly listening. What was she looking at? Did he have something on his chin?

“Yea, about, well, my hips—”

Lightning struck the back of Lockwood’s neck. Of course the Skull would tell her that. He probably knew about Lockwood’s feelings for Lucy before Lockwood even did. His fingers flexed into the soft comforter next to her shoulders. He needed her to not finish that sentence. In his panic, he smashed his lips into hers.

It was a bit too forceful, but her lips were soft and plush under his. A voice in the back of his head cheered. He knew she would feel as lovely as she looked! Then the panic took over again. He pushed himself up.

“No—” Lucy had a dreamy expression on her face “—come back.” She tangled one hand into his hair, the other clutched at his shoulder.

“Oh,” said Lockwood stupidly. She drew him down to her lips. Easing to his elbows, he let his weight rest gently on her. He was drifting on the ocean. He was floating on a cloud.

All the things he meant to say to her when he walked up to the attic bubbled under the surface of his skin. He had almost lost her, so many times, and he never told anyone what she meant to him.

No, that’s not true.

He told the stupid Skull. The Skull knew how he felt about Lucy, but Lucy herself didn’t know. That was wildly unfair.

She gave a whine as he pulled away and she tried to tug him back again. But his mind was made up, it wasn’t right to keep any more secrets from her.

“If the Skull said my eyes would always follow you out of any room,” Lockwood admitted to her lips, “that was true.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, to his jaw.

“Never told me that,” she whispered, and he kissed her again.

“Or that I wasn’t coherent whenever you wore those damned blue joggers during rapier practice.” And again, deeper this time, biting her lower lip.

“Lockwood!” She gasped.

“Or that I nearly fell down the stairs when I saw you in that dress before the Fittes ball.”

“Never told me that either.”

He pushed back slightly to take her in. He thought she looked, well, she looked a bit scandalous. Her hair was rumpled, her lips pink, and her eyes glossy. Her shirt was falling off one shoulder. But she also looked pleased. He made her look pleased!

“Or that I would think about you when I was alone—" He groaned. "—or thought I was alone, at any rate.” A particularly miserable realization struck him. He suddenly tucked his face into her neck. He can’t believe he admitted that happened. “Oh, Christ.”

Her laughter was back, so big and loud that it rumbled through him. How cruel it was to love a girl who so delighted in his misery, he thought wistfully.

“Did you really, you know?” she got out between laughs. “In front of the Skull?!”

Lockwood grumbled in response, wrapping his arms around her. Maybe she would let him hide here and he’d never have to properly face his embarrassment.

“Well, he certainly never told me that!" Lucy said.

“So glad I informed you, then.” He pulled her tighter, not daring to lift his head. “Luce, do you think I’m a right berk? Should I never look you in the eye again? Should I leave England?”

“I think you are a great big tosser,” she said, dragging her fingernails over his scalp. He had thought of many positives to kissing Lucy, but head scratches were not something he had had on the list. Reality was so much better than he could have imagined. “But you are my tosser now.”

She hooked her ankles around his shins, wrapping him up closer.

“Now that I have you here,” Lucy said, “there are a few other things the Skull said I’d like cleared up.”

Lockwood looked up to glare at her. She gave him a wide smile and lifted her eyebrows.

“Fine,” he lowered his head again and spoke into her collar bone, “but only if you keep up with the scratches.”

Lucy continued to run her nails through Lockwood’s hair. Every so often she would bring up another thing the Skull told her about him, and he would confirm it with a sad nod. Lockwood thought about the sapphire necklace hidden under the papers at the foot of her bed. But he’d figured he'd already ripped his chest open to show her his heart enough for one evening. She could examine it some more tomorrow. As the sky got dark, they grew quieter. And before long, Lockwood and Lucy drifted off to sleep, safe in each other’s arms.

____

At first, it was just a flicker, like a TV screen struggling to turn on.

But after a few tries, a boy appeared on the window sill. He was gangly, with spiky hair, and a gaunt face. He glowed with a ghostly green light and frost cracked over the window behind him.

He crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward, his chin resting on his fist. He scoffed. He was only gone one week and that bastard Lockwood had swept right in!

Well, didn’t they look cozy?

At least Lucy was alive, he supposed. Unfortunately, he seemed to have saved Lockwood in the process.

The green glow illuminated the soft smile on Lucy’s face, her fingers tangled in Lockwood’s hair, and their chests rising and falling in tandem.

He rolled his eyes. He would check back in on her soon. Make sure Lockwood wasn’t Lockwooding this up with his usual idiocy.

The moment she looked unhappy, the ghost assured himself, he could get rid of Lockwood with a single touch. Or maybe just scare the piss out of him. He chuckled. There were any number of new ways he could cause Lockwood mischief, now that he was out of that cursed jar.

The ghost stretched. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he was feeling oddly stiff. He considered the sleeping couple.

You know what, he thought, I deserve my own rest after saving the world.

There was another flicker. And he was gone.