Work Text:
The air raid sirens blare.
Lockwood is in the middle of fixing himself a nice cup of tea when he hears them, echoing through the neighborhood like a haunted scream. His first instinct is to run outside, to stare up at the approaching Luftwaffe as he flashes a very rude hand gesture, but he knows that’s heavily frowned upon. Besides, the last time he did that, Lucy bollocked him out for about an hour straight, and he doesn’t want to risk her wrath again.
As if she can hear his thoughts, Lucy walks into the kitchen, cool and collected despite the impending bombing. She’s a transplant from up north, from a small village up in the Cheviot Hills. Lockwood finds it ironic that while so many people are fleeing to the country, she’s moved herself right down to London where the action is. But it’s fitting. She took a job as a journalist upon moving to the city and while she doesn’t talk much about what she reports on, he’s seen the articles in the
London Times
. He knows what she’s seen. He knows what she’s heard. He knows what she’s witnessed.
Lucy quirks an eyebrow at him as she sees that he’s just put the kettle on. “Tea?”
“I was thinking about it. But now with the sirens going, it doesn’t seem like the right time.”
She mock-gasps. “Is there ever a
wrong
time for tea?”
He grins sheepishly. Even when his muscles clench tightly together as he wonders if tonight is the night he’ll lose 35 Portland Row to a bomb, she still manages to make him laugh. Sometimes he feels as though it’s fate that she answered his advert in the paper she’d just accepted a job from. He and George agreed that they needed a new housemate now that George was no longer living there full time. George accepted a job about an hour away in the country, and his job offers housing. Lockwood suspects that George works for one of the wartime ministries, most likely as some sort of researcher or codebreaker, but George has been sworn to secrecy, the same way Lockwood can’t tell that he spends his days at the air ministry. Everything is top secret during this war, and one wrong word could mean the difference between life and death.
Lucy trails her hand along the countertop. He watches her smaller fingers curve along the edge as though she’s focusing on the smoothness of the formica. As though she’s grounding herself. Heaven knows he has to do that multiple times a day. Ever since he was grounded from the RAF due to a shoulder injury, he’s found himself lost in flashbacks that he’s not even sure ever happened. Sometimes reality and fantasy toe the line and he can’t tell what’s a real memory and what’s a buried fear, forced so deep that the terror might as well be six feet under.
His mind flashes to the cemetery where his parents and sister are buried. What if the Luftwaffe bombs it tonight? What if all that is left of the cemetery in the morning are bits and fragments of decomposed skeletons?
It’s a horrifying thought, and he has to fight to steady his breathing.
Lucy’s gaze slips to his, and she offers him another eyebrow quirk. He gives her his patented Lockwood grin, the one perfectly formulated to allow him the appearance of calm and cool, while inside he’s dying a slow, painful death.
Lucy can see through this grin. He can see it in the flicker of her eyes, in the way she opens her mouth to ask if he’s all right. But then she presses her lips together, and he sees the idea fade away. He knows she’s dismissed the idea, the same way he’s forced back the constant craving to inquire into the cloudy memories behind her perfect blue-grey eyes. She has never once offered up any tidbits of her past, and he has no clue as to why she prefers a bombed-out London to a relatively safe country village. Maybe one day he’ll have the guts to ask, but tonight is not the night.
But maybe she wonders why he’s chosen to stay in a house that’s just begging for a bombing from the goddamn Luftwaffe. Maybe she wonders about the antiques that clutter up the bookshelves and the exotic pieces of art that cling to the walls. Maybe she wonders why he went to the trouble of adding extra tacks to keep the old masks from tumbling to the ground when the house’s very bones shake with the force of the bombs. He knows she saw him; she came up behind him just as he was finishing. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he’d felt her hand on his shoulder. She offered him a small smile and a shoulder squeeze, and he let his hand rest over hers just for a moment before letting go.
They never ask about each other’s pasts, just as they never dig deeper into the lingering looks and the soft brushes as they squeeze by each other in the narrow hall or on the staircase. They refuse to openly acknowledge that there’s more beneath the surface than the cheerful camaraderie between housemates, and so they busy themselves with work, with scheming to make their ration coupons go further, with small smirks whenever one of them says something that could be construed as inappropriate.
Lucy smooths out her skirt as she drops her hand from the counter. “We should get down to the basement. The bombing is going to start any moment.”
“I know. Wait,” he adds, as she turns towards the basement door. “Instead of tea, I have something better.”
“Really.”
He opens his parents’ liquor cabinet and quickly rifles through it, perusing the dusty bottles until he locates the gold-colored one he’s been saving for a particularly rough night.
“Scottish whiskey,” he tells her as he pops the cork. “Care for some?”
She hesitates before nodding. “Please.”
The first bomb drops just as he’s topped off the second glass, and he quickly shoves the bottle back into the cabinet. He shuts the door and they rush down to the basement as the walls shake around them.
A second bomb causes the basement stairs to quiver, and Lucy immediately reaches back for his hand. His fingers intertwine with hers, and they gingerly make their way down the stairs. More bombs are falling, and Lockwood can hear every single explosion, can feel it in his very bones. He wonders if his bones might shatter from the force, but quickly shoves that thought away.
Lucy shifts his hand in hers; she lets it rest on her hip. “For support,” she tells him, even as a wicked light gleams in her eyes. He’s not complaining. His hand fastens perfectly over her hip, as though his fingers were created solely for this purpose.
She leads the rest of the way into the basement, their glasses of whiskey threatening to slosh over the edge with each step.
At last they set foot on the cement floor. The windows of the basement have been boarded up to create a safe place away from shattered glass. This is as safe as they’re going to get tonight, and they sink onto the old sofa that Lockwood and George hauled down one the sitting room one afternoon.
“Did you sleep any?” Lucy asks as she curls up on the sofa, nursing her whiskey.
“Some,” Lockwood replies cagily, and a mix of emotions flicker through her gaze.
“Yeah, I didn’t sleep much either,” she admits, and Lockwood hates how easily she can see through him.
“Well, I never slept much before the war started,” Lockwood forces himself to admit. “So this isn’t much of a change.”
“I see.” She trails a pattern across the arm of the sofa. “I didn’t sleep much either, back home.”
“Ah. Something we have in common.” He crooks one corner of his mouth up in a grin, and he holds up his glass.
She smirks a bit and clinks her glass against his. “Well, my mum had a booming laundry business, so we worked 16 hour days. It was either that or work in a factory, though, so I should be grateful.” Bitterness seeps into her words, and Lockwood knows she has never once said that and meant it. No doubt her mother told her that, probably repeated it over and over until the words lost all meaning.
“I take it that laundry wasn’t how you wanted to spend your days.”
Lucy stares at her palms. He can see small burn marks scouring her fingers; they’re heavily callused, and now he knows it’s from the scrubbing board and the boiling water.
“No,” Lucy says after a long moment. “It wasn’t.”
“How’d you get out?”
She smiles sharply. “Luck of the draw. You know how it is.”
“A bit.”
She peers at him in the dark of the basement. The bombs continue to fall like toxic rain, and Lockwood silently prays that Marylebone is once more spared from destruction.
“You were in the RAF, weren’t you?” Lucy suddenly asks. “I heard you and George talking a few weeks ago.”
Lockwood nods. “I was, yes. I might be going back in.”
“Were you grounded?”
“Bad shoulder.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “What happened?”
“I was shot,” he says shortly. Details aren’t necessary. He doesn’t need to relive the events that led to him nearly dying in Germany.
“Ah.” Lucy sips on her whiskey. “Anything you’d like to talk about?”
“No,” he replies gruffly, more gruffly than he intends. She doesn’t shy away; she just stares at him, waiting for him to either drop the subject entirely, or plow on with an explanation.
“Sorry.” He lets out a breath. “That sounded a bit rude.”
“Just a bit,” she says mildly. “Though if you don’t want to talk about it, not much I can do to force it out of you.”
“It was a nightmarish time. I’d rather not revisit it.”
“All right. I can probably guess what happened, though.”
“Go for it.”
“You were shot down over Germany and you escaped - but first you were shot. Very courageous, Lockwood.”
He purses his lips. She’s not wrong - but she’s left out a few key details. Details that she wouldn’t know unless he cared to share with her. Which he doesn’t. Not yet.
“Was I right?”
“Mostly, yes.”
“Mmm.” She takes another sip of her whiskey. “Do you think maybe one day you’ll fill in the gaps for me?”
“Maybe one day.”
“That’s all I can ask for. Besides, I’m not very forthcoming with my past,” she suddenly says. “And you never push, so I won’t do it with you.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I didn’t have a happy childhood, and it’s not something I want to reflect on.”
“I definitely understand that.”
She offers him a smile, even as the bombs shake the house all around them. For a split second, Lockwood thinks the house has been hit and the roof is going to cave in on them. But then there’s a moment of silence, of reprieve, and his ears ring. He looks at Lucy and thinks that if he does end up dying tonight, at least he’ll have his lovely housemate at his side. There are worse ways to go.
“And I dated a boy who ended up joining the RAF as well, and he was shot down over Germany,” Lucy continues on. “Missing in action.”
Lockwood’s heart clenches in his chest. “I’m sorry. There’s no chance he could be in a prisoner of war camp?”
“No, there’s no chance,” Lucy says firmly. “His aeroplane was ripped to shreds. I don’t see how anyone could survive that.”
“If he jumped before - “
“No. I’m sure he’s dead.”
Lockwood nods slowly at the hardness in her voice. Maybe it’s just easier for her to tell herself that he’s dead, that he’s not coming back. But this presents one more obstacle in the already rocky path that is their attraction. If she’s still thinking about a boy who may or may not be dead, then she won’t want to take that next step with him. She’ll feel guilty, and he can’t ask her to go through the storm of emotions that would come with attempting to move on.
“Well, I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thank you.” Her hand visibly shakes in the darkness as she raises her whiskey glass to her lips. “Did you have someone waiting on you when you were shot down?”
“Not then, no.”
“Are you going to be flying again?” Her hand isn’t the only thing shaking now; her voice quavers as she asks the question.
“It’s possible. But nothing is for certain, Luce. Right now I have a perfectly safe desk job that I’m fine with.”
“Are you happy with it?” she asks curiously.
“I could be.”
“But you’re not.” She shifts just a smidge closer to him. A shapely leg crosses the other and Lockwood wishes he could run his hand up and down her calf.
He is a horrible person.
“I’m a bit bored,” he admits. “But it’s meaningful work and it’s helping.”
“You’ll be flying again soon,” she says with a sigh.
“Not necessarily.”
“No, you will be. You’re itching to get back out there, I can feel it.”
“I have to be cleared by a physician first.”
“You’re strong. You will be.” She juts her chin out. “Just try not to die, yeah?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good.” Her nails scratch over the fabric of his trousers, down his thigh, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. He forces himself to relax under her touch, to sit back and enjoy it because this may never happen again. “That’s all I can ask for.” Her hand rests flat on his leg. Her fingers squeeze his knee, before pulling away. She takes a deep breath. “I’ve been called out to report on the aftermath of tonight’s bombing. Once the all-clear is given, I have to go.”
“All right.” He hates it when she has to leave the house to cover a story immediately following a bombing, but he understands it’s her job. He wishes he could go with her, but he doubts she’d welcome the company. “Be careful. Looters and all that.”
She gives him a small, hesitant smile. “Of course. I’m always careful.”
He snorts. “I doubt that. I know you.”
“Well, I’ll try to be careful. I don’t want you to worry.”
“I know. It’s fine. If I get put on active duty again, you’ll be worrying about me.”
Her smile flickers. “You said it, not me.”
“I’m sorry.” He tosses back the rest of his whiskey.
“It’s for the war. I just - “ She trails off and doesn’t complete her sentence, but Lockwood thinks he can finish it.
I just don’t want to lose a second person
.
It’s his turn to place his hand on her thigh. She hitches her skirt up, just an inch, so he can feel the warmth of her skin seeping into his palm. She’s so soft beneath his fingers, and he wishes he could lay her back on the sofa and make love to her right here, right now. But that’s not going to happen. Not now. Maybe never.
“I understand,” he whispers. She turns to look at him and their gazes lock for just a moment. He can’t keep his eyes from drifting down to her lips, and she licks over her mouth. He stares, before forcing himself to look down into his empty glass. Drops of whiskey cling to the sides like golden sparks of hope.
“Will you be up when I come home?” Lucy asks quietly.
“Of course,” he says softly, his voice barely louder than a murmur. “I’ll have a cup of tea waiting for you.”
She smiles, true and real. It’s not pure joy, but it seeps through his veins like warmth, like hope, like a wish on a shooting start. “I’m looking forward to it.”
He smiles back, and they settle against the sofa, their legs tangling with the other’s as the bombs continue to tumble down all through London.