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They’re just about to leave without him — Lockwood’s already scribbled a note on the Thinking Cloth, Lucy’s got the house keys swinging around a finger, ready to lock up behind them — when the front door of 35 Portland Row bangs open, revealing George’s even-more-disheveled-than-usual form, dramatically silhouetted against the burning orange of the setting sun. He’s sweaty and out of breath and carrying a stack of books and manila folders nearly as tall as him; his smudged glasses are askew.
“It won’t work,” he gasps out, the pile of research threatening to topple until Lockwood grabs it from him, setting it on the nearest shelf.
“What won’t work?”
“Our usual approach,” George answers. “This ghost doesn’t show itself to just anyone at any time. It’s got a type.”
“Which is?”
“Couples.” He fixes his glasses, an action Lucy uncharitably attributes to his desire to better see his colleagues’ discomfort. “Married ones.”
Lockwood swallows. Lucy’s face grows pale, then very hot.
“Well,” Lockwood says, first to recover as always, “we’ll have to go undercover. Who wants to join me — George?”
“Flattered, I’m sure, but sorry — you’re not my type. Either of you,” he adds, with a glance at Lucy that’s not apologetic in the slightest.
“Guess that means it’s you and me, Luce,” Lockwood says, without quite looking at her. “If that’s alright,” he adds softly.
Alright. Alright. Lucy doesn’t have a word for what she’s feeling — in fact, she’s quite certain it doesn’t exist in the English language. Maybe the Germans have one that captures this specific cocktail of panic and pleasure, but if she ever learned it it’s eluding her now, much like the ability to close her mouth or respond in a way beyond a humiliating little squeak.
“Luce?” Lockwood asks, composed as ever, checking in with her in his careful way.
“Yes,” she manages, the word scraping from her sandpaper throat. “Yes, fine.”
“Excellent. George, get us a cab, will you? I’ve just got to fetch something from upstairs.”
Lucy doesn’t look at George, busying herself with the bags and securing her rapier, but she can feel his pointed look poking at her all the same.
“Not a word,” she mutters.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“And you won’t, if you know what’s good for you.”
He chuckles. “Still feisty.”
George fills them in on the cab ride over, Lucy and Lockwood sharing the forward-facing seat with a very respectable space between them, George perched on one of the flip-down seats on the far side, their bags piled on the floor in between.
“As you know,” George begins, “we’re dealing with a ghost who attacks people staying in the little room over The Fox and Crown pub. The pattern appeared random at first, but it’s actually quite obvious, once you know what to look for.” He pulls out photocopies marked with tabs and highlighted sections and notes scribbled in the margins — features of his convoluted organizational system that Lucy had long ago given up deciphering. “Every victim was a married couple staying together, and anyone else who stayed in the room left unscathed. Well, with one exception, last October. The couple who rented the room was in the process of separating, but had to come to town for some family function and didn’t want to share the unhappy news just yet. They were technically married, but with no ghost sighting.” He adjusts his glasses. “Stands to reason that it only targets happily married couples, so best to be convincing about it if you want it to show itself.”
“Convincing?” Lockwood asks.
“You know,” George says, waving a hand between the two of them with an expression like he’s sucking on a rotted lemon, “affectionate.”
Bubbles of anticipation brew in Lucy’s gut. Part of her has never been more excited for a case; a different part would like to jump from the still-moving cab and run screaming into the night, not stopping until she reaches Dover and flings herself directly off the cliffs.
“Yes, well,” Lockwood says, clearing his throat and reaching into his coat pocket for something small, wrapped in a square of white cloth, “I can help with that. After all, every good ruse starts with a persuasive disguise.”
Lucy only gets the barest glimpse of something that glints in the greenish ghost light filtering through the cab’s windows before Lockwood has taken her hand. His long fingers are warm and steady, his mouth curved in one of her favorite smiles — the one that means he’s embarking on some scheme and chuffed to have her as his accomplice.
“Lucy Carlyle,” he says, sliding a simple silver band onto her finger, “will you do me the honor of being my fake wife?”
For such a small bit of metal, the ring weighs heavy on Lucy’s hand as Lockwood opens the pub’s door, sweeping an arm to gesture inside.
“After you, darling.”
He’s all polish and manners and chivalry; she glares and shoulders past him into the crowded room.
“Remember,” George hisses as he clomps past her, “you’re happily married.”
He hauls himself onto a barstool and orders a pint and a pasty; he’s got a stack of comic books to keep him occupied and a backpack filled with flares and salt bombs should they need backup.
(Those same supplies are tucked into Lucy’s bag as well, but they’ll have to stay hidden until the last possible minute if they want the ghost to show. Normally, it would make her twitchy to be so ill-prepared on a job, but of all the things currently making her nervous, that fact resides solidly at the bottom of the list.)
Lockwood speaks with the proprietor to check them in and signs the guest register using his surname them both — Anthony & Lucy Lockwood, her name alliterative and loopy in his pristine cursive. Blue ink stains Lucy’s finger when she traces over the entry before it dries.
The sight of it swoops through her belly like she’s suddenly standing on the edge of a great precipice; the fact that Lockwood has handled all these practicalities with only one hand due to his refusal to let go of hers does nothing to steady her.
It’s only prudent, after all. They don’t know where the Source is located, or how far the ghost can roam. It could be watching them right now. Lockwood is simply being professional.
Nothing more.
Lucy manages to thoroughly convince herself of that by the time they reach the top of the stairs, fitting the key into the door of little room they’ve rented—
—When, without warning, Lockwood drops their bags, scoops her off her feet, and cradles her in his arms.
She shrieks; he laughs.
“Lockwood, what are you—“
“It’s tradition to carry my bride across the threshold, is it not?”
He’s smiling big and broad as she wraps her arms around his neck to help support her own weight; he bounces her a bit and settles her more fully against his chest as if to show it’s no strain at all. In fact, it seems to her that he’s holding her the same way he’s done everything since he slipped that ring on her finger in the taxi — as if he’s taking deep pleasure in it.
Which is preposterous, of course. Lucy shakes off the idea, instead scowling and blushing and absolutely not relishing the feel of his strong arms around her back and thighs or the way his firm muscles shift as he steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him.
He sets her down slowly, gently, his fingertips lingering on the swell of her hips as he helps steady her back on her feet.
(As if steady were really an option for her right now.)
Around them, the room is clean and cozy. A tall bed covered with a quilt is shoved against the far wall; beside it is a narrow wardrobe and a little bedside table. There’s a single window covered with lacy drapes beyond which the darkness is broken by the glow of a distant ghost lamp. A cheery fire burns in the old brick fireplace, bathing the room in warmth and its dancing orange light.
It doesn’t feel haunted. In fact, it’s toasty and cozy compared to the pub downstairs, and even more markedly so in contrast to the snow steadily falling outside the window, blanketing the streets. In here, it’s as if the sun never set and winter never came, the fire and lamplight keeping the cold and dark at bay.
It is, however, quite tiny. There’s barely enough room to move around; outside of the bed there’s nowhere to sit, nothing to do.
Lockwood retrieves their bags from the landing and deposits them in the corner, then just sort of stands there, smoothing his tie with one hand, looking uncharacteristically unsure for a moment.
“Don’t suppose you brought cards or anything to pass the time?” Lucy asks.
“Actually,” he says, bending back down to riffle through his bag, “I do have a book.” He shrugs. “We could share.”
Lucy reaches into her backpack, blissfully free of the skull jar tonight, and pulls out something much more enjoyable instead.
“I brought hot chocolate and biscuits.”
His face splits into a dazzling grin. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”
There’s nowhere to sit except the bed, so they settle in cross-legged and facing one another, holding steaming mugs and taking turns with the biscuit packet between them.
They talk about nothing in particular, having to avoid anything to do with work so as not to tip off any Visitors listening as to their profession. Lucy gives him the news from her sister Mary’s latest letter; Lockwood tells her a story about a favorite classmate from when he was young. She doesn’t know if it’s true or part of his cover persona, but it’s nice all the same. She lets herself laugh along, pretend this is real, that he’s willing to open up and share something with her.
After all, she’d accepted long ago that his attention is a lighthouse spinning on a distant shore. When it sweeps in her direction, everything is illuminated like broad daylight, warm and bright, pinning her like a moth in its blinding brilliance. Then, inevitably, it’s gone again, and the darkness rushes in even colder and thicker than before.
Except tonight that beam isn’t turning away.
His focus is on her alone, so intense it’s tangible. She feels it brushing over her skin, burrowing into her chest; despite all her best efforts to fight it, Lockwood is lighting her up from the inside out.
“Here,” he says, leaning toward her suddenly, “you’ve just got a bit of a crumb…” and then his thumb is at the corner of her mouth and her heart is in her throat.
She shivers, goosebumps pebbling her arms, and she’s certain the ghost has arrived — but there’s just Lockwood, with his loosened tie and messy hair and crossed legs, pink socks peeking out beneath those too-tight trousers. The fire is reflected in his dark eyes.
His thumb lingers, the pad stroking lightly along her lower lip; she has the wild impulse to lick it clean.
But then he does it for her, leaning back and popping his thumb in his mouth, and if this room wasn’t haunted before it’s definitely going to be now because Lucy’s heart is pounding hard enough to kill her.
Lockwood, somehow utterly unaware of his partner’s impending cardiac arrest, simply sets his empty cup aside before gathering his things for the shower. He bends over to kiss her forehead before leaving, quick and gentle and easy, like he’s done it a thousand times before, like he’ll do it every day for the rest of their lives.
She flops back on the bed, face hot.
As soon as he’s gone she allows herself ten seconds of wild fantasizing, the same kind of completely debauched insanity she typically only indulges in late at night in her little attic room when she can’t sleep, her blood still hot and pumping from fighting a particularly dangerous ghost.
Then she shakes her head, presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, and forces herself to her feet.
At first she just paces, crossing the small room in three strides before pivoting. Then she unpacks a little, wondering which side of the bed he’d prefer but unable to ask; a married couple would have worked out such a thing long ago. She drags her bag over and leaves it open and accessible under the bed, then stealthily stashes a rapier between the headboard and nightstand.
And then she can’t find anything else to distract herself with, so she crawls onto the side of the bed against the wall, leaving the open side for Lockwood. She settles, breathes deep, and reaches out with all her senses — but the room feels empty and silent.
The only change to the atmosphere comes when Lockwood returns with shower-damp hair and soft pajamas, his warm skin smelling of soap. He slides easily into place on the bed, holding his book with one hand and raising the arm near her in silent invitation.
So Lucy cuddles close, the feeling something akin to when she was twelve years old and her sisters snuck her into a 15 rated movie — like she’s an intruder, an imposter, an interloper mucking around where she ought not to be — and utterly delighted by it.
Lockwood cracks open the spine and begins reading aloud; it’s an old novel, not something Lucy would have ever chosen on her own, but interesting enough in Lockwood’s familiar timbre. She soon drifts, losing the plot at times to simply feel the way his voice vibrates through his chest beneath her ear.
“To him she seemed so beautiful,” he reads, “so seductive, so different from ordinary people, that he could not understand why no one was as disturbed as he by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones, why no one else's heart was wild with the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils, why everyone did not go mad with the movements of her braid, the flight of her hands, the gold of her laughter.”
Throughout the passage, Lockwood’s fingers trail slow lines from Lucy’s shoulder to elbow and back again, sparking and electric, and if she’d been about to doze off before she’s certainly wide awake now.
“He had not missed a single one of her gestures, not one of the indications of her character, but he did not dare approach her for fear of destroying the spell.”
The next time he strokes down to her elbow his hand keeps journeying south, skimming off and landing on the curve of her waist. His long, thin fingers begin toying with the hem of her shirt.
She glances up at his face from her spot tucked up against his side; his expression is the picture of innocence.
So he’s going to play it like that then.
Well, Lucy’s never been one to back down from a challenge and she’s certainly not going to start now. She curls even closer and turns toward him, hitching her thigh across his and slotting their legs together, then slides her palm across the hard plane of his stomach.
Lockwood’s steady elocution hesitates, nearly stumbles; then he just spreads his legs a little to give her more room and keeps reading, voice a little deeper and rougher than it had been before.
Her hand sneaks beneath his t-shirt, the skin of his stomach warm and soft, the muscle taut and firm. Lockwood’s clever fingers decide to do some exploring of their own, dipping beneath the waistband of her pajamas, stroking arcs of fire over her hip and lower belly.
His callouses are rough but his touch is so gentle; Lucy is throbbing, aching with hunger, something long caged in her chest clawing to get free. She can hear its howl in the boiling blood rushing beneath her skin and she can barely breathe, gripping Lockwood’s side like she’s adrift on the roiling ocean and he’s both life preserver and the undertow threatening to drown her. He curls his fingers, blunt nails scratching lightly along the crease where her hip meets her thigh; she’s dangerously close to losing this game of emotional chicken they’ve got going.
Time to remember why they started playing.
With a ragged exhale and her last coherent thought, Lucy manages to whisper his name.
“Lockwood.”
Nothing happens.
“Lockwood,” she tries again, a little firmer.
It’s as if he’s in a trance — lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy — and it takes him a moment to swim up out of it, blinking groggily a few times before snapping to attention. His arm tightens protectively around her, his eyes scanning the room.
“What? Did you hear something?”
“No. Nothing. See anything?”
He looks around again, slower and more carefully this time. “No.”
Lucy sighs, scooting away to put a little distance between them and flopping back on the bed. She presses a palm to her stomach, using the touch to ground herself while she tries out the breathing technique recommended in the Fittes Manual for reeling in emotions when facing down a ghost.
Much to her surprise, it works.
“Well,” she says, confident now that her voice won’t shake, “so much for George’s happily married theory. I mean, it’s not as we haven’t tried. And it’s certainly not your fault the Visitor hasn’t shown — you’ve got some real acting talent. I almost believed you wanted to be with me.”
“I’m actually not that good an actor,” he says, watching her from the side of his eye as if waiting for an unexpected reaction.
She simply scoffs. “Humility? Coming from you?
He drops his chin, hair flopping across his forehead, lips curving in a rueful smile. “Just being honest.”
“Regardless,” she says, gesturing between them, “I guess we just aren’t believable as a couple.”
A second passes, then another; he takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders back, a move she recognizes as the one he makes right before doing something particularly reckless.
“Then we’ll just have to be more convincing,” he says, shifting down so they’re lying face to face in the small bed. He stares at her for a long moment, the firelight shining in his dark eyes; then his pale hand lifts to brush back her bangs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers trail over her jaw to her chin, taking it gently between his thumb and forefinger before slowly, so slowly, leaning in.
Lucy stands on a high wire, wind buffeting her from all sides, scared to move, scared to breathe.
Their lips are so close they brush together, Lockwood’s breath hot against her skin when he whispers, “May I kiss you, Luce?”
And oh, how she wants to say yes. More than that actually — she wants to close the tiny distance between them, to let herself indulge, to find out how close her late-night fantasies are to the real thing—
—and then she remembers that this is no more real than those dreams.
It’s an act. It’s a job.
She pulls back enough to see his eyes flutter open, confused and unfocused at first.
“Lockwood, please don’t— don’t tease me anymore, alright? This is… it’s a difficult enough job without feeling like the butt of your jokes.”
He moves immediately to the far side of the bed.
He’s still lying down, still facing her, but all the languid ease is gone; every muscle and sinew is rigid, his spine straight. He regards her with serious eyes.
“I never want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Lucy. Never. And certainly not for something as mundane as a job.” He lifts a hand as if to touch her arm or shoulder, then thinks better of it and curls the fingers into his palm. “Would you like to leave?”
Lucy reaches across the distance between them and covers the back of his fist with her hand, the touch gentle and warm. She’d swear she can feel him shaking a little.
“No,” she says, “no. We’re already here, and we got paid up front. Let’s see if we can get it done.”
He nods and swallows hard, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment.
“For the record,” he finally says, dragging his gaze down to meet hers, “I haven’t been teasing you.”
She expects him to go on, to explain what he means by that — but then, they don’t know who or what might be listening.
Or maybe there’s just nothing more to say.
“Alright,” she says finally. “Good.”
He watches her for another long moment, eyes narrowed, lips pressed; his expression is oddly reminiscent of one she’s seen on George’s face when he’s translating some ancient text or moldy old relic. Then Lockwood blinks and softens, not moving toward her necessarily, but allowing for the possibility of her moving to him.
So she does. Partly because he’s right — they need to step it up if they want this ghost to show — and partly because she just wants to.
He’s carefully still and passive. She touches his face, fingertips on sharp jaw, thumbs sweeping across cheekbones, then gently stroking through his hair.
His eyes, which had been locked with hers, drift shut.
“Tell me if I do something you don’t want me to do,” she whispers.
“Lucy, the only way you could do that is if you stopped touching me.”
Her fingers twist in his hair, tugging a little in rebuke. “No teasing, remember?”
His eyes open, burning black. “I’m not.”
She has no words in response, only a deep, aching well of want. Trembling, she slides a little closer, pressing her lips first to his cheek, then the hinge of his jaw. She takes her time, gently making her way to the corner of his mouth, his exhale shaky against her flushed skin.
The first kiss is hesitant, soft, barely a brush of her mouth against his. It’s over as soon as it begins.
“Lucy,” he exhales, ragged and raw. It sounds like a prayer, like a promise; her name hangs in the air, echoing, reverberating, buzzing like a tattoo needle permanently marking this moment on them both.
Then Lockwood tilts his head a fraction of an angle, his nose rubbing against hers, and fits their lips more firmly together. If Lucy’s kiss had been a question, this one is an answer — a resounding, resolute yes.
His hand slides to her throat; beneath his calloused palm, Lucy hums with pleasure.
The dam finally, finally, cracks.
And then his hand is threading into her hair and her tongue is in his mouth and he’s rolling on top of her to slide his thigh between her legs; his weight is pressing her to the mattress but they’re still not close enough. She’s pulling at his hip and curling her fingers into his back and his teeth are drawing sounds from her mouth she’s never made before. She’s panting and gasping and it should be hot, she should be sweating from the blankets and the fire and the touch of Lockwood’s skin—
—Instead, she finds herself shivering. Her toes and fingers are going numb; when she blinks her eyes open she can see her breath.
It clouds in the blue-green other-light.
“Lockwood,” she chokes.
“Lucy,” he groans, burying his face in the crook of her neck and pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse beating wildly there. His hand has crept under the hem of her shirt, rucking it up over her ribs; his thumb is stroking the skin mere inches from where she wants it to be and Lucy has never hated a ghost more than this one right now.
“No, Lockwood — she’s here.”
It takes him too long to catch up, to understand. By the time the words cut through the haze in his mind there’s no time left for fighting, for strategy, for any reaction except instinct — and Lucy knows his is to put himself in danger for her sake. She feels him roll fully on top of her, pulling her face into his neck and using his body as a barrier, offering himself up to ghost-touch to give her a chance at survival.
Well, fuck that.
Blindly, Lucy reaches for the rapier she’d stashed between the bed and the nightstand. It’s an awkward angle that wrenches her shoulder but it doesn’t matter; she wraps her hand around the grip and thrusts the blade up over Lockwood’s back. The ghost hisses and splits, tendrils of ectoplasm licking so close they leave burn marks on the sheets and pillowcases and white cotton of Lockwood’s shirt.
“Are you okay?” Lucy gasps against his shoulder, rapier point dropping to the floor, her fingers grappling at his ribs.
He pushes up on his elbows, hovering over her. Hair flops over his forehead.
“Yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, I’m alright. Thanks for that.”
“You’re about to be able to return the favor. She’s reforming in the corner.”
Lockwood pulls the rapier into his hand and springs to his feet; Lucy grabs one of the salt bombs she’d stashed under the bed and positions herself beside him.
The ghost — glowing in a shredded white dress, torn veil blowing about her face in a spectral wind — rushes again. Lockwood steps between her and Lucy, cutting a complicated figure with his blade, and the ghost shrieks and shrinks, retreating into the floorboard beneath the armoire.
After that it’s a simple matter of scooting the furniture and prying up a loose board, beneath which they find a delicate lace wedding veil turned yellow with age. Lucy secures it with a net; the air pressure eases.
Job done.
And then they’re just staring at each other in the silence from opposite sides of the tiny room. Outside the window the snow keeps falling, fat white flakes brushing like butterfly kisses against the glass; the fire in the hearth is burning low and crimson, hot coals flaring.
Lockwood’s chest is heaving and his cheeks are flushed; he bites at a lip still swollen from her kiss. The moment hangs suspended between them, two paths diverging: reach out and seize it, acknowledge what just happened, what could keep happening. The way it could be great, the way it would change everything. Or they could let it pass, let it all fade away. Everything stays in this room, they pretend it was just a cover.
Time stretches, thin and sweet as pulled taffy.
Lucy takes a small step forward.
And, slowly, Lockwood smiles.
They check out late the following morning, the fresh snow outside the windows blanketing the world in something sparkling and new. George is still on the stool where they left him but now he’s slumped over, cheek squished on the bar top and glasses askew; he’s snoring and creating an impressive puddle of drool.
“Poor Georgie,” Lucy whispers, smiling fondly. “We really should have let him know the job was done and he could go home.”
“We were a little busy,” Lockwood replies with a cheeky smirk. “It’ll be fine — we’ll buy him a big breakfast in apology.”
“Even so, he’s never going to let us hear the end of this.”
“Good,” Lockwood says, lifting their joined hands to kiss her knuckles; his ring still rests there, shining in the sunlight. “I think I’ll quite enjoy the reminder.”