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“Dance with me?”
Lucy glances up from her cup of tea. She had found herself unable to resist the dark liquid's pull, each stir of her teaspoon creating minor tornadoes to disappear into. She's sitting with her head lolled to the side, mouth slightly agape in her trance, the kitchen around her murky and muffled except for the rhythmic clanking of metal on ceramic. In other words, she's in enough of a state for Lockwood to extend a hand, stopping her from stirring a crack into the mug.
Though she loathed to admit it, the night was closing in on her. George had warned her about the case that afternoon, in the sort of roundabout way he always did.
“Lucy,” he had said, after Lockwood left the room and she got up to follow. She turned to find him looking at her with an uncharacteristic worry in his eyes.
“What’s up, Georgie?”
He bit at his bottom lip, a brief furrow in his eyebrow as he shifted in his seat. Lucy was gripped with the memory of how he’d been sitting in that same armchair taunting her about being feisty not too long ago, but now he had an oddly concerned expression plastered across his face. She shot him a small smile.
George pursed his lips in response. “I know I mentioned the Visitor, y’know, driving a knife through her heart to escape her family, but I thought you might prefer to know the specifics. The victim’s mother was…not the greatest.”
One of his legs was shaking, in the way it did when he got nervous. He and Lockwood knew about her past, of course — she had told them one morning over breakfast, when the words felt like they were bubbling in her throat and threatening to erupt. Then Lockwood had put a plate of buttered toast in front of her and George had presented her with her favourite donuts from Arif’s and all of a sudden she could no longer tamp the urge down like she always did. It had made for a strange occasion, her recounting the way her mother and Jacobs had treated her, watching as the boys swallowed harder and gripped their mugs tighter with every story.
By the end of it, the afternoon sun had crested high, Lockwood’s jaw was clenched so forcefully she worried he would get lockjaw, and the frown on George’s face could rival Barnes’. She had barely noticed the warm dampness on her cheeks until Lockwood offered her a tissue.
It made sense, then, that George was looking out for her, letting her know in advance what she might have to Listen to, what she might have to feel. She gave him another smile, this time trying her best to be reassuring. She wondered if he could tell that she hardly believed herself.
“I’ll be fine, George. Thank you for telling me.”
Between having to weasel her way rather unceremoniously into a crawlspace to secure the source (a dagger, caked with blood from the heart of the victim), Listening to the degradation the Visitor’s mother had unleashed upon her, and feeling the rage and desperation of the young girl as she tried to escape once and for all, Lucy was considerably not as fine as she thought she’d be. The victim’s indignation and despondency, how deeply she felt she was out of options, was all too familiar to her. And a nagging, long-buried part of her couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if she never left for London.
The journey home was muddied, though Lucy registered fleeting moments. George leaving to drop the source off, Lockwood in the back of a night cab with her as she stared out the side window, and her body stumbling through the doorway into the kitchen. At some point Lockwood had made her the cup of tea, complete with four spoonfuls of sugar. Now she stares up at him, his question still unanswered.
“What?” she manages, blinking against the dimmed kitchen lights. He’s standing by the sink, and through the window behind him she sees the moon, its light skimming the top of his hair before dissipating into the rest of the room. The edges of his lips are ever so slightly upturned as he regards her in a manner she’s never seen before, a strange softness in his eyes. Maybe if she looks closer, she can see her own reflection trapped in his irises and find out exactly what it is he’s smiling at.
“Dance with me.”
He says it like it’s the most mundane thing in the world, extended hand barely faltering in front of her. A flush creeps up Lucy’s cheeks as she surfaces from the oppressive haze of her thoughts, slotting herself back into the present. How long had Lockwood been standing there? Was he staring at her as she disappeared down the whirlpool of her tea? When did they talk about dancing? And why did the world seem to stop spinning so violently when he looked at her like that?
Too many questions she doesn't have the answers to. Wordlessly, she puts a hand in Lockwood’s, letting him pull her up onto her feet. Ever the gentleman, his other hand moves to only lightly graze her waist, the pressure she longs to feel not quite there. Lucy gazes up at him, and if her breath stutters and the air feels thin all of a sudden it’s probably the after-effects of being in that dusty crawlspace and not because she registered their sudden close proximity and his eyes peering back down at her, questioning. She clears her throat.
“I thought you wanted to dance.”
Lucy's words come out more softly than she intended, pointedly regarding their static position. Lockwood’s left hand is clasped loosely around her right, his other hand barely ghosting her middle, giving her the chance to break away if she wants to. And he’s still staring down at her, usual mischievous glint in his eye replaced with a tenderness that makes her feel like she’s intruding on his heart.
She doesn’t want to unpack the sudden lurch in her chest.
So she squeezes their held hands, a silent confirmation, feeling warmth fizzing and unfurling as he firmly plants his hand on her waist. Almost instinctively, her left hand wanders up his arm to settle on his shoulder. It hits her that she hasn’t done this since she and Norrie used to pretend they were posh Londoners at made-up galas.
Lockwood steps closer now, knocking her out of the memory before it can lodge itself in her throat. He’s started swaying side to side with her in tow, and she swears she can hear him humming something they’ve heard on the radio. She moves forward before her mind can protest, resting her chin on Lockwood’s shoulder, feeling the gentle vibrations from his throat radiating throughout his body. If she feels him shudder slightly or catches the tune faltering, she doesn’t mention it.
There, between the kitchen sink and the dining table, time is caught in stasis. Lucy thinks she could stay like this forever, the pressure of the night lifting up and away with every step they take. She closes her eyes, revelling in the way her head emptied itself of those troublesome thoughts, now replaced by her and Lockwood’s soothing oscillation.
“They used to do this a lot,” Lockwood starts, his voice barely a whisper, and Lucy wakes from the daze she had slipped into, “whenever things got too messy or complicated. They’d dance in the kitchen and just…forget for a bit. Pretend things were alright, until they actually were.”
Lucy doesn’t need to ask who he’s talking about, just moves her hand down from his shoulder to his waist, pressing herself closer. Lockwood wraps his arm fully around her, moving his chin against the top of her head. They’re not dancing now as much as they’re in a swaying hug.
“Are we?” Lucy says, not properly registering what she’s asking. She doesn’t know what makes her say it. Maybe it’s the night, and how it promises to keep their secrets under a shroud of darkness, a stone never to be turned. Maybe she’s been meaning to find out since he asked her not to give up on him, that night they’d leapt into the Thames. Maybe she’s tired of stealing glances at him from across the Thinking Cloth, of their fleeting touches and restrained smiles.
She tilts her head to properly look up at Lockwood. The moon has shifted, and now there’s a brightly illuminated spot by the corner of his right eye as he turns to meet her gaze. She gets the sudden urge to press her lips there.
“Pretending?” he responds, an odd lilt in the way he turns the word around on his tongue. His eyes are boring straight through Lucy, leaving a trail of fire licking at her insides. She has to look away, save herself, but she can’t, and she catches his eyes dart to her lips and back up. Now that he’s stopped humming, the silence settles around them. Lucy tunes in to the refrigerator’s meek buzzing, unable to find a reply, searching his face for some sort of purchase. They’re too close, and she could just end the tiptoeing now. Push herself closer and finally do what she’s wanted to do for so long, unearth all their hidden doubts and dispel them, cast the silver net upon the source. Address this thing between them that neither one knows how to face. Find out what they could be, together.
But she doesn’t, so they won’t.
Lucy pulls away from Lockwood, unclasping their hands, letting her arms fall to her sides. She watches him straighten up, sees a flash of disappointment across his face before it’s quickly replaced with the grin he guards himself with. It’s not quite the brilliant one he shows to prospective clients to quell their nerves, neither is it the one he gives to Barnes before making a promise he can’t keep. It’s the one he plasters on whenever they’re in the library and she asks about the photo albums tucked behind piles of books, or when she catches him staring at her necklace for too long.
Lucy smiles back, a silent apology. She doesn’t know what for. Perhaps it’s for how tomorrow morning, she’ll make her way down to the kitchen and find Lockwood standing at the sink, making her tea. They’ll make eye contact, awkward with acknowledgement of what happened last night, before reverting right back to being Anthony Lockwood and Lucy Carlyle, associates and partners in crime. He’ll butter her toast for her, and maybe his touch lingers when he slides her plate over and their hands bump together, the sensation burning through her skin. Her cheeks might run hot when he looks at her with hints of last night’s gaze persisting. They might hear that song on the sitting room radio again and watch George nod his head to the rhythm while they sit on the couch, desperately trying to shake the memory.
And if their hands inch close enough to touch, neither of them mentions it.