Chapter Text
"Who wants to come to the Archives with me later?” George asks, tromping downstairs in just his sleep shirt. Lucy averts her eyes, focusing intently on the sketch in her lap.
"Christ, George," Lockwood says from his armchair. "There's a lady here. Have some decency."
(While Lucy objects to this fairer-sex nonsense generally, it's not unwelcome in situations like this.)
"She's not a lady. She's Lucy."
"George!” Lucy protests, forgetting herself and looking up and seeing far more of George than she ever wished to. She briefly considers grabbing the poker from the hearth and driving it into her eyes.
"Get dressed!" Lockwood shouts.
"Fine. Think about the Archives thing, though."
With that, George climbs the stairs to his room, his shirt mercifully oversized enough that Lucy doesn't catch a glimpse of his rear.
"Sorry about that, Luce. He hasn't done that since you moved in. I thought he was over it.”
Lucy smooths her skirt and tries to approximate a combination of demure and unbothered on her face. “It’s alright. We’ve fought alongside each other, so I suppose a lack of trousers is no more truly revealing.”
For her good-naturedness, Lockwood rewards her with that sunlit smile of his. “Right on, good. This is why I like having you around.”
Thank God for the fire – she can blame the flush climbing up her neck and over her ears on the heat.
“I’m not going to the Archives with him, to be clear,” Lucy trades her sketchbook for the cup of tea that’s been cooling on the side table. It’s cooled to the perfect temperature, and she takes a long sip. “I know I’m technically allowed to be there, but everyone always looks at me funny.”
“That’s fine,” Lockwood says. “I’d hoped you’d accompany me to scout out the site anyways, then to Mullet’s. You always remember what we need better than I do.”
“That’s because you refuse to use George’s lists. But yes, I’ll come with. When do you want to go?"
"Once George is decent?"
And for a moment, both of them smiling at each other in the soft, cloud-filtered light of a London winter's morn, Lucy feels the same rush she does when she connects with a ghost. She is allowed a glimpse into another time, though whether it is bygone or yet-to-be is unclear. All she knows is there is an energy of two people sitting just as they are, something electric and vibrant in the air between them. If Lucy didn't know better, if she would ever dare assign this word to anything even resembling her and Lockwood, she might call that something love.
"Perfect."
Scoping their client's building proves to be relatively easy – though it is a cramped space, Miss Ainsley stays neatly out of their way and answers any questions they have without hesitation. She pulls Lucy aside at the end and tells her that she thinks it's so wonderful that women can be agents now, and that she feels safer knowing that Lucy will be on the job tonight. She also lets Lucy know that she's lucky to have such a handsome colleague. Hands shoved into her muff, Lucy follows Lockwood out the door beaming.
"What, did she slip you some cash?" Lockwood teases. He's leaning against the building like a tipped-over pole, his top hat settled (even Lucy has to admit) rakishly on his dark hair.
"She had a compliment just for me," Lucy replies, knowing how that riles him up.
"Your feminine wiles, no doubt." But she doesn't miss the way his brows flash towards each other and then away again, passing from casual to perturbed and back to casual so quickly one would think someone was chasing them.
"Mm."
Absently, she straightens the lapels of his coat. She doesn't even notice what she's done until she's smoothing her hands over his chest and he's choking out a "Luce," his face the color of the tomatoes George carefully selects for their occasional full English breakfasts. She drops her hands like she's touched a hot stove. His chest was very warm, even through his winter layers.
"Sorry," he splutters. And it's brief moments like these where she remembers that he's human, that collected façade dropping to reveal the teenage boy below.
"I should be the one who's sorry. That was completely improper of me, I don't know why-”
"No, it's okay, I didn't mi-" And there he cuts himself off, but it sounds almost like he was going to say he didn't mind what she had done.
Which is utterly deluded for her to think, because as her employer and as a friend, he absolutely would have minded something so forward.
"Let's just go to Mullet's," he finishes, "and pick up some custard tarts on the way home? George will be pleased."
He offers her his arm, and she breathes a sigh of relief: this is how they move around the city when it's just them, and she hasn't mucked it up with her little faux-pas. Her hand fits ever-so-perfectly into the crook of his elbow.
"Did she say anything else? Miss Ainsley, I mean." Lockwood is staring ahead, that nonchalant image back firmly in place.
Lucy sighs. "She said that you were very handsome."
"I knew it!”
And it's annoying, but his boyish triumph stirs something bright in Lucy's chest. He holds his joy with such a tight fist that it sometimes squeezes out between his fingers, and Lucy finds herself cupping her hands to catch those rare droplets. She tells herself that she's saving them to return on one of those days when he so badly needs it.
Mullet's is fast, if a little tedious – Lockwood claims that they have more of the things on the list than they do, trying to convince Lucy not to buy them, and she just argues back that it wouldn't be on the list if they didn't need it.
Another shopper (a Fittes supervisor, judging by his uniform and age) claps Lockwood on the back and says, "Newlywed bliss, huh?” It hems Lockwood's resistance tenfold and Lucy finishes the rest of the shopping in blushing silence.
Snow has started blowing down heavy and thick by the time they reach Portland Row, and it seems to have chilled by nearly ten degrees. They've hardly stripped their outerwear and boots in the foyer before they're stumbling to the fireplace, trying to stash as much warmth away in their cores before they have to brave the cold again in less than an hour for the job.
"Are those custard tarts?" George asks by way of greeting when he stomps through the door soon after. Lucy had set the box down on the armchair when they got home in her haste to warm up, and of course it had been the first thing George spotted on entry.
"Sure are, but you might want to wait until later," Lockwood says, his back popping as he straightens up. "How did the research go?”
"Very well, thank you." George pops a tart into his mouth. "By all accounts, it shouldn't be more than one Spectre from when the previous owner died in, uh, childbirth."
His eyes flick to Lucy, who's staring intently at the flames and doing her best not to make a face. Certain types of deaths make Listening a very difficult Talent to have, but it's her cross to bear. Especially as a woman, she doesn't have the luxury of complaining about the hardships of a job she shouldn't have at all.
Lockwood turns to her. "You'll be okay, right, Luce? George and I can probably handle it on our own if you think it'll be too much."
"I'll be fine," she says, nearly talking over him. "I'm going to change."
There's a familiar urge to stomp as she walks up the stairs and to slam her door when she reaches it, to let her frustration shudder through the house, but she's far too old for that sort of behavior. It wouldn't do her any favors in convincing the boys that she's got herself and her emotions under control, either. Instead, she strips off her layers of clothing with a little too much force, nearly warping one of the metal eyes on her corset with her anger. The way it thunks on the ground does make her feel better, and so does the way the frigid attic air prickles on her skin.
The gear she wears for jobs is entirely homemade. She's one of six official female agents in London, so there are few widely available options, especially since she doesn't work for one of the larger agencies. It had taken her ages to find something that felt appropriately modest but still allowed her the necessary mobility, but this iteration was serving her well. She binds her chest with a strip of cloth, careful not to pull too tightly. Jumps had been involved in one of her earlier attempts, but after a bad ectoplasm burn to the ribs because Lockwood couldn't figure out how to unlace them, she had decided that her undergarments should be (1) minimal and (2) easy for a boy to remove. Next is a cotton shirt, over which she tucks a second dark blue top of a thicker knit, for the sake of warmth, modesty, and cleanliness. Third are woolen stockings that she had turned into a sort of tight pant, then a skirt that falls just to her knees. Add a fitted coat, heavy boots, and pinned-up braids, and you had the best female ghost hunter in all of London.
Of course, the boys just wore a stretchier version of their usual clothes, because why would anything be harder for them?
She clips on her rapier and kit belt and clomps back downstairs, finding Lockwood lounging in the kitchen. He's leaned against the countertop, and Lucy is forced to note (as she has many times before) that there is a grace to his lanky build, every limb arranged with ease. Everything about his clothes plays to his advantage: the black of his vest and pants serves to make his features even more severe in a way that used to make Lucy blush, and the high cut of pants that's in vogue highlights just how unfairly long his legs are. By contrast, Lucy often feels that her gear takes away anything that makes her look feminine. The layers on top and her bound chest creates a boxy silhouette; the straight cut of the skirt doesn't flare at her hips the way she likes her petticoats to do.
But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe she looks stronger like this, more like she belongs in this world.
At some point during her musings, Lockwood began speaking. She tries and fails to catch the thread with the fraying ends she actually hears.
"Sorry, what were you saying?"
"Just that George is packing the chains and we'll be on our way. Also, are we out of chocolate?"
"Oh." Lucy tugs at her undershirt to get it to stop riding up. "I forgot to put that on the list, I'm sorry."
"It's fine." Lockwood smiles at her, but she has a hard time believing it. She has very few jobs besides being an active agent at Lockwood & Co., and one of them, in her mind, is to keep on top of basic administrative things like that.
"Luce, really," he says, resting a hand on her shoulder as he walks by. "We've been busy lately; the fact that none of us noticed we were running low is proof enough. We'll pick some up tomorrow."
This soothes her guilt a little, but she makes a mental note anyway to get up early and pick up the chocolate herself.
"If you lovebirds are ready to go-”
"George!”
With that, the trio ventures out into the evening, the last lamplighter twisting on the green flame in the furthest ghost lamp of Portland Row.
Miss Ainsley is waiting outside for them when they arrive. She'll be staying just downstairs with a friend if they need anything, she says, and she's made a tray of biscuits for them if they feel so inclined. She hands the key to Lucy and gives the girl a gentle squeeze on the wrist. It is times like these that Lucy doesn't feel weaker for being a woman.
When the group enters the flat, the malaise hits Lucy so quickly she nearly doubles over with it. It's clear George is feeling it too, with the way he's leaning on the wall for support.
"Are you certain it's just one ghost, George?"
"I couldn't find anything else in the building records. If there's another ghost, the death was well covered up."
Lockwood, whose Talent lets him off the hook for some of the heavier malaise, looks at them both with concern. "Do you hear anything, Luce?"
Lucy shuts her eyes obligingly and braces for the pulse of psychic energy. It comes like a tidal wave, an immemorial, terrible harmony of a woman's screams and a newborn's wails. Lockwood had once explained the Devil's interval to her on the piano, and it seems to her that these ghostly cries are the tri-tone incarnate.
Something rattles to the floor with a metallic click, and in that odd space between her mind's ears and eyes Lucy forms a vision of a silver pin rolling between the floorboards and the walls. She wakes from her psychic daze and sags into the arm Lockwood throws around her waist.
"I know where the Source is."
In the bedroom, they don't bother with chains. It's hardly big enough for the bed and dresser that's in there, and Lucy is almost positive that she'll be able to get to the Source before the ghost has any real chance to attack. Nevertheless, Lockwood trails after her with his rapier drawn. Tendrils of ghostly light are illuminating the small room as Lucy digs her fingers into the crack. The rapier's swish is a constant, comforting legato in the back of her mind.
Her fingers brush cold metal, and the world disappears.
"Give me my baby!”
Pain wracks her whole body, the bowl of her pelvis like an aching sun for torturous heat. Her hair clings to her face with sweat and her nightdress to her legs with blood, but her mind is as clear as ever, or perhaps more. She does not know whether this baby is a girl or a boy, but it will not be sentenced to the life of an agent, a life of bearing a world on its shoulders that it will never get to actually live in.
"I can help her," says the doctor. "She will never work as an agent again, but her Talent could be-"
"She's nothing special," rumbles another person in the room. Her supervisor. "The baby likely has no Talent at all. They're not worth the effort."
"Understood. I'll stay the night with them both, and will deal with the outcomes in the morning?"
"Good man."
A new shock of pain bursts through her body, accompanied by a fresh slick of blood. She screams again, grasping at air for her child, then slips into a final darkness.
"Lucy!”
The weight of a silver net falls over her hands. She collides with something solid, warm. A hand pets over her hair. It's Lockwood, she knows, because this is their routine when jobs go south like this, propriety following her sanity down the rabbit hole.
"She was an agent," Lucy chokes out. "An unofficial one. They let…they let her die."
"Oh, Lucy…" This is George whispering from where he sits cross-legged, his knees pressed against hers. "That wasn't in the records."
Lucy shoots him a glare that she hopes conveys how stupid that statement was from a boy who's usually so smart, then immediately regrets it. Maybe it's the lingering emotions of the woman, but the value and tenuousness of her safety feels heightened now. The only reason she's an official agent is because she's as powerful as she is: the Problem is too salient to discount half of the Talented population, but not so that the powers-that-be will acknowledge their necessity. Unless a girl is supremely Talented in some way, they are taken on as unofficial agents, sent as backup on especially dangerous jobs with none of the training offered to full agents and regarded mostly as the carriers of the next generation. Lucy knew what that life meant – it's what she had run from when she came to London, and it's what she tries to let guide her every action at Lockwood & Co.
In recent months, she's gotten too comfortable – complacent, even – and it scares her more than she'll ever admit. The feelings she has (and tries not to acknowledge) for Lockwood are even worse. He wouldn't take advantage of her, that much she knows, but he also wouldn't have her in his company. A dismissal on her record would almost guarantee that she couldn't get a real job at any other agency, and God knows where she would end up after that.
"Eat." Lockwood presses a square of chocolate into her hand. "And don't argue about who needs it more."
Lucy indulges him on both counts, and drinks gratefully from the flask of tea that George hands her. The combination chases off the worst of the persisting ghostly thoughts.
"Let's collect our payment and go home," George says. He meets absolutely no argument from the rest of the council.
The way home is quiet, Lucy still plagued by her anxieties and all three of them by exhaustion. Snow stings her cheeks and she ducks her head – the boys can just turn up their collars, and Lockwood is wearing a scarf, but she has neither the fashion fortune or the foresight to enjoy those benefits.
Or she doesn't until Lockwood reaches over wordlessly and drapes his scarf around her neck. When she looks up at him, he gives her a soft, tired smile. It's worlds away from his usual brighter-than-a-star grin, but it warms her no less and feels more intimate, a version only she gets to see. She tucks the scarf high around her face, burying herself in the wooly heat and the scent of…well, she's not sure, actually, but it's woody and spicy and a little sweet, and it's distinctly him and she likes it.
Back home, Lockwood immediately stokes the fire in the kitchen and they all plunk down in their places around the table. Lucy springs up minutes later to make them all tea, and soon they're nursing piping hot cups and nibbling on custard tarts.
By the time Lucy curls up in bed, it feels as though all is right and safe with the world.
So imagine her shock when she flings open the door the next morning, dressed but hardly awake, to find a rough-hewn, all-too-familiar woman standing on her doorstep.
"Mother!"
"Who is it, Luce?" Lockwood calls from the kitchen, and Lucy cringes inwardly. So much for hiding that she lives with men. The shock, obvious enough on Mrs. Carlyle's face, twists into anger so quickly Lucy doesn't even see it coming. She's gotten soft during her year of relative safety. Stupid. A hand cracks across Lucy's face and she cries out, devoid of even the good sense to keep her mouth shut.
"Now I know why we haven't heard from you, girl. You've been…" Her voice drops to a whisper, "whoring yourself out just to keep away from us. I've seen you in the papers and I couldn't imagine why such a prestigious agency would take you on, but now I understand. Who wouldn't want that kind of stress relief-"
"Good morning, ma'am," says Lockwood from where he's appeared at Lucy's shoulder. He takes the slightest step forward, putting himself subtly between her and her mother, and also blocking her left hand from Mrs. Carlyle's view. This little trick has gotten them out of many a bind before, but it's going to end badly in front of her mother.
Not that she could tell him that, because he's already slipping the thin ring onto the correct finger.
"And you're-" Mrs. Carlyle starts.
"Engaged to Lucy, that's correct," Lockwood supplies, cutting off whatever rude comment she was about to make with one of his patented smiles. He threads his fingers through Lucy's and holds up her left hand. "I'd ask that you don't hit my fiancé, please. Or anyone."
His tone is polite, but his posture, the way his hand cradles the hilt of his rapier, is anything but. Mrs. Carlyle splutters, searching for a reply.
Dropping her hand and wrapping an arm around Lucy's waist, Lockwood urges her aside and swings the door wide.
"If you swear to be civil, you're welcome to come in and have some tea," he says. "I'm sure you have many questions."