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"Not our best," Lockwood said.
George, who was dripping blood from his forehead, looked at Lockwood. "Oh I don't know," he said, "I thought that was a fine result. Between the gash in my head, Lucy’s twisted ankle, and your wrist, Lockwood, I’d say we did well."
Lucy snorted. They certainly did not do well. Poltergeists were never easy, and while this one hadn’t been on the scale of Aikmere’s, it certainly hadn’t been easy when they were working within a crumbling estate. Lucy hated to admit that her twisted ankle had nothing to do with the actual haunting but was a direct result of a mistimed step on a faulty staircase, leaving her sprawled on the ground with an acute throbbing in her ankle and a disorienting blur of her vision as she nearly fainted from the pain. Which of course she would admit to no one. She was a bloody agent after all, she could handle an ankle.
"No," Holly said delicately, "Unfortunately Lockwood is right. We definitely could have done better here. There were several instances where—"
Lucy groaned. "Holly, come of it. You cannot keep blaming yourself. It's getting tiresome. There’s plenty I did wrong too."
Holly smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "We don't have a very good track record against poltergeists, you and I, do we?"
Lucy laughed. "No, I guess we don’t."
They were crowded near the old mansion, huddling under the roof waiting for a cab as the rain pounded the earth. What had started as a clear, crisp night with a yellow, glowing crescent moon slung low in the sky, had turned threateningly dark. And now there was a torrential downpour.
"At any rate, George will record it in the case book, and we'll analyze what went wrong and how we can avoid a fate like this in the future," Lockwood said. "I'm not concerned. We sealed the sources, so we succeeded.”
"Lockwood, if this is how you define success, then I reckon you need to get your head checked."
“Probably didn't help that there ended up being two poltergeists," Lucy said, "and that it took us bloody ages to figure that out." And really, they should have figured it out much earlier, when there was destruction throughout the entire house that hadn’t been isolated in one area. Splitting up had been a decision that she and Holly had made, and Lockwood had gone along with it. In hindsight, that decision was looking poor.
"All because you two had to prove that you could handle another poltergeist," George said.
"Don't blame Holly!"
"To be clear, I'm not just blaming Holly," George said, wiping at the blood that was still freely running down his forehead. "I'm blaming you too, Luce."
Lockwood held up a long, slim hand. "That's enough. It's been a long night, and we’re all tired, a bit banged up, and could do with some hot cocoa when we get back to Portland Row. Now, who’s up for bringing the source to the furnaces?"
No one answered him. "I’m bleeding," George said, "Surely that has got to be an out. I can get a medical note should you need one." He turned to Holly. "As our best medic on the team, I hereby request a note justifying that I'm unfit for duty."
"George—"
"No, unfortunately, Lockwood," Holly said, "George is quite right. We should get him home. I can patch him up. Goodness knows I don't trust him to do it himself. Nor you, Lockwood, given how poorly you handled Lucy’s knife wound. And Lucy," Holly looked at her, then sighed. "I'm afraid that you might not be much better than the boys here. No offense."
"None taken," Lucy said. She didn’t want to patch George up anyway. He’d probably critique her skills the entire time, and with the throb in her ankle, and George’s current irritability, Lucy very much thought that she and George would not be the ideal combo right now.
–-----
After what seemed like ages, the first cab arrived to take George and Holly back to Portland Row. Lucy and Lockwood remained huddled close together to stay dry.
"I don't envy Holly right now," Lucy said.
"No, I suppose not. George did seem tetchy," Lockwood said, chuckling. He looked at Lucy, tracing his dark eyes over her body, and Lucy felt her face heat, despite the cold and wet weather surrounding them. "How’s the ankle, Luce? Nothing else?"
"Nothing else."
"That’s a relief. Though I would have preferred you weren’t hurt at all," Lockwood said softly.
"So would I, especially since I did this to myself," Lucy said with a sigh. Lockwood looked at her questioningly, and she continued, "I may have ever so gracefully tripped on the stairs."
Lockwood laughed, surprised. "Oh Luce, I was imagining a heroic fight between you and the poltergeists where you bravely fought them off and then cleverly identified and secured the source using that brilliant Talent of yours."
Lucy smiled, feeling a warmth settle in her chest and a comforting fuzziness prickling at her skin. "Oh, no, that still happened, just with a twisted ankle. Which really makes it all the more impressive."
Lockwood bumped his shoulder into hers. "Oh I have no doubt about that, Luce."
"You're the one with all the grace, not me," Lucy said, imitating Lockwood in a complicated fencing pose, then with the twisted ankle, she fell ungracefully forward and stumbled into Lockwood, which bumped both of them into the hammering rain.
"Ow," Lucy muttered.
Lockwood threw his head back and laughed, but composed himself quickly and pulled them back under the roof. He looked down at her, water falling from his dark, messy hair onto his forehead. A bead of water clung to his chin and then dropped, falling between their bodies.
"Maybe," he said with a chuckle, "leave the complex rapier moves to me for a bit." He looked out into the darkness. "That bloody taxi is taking forever."
–-----
Eventually, after an uneventful trip to the Fittes furnaces, they made it back to Portland Row, both tired, sore, and soggy.
Lucy had waited in the taxi while Lockwood had been the one to send both sources to the furnaces. She had wanted to go too, but Lockwood had insisted he go alone with her ankle being in the state that it was.
"It's quiet," Lucy whispered in the darkness of the hall, while Lockwood flicked on the skull lamp near the door. "It seems like Holly went home, and no doubt George is in his room already."
"Hopefully sleeping, so he’s not a right pain in the arse in the morning," Lockwood said, his voice low. After depositing their coats in the hall, they walked to the kitchen.
Lucy caught a glimpse of herself in the kitchen window, the glow of the light making her look sickly pale. Looking at Lockwood, he suddenly didn't look much better. They both were wet, their clothes clinging to their bodies, and feeling self-conscious, Lucy pulled her jumper away from her stomach. Lockwood’s white dress shirt was plastered to his body, and Lucy tried not to look, but it was Lockwood. She was only watching him because she was worried and not because she could see the way it clung to his stomach—
"Cocoa, Luce?" Lockwood turned to face her. She nodded, hugging her arms around her waist, trying not to shiver and stare. "On second thought," Lockwood said, his eyes sweeping over her, "it might be better to get out of these clothes."
Lucy stared at him, her face turning red, even though she knew exactly what he meant. She tried not to think about where his eyes lingered, and skull’s voice was in her mind "that bit on your hips Lockwood's always going on about," and Christ, she needed Lockwood to say something, anything. Lockwood cleared his throat then rushed on, "Get out of these clothes into something dry and warm. And then perhaps I can take a look at your ankle, Luce." She nodded dumbly at him. "Though, unfortunately, I'm no Holly."
"I don’t mind," Lucy said, feeling a deep thrill that he wasn't Holly. And also a twisting panic. The rain hammered against the windows, while they stared at each other, Lockwood’s dark eyes boring into hers, but it was too much, and Lucy, breaking the tension, looked down at Lockwood’s wrist. "How’s the um," she lifted her arm, lamely, "the wrist?"
"Oh, I’ll manage," Lockwood said, not meeting her gaze either. "Luckily it wasn’t my rapier arm, so—"
"Well, I should be going," Lucy said, "to shower and change, that is."
Lockwood looked back up at her. "Right," he said, voice strained. "I’ll help you up there."
"I’m perfectly capable."
Lucy turned, and hobbling a little, she started towards the stairs. Gritting her teeth, she looked up and suddenly regretted the fact that she was all the way in the attic. It would be cozy up there, but it would be an annoying trek. She hoped that Lockwood would turn away, so she could climb the stairs in her wobbling way without his eyes on her. She put her good foot on the first stair and hopped onto the next one, not putting too much pressure on her bad ankle. She heard Lockwood sigh and make a noise of exasperation.
Lucy made it to the third step before Lockwood was next to her, his arm wrapped firmly around her waist, steadying her. "Lockwood—"
"Stop being so stubborn, honestly, Luce."
"It's a long way up."
Lockwood scoffed, "You think I can’t suddenly climb stairs? Who do you take me for? George?"
Lucy turned and looked at him, his wet hair falling into his face, his eyes warm and welcoming. "Fine," she said, "but I’ll have you know I could have done it on my own."
"I have no doubt. Just that it would have taken you an hour, and I would have found you shivering on the stairs after I had showered and changed already. I know you don't work here anymore, which by the way, we need to deal with payment for tonight, but will you just let me do this?"
"Should I add it to our running tab?"
Lockwood made an indelicate noise in the back of his throat, and his fingers tightened around her waist. "This would be much less complicated if you would just come back."
"We’ll sort that later," Lucy said, quietly agreeing. It would be much easier if she came back. She had already been sleeping better in her little attic room than she ever had at Tooting, but Lockwood didn’t need to know that.
She had left for a reason and just because she was having a hard time remembering what that reason was right now, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t justified. She knew she was making the right choice, but with Lockwood being so close, she thought about throwing all her logic out the window. She tried to focus on moving up the stairs gracefully and keeping her breathing steady so Lockwood wouldn’t think she was an out-of-shape cow.
On the next step, Lucy placed too much weight on her bum ankle, swayed, and Lockwood tightened his grip even further, pulling her into his body, and in the motion, her wet jumper rode up, exposing a thin layer of skin. Lockwood’s hand was there, his fingertips lightly grazing against her, just above her skirt.
She sucked in a breath, erupting in gooseflesh, as his fingers paused and lingered where they gripped her side, and then they curled inwards, dipped down ever so slightly, and she felt the back of his fingernails brush against her, gently. He hiked his arm up, adjusting, his hand near her ribs, steadying her.
Lucy looked up at Lockwood and watched his Adam’s Apple bob, as he swallowed, the sound surprisingly loud against the soothing slosh of rain echoing throughout the house. His voice was soft as he asked, “Alright, Luce?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she ground out, wanting to slap him. The nerve.
Slowly and surely, they made their way up to the attic, Lucy’s heart raging in her chest like the storm outside.
"Well," Lucy heard herself say at the entrance to her door, Lockwood’s fingers still against her ribs. "I better—"
"Yes," Lockwood said, lowering his arm slowly. "You’ll be okay?"
"It's a shower, Lockwood."
“Lucy, need I remind you how you hurt your ankle," he said with a smile, and then laughing, "Showers can get slippery you know." But he pulled away from her all the same and started back down the stairs. "I’ll be up after I’m done so I can look at your ankle."
–-----
Lockwood was right. Showers were especially slippery when one was trying desperately not to slip. It felt like the universe was playing some cruel trick on her. Hadn't she ended up back at Portland Row because some bastard had knifed her and now she was further stuck here because she had miffed it on the stairs? Sure, her apartment had been trashed, so she couldn’t exactly go back to Tooting. But as much as her attic room felt like home, something was still off. Probably the absence of Skull’s horrid remarks constantly coming her way. And the storm had gotten worse—Lucy could hear the whistling of the wind outside and the scratching of tree branches against the walls of Portland Row.
Lucy hopped out of the shower, gripping the wall as she did so, slowly made her way to the pile of clothing near her wardrobe, and threw on her pajamas. She thought briefly about changing into her normal attire, but honestly, Lockwood had seen her in her pajamas loads of times, and it wasn’t like he was going to stay long. He would look at her ankle, not be able to do much, and leave for his own room from there.
As if summoning him, she heard a soft knock at her door.
"Yeah," she called. "You can come in."
The door opened, and Lockwood came in, dressed in his blue striped pajamas, though he was sans robe. His hair was still wet and flopped over his forehead in a charming way. It was bloody annoying. The scent of his shampoo and soap filled her nose—some woody, citrusy, lavender smell. Lucy tried not to think how comforting that smell was, as he walked towards her.
"How's the ankle holding up?" He asked.
"Well enough, though I’ll have you know, I managed not to slip in the shower."
"A marvel, indeed."
"I really don’t think you need to check anything," Lucy said, trying to avoid the awkwardness of this whole scenario. "It's a twisted ankle. Nothing to be done about it except pain meds and time."
"Ah," Lockwood said, "But that’s where you’re wrong." From behind his back, he pulled out wrappings and a bag of ice with a flourish. Lucy rolled her eyes at him. "I’ll try not to use an excessive amount like last time," he said with a sheepish smile.
"Holly will be proud."
"Yes, I'm sure she’ll admire the fine job I’ll do," Lockwood said, moving towards where Lucy was sitting on the edge of her bed. She expected him to sit beside her, but he stopped directly in front of her instead and suddenly kneeled, taking her sock-clad left foot into his hands.
"How'd you know it was that one?"
Lockwood looked up at her, brows raised, his dark eyes intense but warm. "Luce," he said exasperation lacing his voice. Slowly he pushed up her pant leg and pulled her sock off, revealing her very fat and swollen ankle. A deep plum purple spread to her heel. Lockwood hissed, as he wrapped his hand around the arch of her foot. His hands were warm and gentle, and Lucy felt very tense.
"That bad?" she asked.
Lockwood let out a breath that ghosted across the skin of her lower leg and foot. She shivered and looked down at Lockwood, who was looking up at her, his dark eyes searching hers.
"Right," she said, for something to say.
Lockwood held her gaze for a moment more, and then he was delicately wrapping the bandages around her ankle and heel. It was of course too loose. Lucy could practically hear Holly in her head saying something about the wrapping needing to be tighter so the swelling would go down, but she found it didn’t matter, not when it was Lockwood, not when he was touching her like this.
He secured the bandages, then stood and looked at her. The power went out and lightning flashed across the sky.
"Goddamnit," Lockwood muttered. Lucy looked out the window—the entire block was black. So the storm really was that bad.
"How's your wrist?" Lucy asked in the darkness.
"Fine," Lockwood said, moving towards the window and looking out into the street below.
"How did you hurt it?" She was whispering but didn’t know why.
"Oh," Lockwood said, turning towards her. "Doesn’t matter," he whispered back, like they were sharing a secret between just the two of them. "Just a little mishap with George. No need to worry about it, Luce."
"Lockwood—"
"Come back, Luce," Lockwood said, his voice low. She didn’t say anything. "You know we make a great team," he said, "We were brilliant at the market, even though we didn’t rescue the skull, but—"
"Lockwood, you got hurt—"
"Yes, it’s a hazard of the job. You know this, Luce."
"But you got hurt—"
"And I’m sure Holly and George told you all about what happened when you were gone," Lockwood said, his voice tight. Without waiting for her to respond, he moved quickly towards her, as lightning lit the sky, and brushed his fingers along her cheek. "Night, Luce," he said. He paused at the door and whispered, "Just promise me you'll think about it."
Without thinking, she heard herself say, "I promise."
–-----
Lucy had a hard time sleeping that night, and after tossing and turning decided to roll out of bed and make tea, despite whatever godforsaken hour it was. She hobbled down the stairs into the kitchen where she found George nibbling donuts.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Too early," George said. His head was neatly bandaged, and despite the time, he looked awake.
Lucy sat down at the table and looked at him. "George," she said, "how exactly did your forehead end up like that?"
"You can thank Lockwood for that. He heard a scream, thought it was you, and well, it happened so fast, I’m not exactly sure what happened, but the next thing I know, I'm hitting my head on the banister, pulling Lockwood down with me, and landing on his wrist. Lockwood will say it’s my fault his wrist is sprained, but if it hadn’t been for him in the first place, none of this would have happened. So, to sum it up, it was Lockwood’s fault." George paused and studied Lucy. "Or, from a different angle it was yours, Lucy."
Lucy thought back to last night, and she remembered all her reasons for leaving. That was it, she’d start looking for a new place again and reach out to her contacts for freelancing work.
But then Lockwood bounded down the stairs, smiling and talking about the Aldbury Castle case, how the Winkmans were out to get her, and really it was in Lucy’s best interest to come on the case with them, just until everything settled down. Then of course, if she wanted, she could get back to freelancing. And with logic like that, Lucy thought, what was one more case?