Chapter Text
1 - Coffee with Sarah Williams
It was one in the morning; the night sky was silent and black. Ghost lamps shone their eerie glow along Chester Square, reflecting off the pristine white brick of the gorgeous blocky buildings and turning them a nauseating green. It was a rare occasion during the Black Winter; Lucy’s client had cancelled last-minute, leaving her available to accompany Lockwood on his assigned job of the night. They’d just rid a Mr. Williams of a Shining Boy - a wisp of a thing in 19th century short trousers that had wailed pitifully. Lockwood had seen glitters in the dark; twin streaks of tears down Lucy’s face as she’d Listened to the boy, eventually locating the source - a decaying teddy bear nestled in a pile of tiny bones, behind sealed plaster that someone had used to cover up an old dumb-waiter, some one hundred years ago.
Now they walked out of the house side by side, silent, as had become the norm after the Bloody Footprints case. Lockwood looked sidelong at Lucy. The tears were no more, thankfully, and he gave her a fortifying grin, watching with careful pleasure as a matching smile spread over her tired features. It was, unfortunately, short-lived.
“Mr. Anthony!” a thin voice said from behind them. It was the daughter, Sarah Williams, who had come hurrying down the stone steps just outside the townhouse’s impressive black door. Lockwood turned, allowing his grin to drop one level in brightness.
“Mr. Anthony,” she repeated, much to his chagrin.
“Ah, Ms. Sarah , is it?”
Vigorous nods from her end. Her blonde ponytail bobbed around.
“Yes, well -” she paused, looked away.
“Out with it,” Lucy said, not entirely under her breath.
“I was wondering if you had time to join me for coffee tomorrow morning? We could discuss some matters of potential future cases. I have a prominent friend who I would love to recommend your services to.”
“Excellent,” Lockwood said, not one to turn down business for a prominent client. “Coffee, is it? What time?”
She nodded again; her ponytail whipped around behind her. She was smiling hugely.
“Coffee! I thought nine? At Little Portland Cafe?”
“Perfect! Lucy - haven’t you been wanting to try that one? We’ll see you at nine, Sarah.” Lockwood turned to go.
“Ah - Mr. Anthony? I was hoping…well, I was hoping it would be just the two of us?” Sarah said.
Lucy made a sound, of sorts. It was a weird sort of huff. Sarah’s eyes widened.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know the two of you were -”
“No,” Lucy said quickly. “We’re not.”
“Oh!” Sarah Williams said again, then looked at Lockwood shyly. Expectantly.
Lockwood didn’t say anything for a quick beat, considering the implications. Free time wasn’t something Lockwood & Co generally had a ton of. And when there was time to spare, Lockwood preferred to spend it relaxing while he could - as good agents do. As of late, what with the huge surge in Visitors and all, there’d barely been enough spare time to sleep, let alone relax. Certainly there was not enough time to be thinking about things such as girls and other poppycock. He pictured himself in a sunlight cafe at nine in the morning, smiling over lattes, sat across from a bobbing blonde ponytail. No salt encrusted in his hair, not a rapier in sight, nor a phantom lurking in any corner.
It was basically unfathomable.
But the potential of another prominent client was a good lure, and besides, a good amount of people had told him boys his age were supposed to be interested in girls. And he was interested in them. Well, one of them, maybe …he cut that thought off quickly.
“Sure, Sarah,” he said easily. “That would be nice.”
—
The door to Lucy’s attic slammed shut; 35 Portland Row shuddered a little under her wrath. George cast an inquisitive look at Lockwood.
“What’d you say this time? Not the ‘asset to our company’ line again?” He asked.
“Nothing,” Lockwood said. “At least, I think nothing.”
George narrowed his eyes.
“She was pretty upset on the job, actually. It was a Shining Boy, a real pitiful thing. Apparently it was crying for its mother. The case was a sad business, all in all.”
Further narrowing of the eyes.
“Oh, and Sarah Williams asked me out to coffee,” Lockwood added, casual-like.
“And you said?”
“Sarah said she had a prominent client to recommend.”
“ And you said?”
“I said ‘sure, that would be nice’, or something.”
George groaned. He took off his glasses, rubbed them aggressively on his sweater, and placed them carefully back on his nose. Then he slapped the Thinking Cloth with the flat of his hand and groaned again.
“Right in front of Lucy, Lockwood? Right in front of Lucy Joan Carlyle? ”
Lockwood frowned. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”
“I live with a couple of blockheads.” George was already walking out of the kitchen, shaking his head. “Have fun on your date, you dolt .”
–
It turned out coffee dates were kind of awful. He wasn’t sure where it went wrong; by all accounts it was a textbook-perfect date. His face hurt from plastering that Lockwood™ grin on non-stop. He’d been the perfect gentleman, opening the door, paying for her macchiato and butter croissant, pulling out her seat for her. He’d made appropriate little jokes and laughed at the right times and complimented her mustard yellow designer dress, and they’d sat there, bathed in sunlight, by the largest window at the front of the cafe, looking young and beautiful and full of potential. From her end there’d been a boatload of giggles and smiles and empty questions (what was his favourite colour? It was not something he’d ever had time to consider. Possibly blue, he’d said). He remembered at a certain point he’d leaned over and gently brushed some flaky crumbs off the corner of her glossy pink mouth. She’d looked at him with huge green eyes under pitch black eyelashes and he’d willed himself to feel something, anything other than immense boredom and that itchy, uncomfortable clawing in the pit of his stomach. It was almost the same feeling he’d get when an adult was lying to him, like when he knew there was something more to the whole Combe Carey Hall business. Or when he had a particularly bad case of indigestion. It was unrest .
Then he’d called a cab and had taken it with her all the way back to Chester Square - which is around thirty minutes away, mind you. He wasn’t entirely sure if that cab ride was at all necessary, but from the sheer amount of her eyelash-batting and the three (four, maybe) times she’d brought up bringing him home, he’d figured it was what he was supposed to do. She’d held his hand throughout the entire cab ride. The driver, who Lockwood recognized - he usually drove a Night Cab - gave him a raised eyebrow, which Lockwood returned with that same unwavering false grin. Then he’d stood with Sarah Williams in the grand doorway to her pristine townhome, holding hands in the sunlight, and she’d leaned in and fluttered her eyes and he’d turned his head away as quickly as his neck would allow him.
Another thirty (!) minutes later and he was finally treading on the ancient, somewhat rickety, definitely dusty, hardwood of 35 Portland Row, ignoring George’s hoots and Lucy’s dagger-sharp glare. He shut the bathroom door behind him and looked with horror at the sparkly pink smudge trailing his left jaw for a split second before rubbing it off quickly with a raggedy piece of toilet paper.
–
It was evening at 35 Portland Row, and Lucy was distributing the first brew of the night. They (George, Lucy, and Lockwood) had all popped into the kitchen for a final spot of respite before they would stream off into the night after their respective jobs.
“How was your date ?” Lucy asked, plunking his cup down in front of him on the last word with a little more force than was necessary. A couple drops of the dark tea leaped up at him before splashing down to join the rest of the contents. She'd made his cup black and strong, exactly how he likes it. Her cup was undoubtedly some abominable creamy concoction of sugar - she held it close to her chest with both hands, leaning against the sink. He regarded her in the dim wintry light of five in the afternoon. Her auburn hair was dark and stringy with dampness from the shower she’d hastily taken, familiar old agent clothes stained with salt and ectoplasm. She was looking down at the tea, avoiding his gaze. Something in his chest fluttered.
“Fine,” he said, trying to ignore it. Unfortunately, the more he tried to squash the feeling the more it flapped around, just above his sternum, threatening to wriggle its way up his throat and out his mouth. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t think speaking at the moment was wise.
“Okay,” she said, flatly, and then she pushed off the counter and walked away.
2 - Walk in Hyde Park with Alice Warren
There was a tall girl at Arif’s. She wore the deep red colours of the Rotwell Agency, and she was hemming and hawing at the huge list of donut options. She was the only one in line, and she was taking a long, long time.
“The iced buns are good,” Lockwood said, helpfully.
She turned around and smiled, looking him up and down. She had the sleekest hair Lockwood had ever seen; it swished around her shoulders like a black satin curtain as she turned. She was a bit gangly, with limbs that seemed just a touch too long for her body. One slender arm came up to tuck a sheet of hair behind her ear.
“Oh,” she said, and giggled.
Lockwood blinked at her.
“So are you -”
“Oh!” she said. “Yes. Arif, could I get six iced buns? Thanks.”
Arif got her the buns and she took her sweet time sorting the change into a tiny neon orange wallet while Lockwood ordered the assortment of jelly donuts that George had requested. A minute later, Lockwood was pushing out into the early afternoon sun, box of donuts in hand, when he became aware of a presence at his side.
“Hi,” the girl said. He nodded at her.
“You’re…Anthony Lockwood, right? I’ve seen your picture in the papers,” she told him.
“Oh,” he said (it was his turn to say it), heat blossoming from behind his neck. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Listen - I hope I’m not being too forward - would you fancy a stroll through Hyde Park with me? It’s a beautiful day, and it’s just a couple blocks over,” she said. She was tomato-red.
She had a point. Lockwood had been enjoying his time outdoors, and didn’t quite want it to end. And the girl? Well, maybe a walk through nature wouldn’t be as stifling as a coffee shop date.
“Sure,” he said, after a second. “Just let me drop these donuts off, first. George’ll have a fit if he doesn’t stuff one in his mouth in the next ten minutes.”
–
Lucy was in the kitchen, eating a biscuit. She was wearing a fuzzy cobalt cardigan and her hair was akimbo; she must have just woken up from a nap. She eyed the two boxes of Arif’s and raised an eyebrow.
“Is George quite alright? Did he ask for two whole boxes of donuts? On top of this morning’s delivery?” she asked. Her voice was soft in the quiet still of the house, and that familiar, lilting Northern accent washed over him pleasantly. It was instantaneous and decidedly traitorous, how quickly his brain took in tiny details about her. Her hands were curled around a steaming brown mug. Her socks were old and midnight blue and linty. One was stretched; it was bigger and lumpier than the other. He chuckled, and then met her eyes - two deep brown pools of uncertainty, golden specks shimmering in the afternoon sun. His stomach did strange things.
“These ones are jelly. Those one’s aren’t ours, so don’t eat them, please,” Lockwood said quickly, turning to go before he could be possessed by the overwhelming feeling to leave Alice Warren standing alone on the street outside.
“Who’re they for, then?” Lucy asked.
“Just some girl,” Lockwood called over his shoulder. He didn’t hear Lucy’s answer. He was practically running out the door.
—
Lockwood had been correct. A walk through the park was much more pleasant than sitting at a stuffy cafe. Although, to be fair, that wasn’t saying much.
Under Alice’s admittedly charming awkward exterior was a chattering gossip-beast, he soon found out. She’d gone on and on and on about various agents that Lockwood had never met, about various celebrity scandals that he’d maybe read about, about various conspiracies and above all, about herself. At a certain point, she’d started ranting about a certain award that a fellow agent on her team had received, and that Lockwood did not care about in the absolute slightest, but which he took gratefully as a cue. He’d extricated her from his left arm, where she’d been hanging, politely excused himself, and speed-walked back in the direction of 35 Portland Row.
Alice had been right, too. It was a beautiful day to be out in Hyde Park, and Lockwood much enjoyed his peaceful stroll back towards his home. Alone.
—
“Good walk?” George had him cornered in the library later that night.
“What do you mean?” Lockwood sighed, closing the Times . “You mean tonight’s Wraith? No, in fact, it was not good at all. Nasty bugger. Put up a good fight.”
“I’m not talking about ghosts, Lockwood. You’ve got a handle on those,” George continued. He was standing in the doorway with an indecipherable expression under those round glasses.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, George. If you’re going to offer judgement, you’d better be clear about it.”
George walked in, selecting an armchair and a biscuit. He munched thoughtfully, taking his time to swallow, all the while staring at Lockwood’s face. A bit unnerving, George sometimes was. That analytical brain never seemed to turn off.
“Lucy saw you head off with some Rotwell girl,” George said eventually.
“Oh, she did, did she?” Lockwood tried to sound nonchalant. Most of the time, he succeeded. This time he might’ve failed, maybe just a little bit.
“What’re you doing, Lockwood?” George said, quietly. “Don’t push her away. We need to be a team, now more than ever.”
“I’m not - I’m not pushing her away, ” Lockwood said, bristling. “What are you talking about? I’ve every right to spend the few hours of spare time I have however I please. With whomever.”
“You do,” George nodded. “So don’t waste them.”
3 - Sword-Shopping with Sabrina Gordon
The job had been an easy one; just a couple Lurkers in a ratty old apartment in Camden Town. The most difficult part had been dealing with the over-imaginative middle-aged bald man who lived there. He’d kept popping his head around the corner to “check-in”, unbelievably. Nevertheless, Lockwood had dealt with the situation quickly enough, leaving him with enough energy to ask the cab driver to let him out early so he could walk the rest of the way home. It was around eleven at night when the cab pulled up to the curb at Regent’s Park. Lockwood tossed a wad of cash and a grin at the driver, who was muttering something about “ I simply cannot believe the blatant exploitation of children with a death wish that we as a country have resorted to ”, and hopped out of the vehicle into the chill of the night air. It was surprisingly well-lit, speckled as it was with the neon green glow of ghost-lamps along the walkways.
The aforementioned chill was quickly morphing into a biting cold, he noticed. Winter was really gearing up. He buried his nose deeper in the royal blue scarf he’d found in the entryway earlier that day, thankful that he’d added it to his ensemble as an afterthought. Something tickled his ear; he drew out his fingers from his pocket and removed a medium-length, auburn strand of hair from the scarf. It crackled with static electricity, and he dropped it into the night with a small smile. It was Lucy’s scarf, then. Under the sharp scent of salt and iron, it smelled like her perfume: vanilla, patchouli and myrrh. Certainly a divisive scent; earthy and deep and intense, but it rounded right out with a touch of sweetness at the end.
“Look up, dumbass!” A sharp voice cut right through his thoughts. He looked up.
He’d almost walked straight into the floating ankles of a dead lady. No feet though - dark red blood globbed out from where those should’ve been. It sizzled angrily against the cobblestones underneath the misshapen form of the Limbless woman. Lockwood cursed, pulling out his rapier in one fluid motion - but it was too late. A gigantic rapier - it was so large it might’ve been better described as a sword - sliced diagonally through the ghost, which fizzled out with an angry wail and an impressive display of bright, burning blood.
There was a human hand attached to the other end of the sword, and that hand in turn belonged to a sandy-haired girl in a leather jacket and sturdy brown boots. She was very much alive, and she smirked at him, shoving her weapon into a fraying leather strap at her waist.
“You’ve got to be more careful. First time in London?” She asked. She had an aggressive New Yorker accent.
“You’re American,” he said.
“Ooh! How could you tell!” Her sarcasm was palpable.
“What the hell is that?” He gestured at the huge metal blade strapped openly to her belt.
“This?” She patted it. It swung around carelessly. Lockwood winced. “It’s a smallsword.”
“It’s a sword sword.”
“A small sword. The historical rapier. Didn’t have the cash to buy one of those fancy Italian things,” she said, eyeing the delicate winding metal of his rapier’s swept hilt.
He quickly moved his overcoat to cover the silver.
“So where’d you get your smallsword , then?”
“Stole it,” she grinned. “I’m Sabrina Gordon. You?”
“Anthony Lockwood,” he said. He stretched out a hand, and she grabbed it firmly, giving it a strong shake.
“Nice to meet you, dude. Get home safe.” She brushed past him.
Something about Sabrina Gordon made him feel comfortable. She was familiar, somehow.
“Hey,” he said, turning after her. “It’s not safe to be out here alone at this time of night.”
She eyed him. “I know,” she said meaningfully.
“Where are you off to, then? Perhaps I could walk with you.”
“Don’t need you to,” she said. “I’m only going a couple more blocks down. Some guy’s selling me a sword. More silver content in it, see.”
Lockwood’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounds like it could be a fraudulent seller.”
“It’s not a scam, if that's what you're saying ,” she said, then paused. “Is it? I mean - does this type of thing happen around here?”
“Yes. Often. First time in London?” He smirked.
“ Shit.”
“Mullet’s is having a sale. You should just go there.”
“Mullet’s? ” she said. “Oh, that dusty little shop down that road? I’ll stop by tomorrow, then.” She gave him a nod, then turned to go. Lockwood made a snap decision.
“I could accompany you. If you’d like, that is. I think the French épées might be in your budget.”
It surprised him how easy it was. His voice came out smooth and buttery, his eyebrows automatically cocked upwards in that way he knew was endearing. His body assumed a casual, nonchalant stance, as it always did. You’d really think he asked out random girls ten times a day.
“French épées?” she repeated, and raised one eyebrow. It arched impossibly high. His confidence faltered.
“They’re thrust-only weapons, too. Kind of like the French version of that thing. But lighter. Way, way lighter,” he said, eyeing the chunky weapon strapped to her hip.
She considered, and then: “Okay, Anth-ony Lockwood. Let’s go look at French épées tomorrow.” She’d said his name in a frankly offensive, over-enunciated, mockery of an English accent, but the wide smile on her face made up for it.
“Brilliant, Sa-bree-nah Gur-den,” he shot right back at her, in what he thought was a perfect American country twang.
She burst into laughter.
—
The sale display was much less impressive than it had been a couple days ago, but that was to be expected nowadays - more Visitors meant more weapons needed replacing more often. Mullet’s was pretty busy, but they’d spent almost an hour there anyway, ignoring the glares from the shopkeep.
They stood in the narrow walkway before the swords, Sabrina in a pale blue jumper under her leather jacket. She wore her sandy hair straight down her back and spoke loudly in her American accent. She was an open-book, and probably would’ve done terribly as a politician. She said what she thought and did what she said, and maybe leaned a bit too far in the direction of impulsiveness.
“Why’re you in London?”
“Hopped on a plane,” she said.
“...why?”
“Root of the Problem. The balance on this sword is off.”
“It’s a classic épée, ma’am. It is intentionally weighted towards the pommel.” That was the shopkeep. He was practically seething. Sabrina shrugged and stuck it back into its display.
“Are you looking to join an agency?” Lockwood asked. She snorted. He watched in shock as little wet specks shot out of her nose. He took a surreptitious step away from her.
“No. Definitely not. I’m a PI,” she said, proudly.
“Pee-eye?”
She nodded, then suddenly leaned down and plucked up the chunkiest rapier from the bottom rack. She shook hair out of her face and turned the blade this way and that in her hand.
“Private investigator. You know, like a detective? The Problem’s started cropping up in New York a bit. Wanted to see what I can find out at the core of it all. Hey - dude? I’ll take this one. It’s eighty percent off, right?”
The shop-keep coughed. “We almost rejected that one - it was made much too bulky. Wasn’t really sure anyone would buy it. Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure.”
—
“You’re pretty cool,” Sabrina said. They were standing outside Mullet’s, Sabrina holding a bulging brown leather rapier bag under her arm, Lockwood holding the overwhelming thought that dating her would be like trying to live with a wolverine.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’ve got that posh London Boy™ thing going on for you, you know? I think she’d dig that. You should just ask her out,” she continued.
He stared.
“Lucy? Your ‘coworker’ that you kept talking about?” she prompted.
Lockwood continued to stare.
“Oh, you remind me of someone I know. An absolute idiot, but we got there eventually,” she said, looking away for a second. Her features softened, ice-blue eyes warm with affection. Unfortunately, he suddenly knew exactly what she was getting at. His ears grew uncomfortably hot.
“It’s not like that,” he muttered, but she carried on like she hadn’t heard him.
“Of course, it was too late by then," she said.
"Ah," he said.
"All's I'm saying is: don't let that happen to you guys. You never know. People up and leave all the damn time."
"I'm sorry," he paused; she shrugged. "So I guess you didn't know this was an attempt at a date, then."
Sabrina laughed then, loudly and with a couple more snorts. Passersby gave them stinky looks. “Pro-tip? Normal people do coffee shops and movies or something. Not sword-shopping. Hey - are you listening? Do not take her sword-shopping on your first date. Jeez." She shook her head. "Well, hope to see you around. Good luck with everything."
And then she turned and trudged off under the weight of not one, but two giant rapiers, and Lockwood thought those sturdy brown boots looked like they could stomp over anything.
—
Lockwood flung himself into his chair in his library, a loud American voice still echoing around his head like a ping pong ball getting thrown around by an energetic toddler.
“I’m never attempting to date again,” he said, fingers on the bridge of his nose.
“Oh?” Lucy said.
“Never again, Luce. I would recommend you avoid it as well. It’s really, really not worth it.”
She didn’t say anything for a long while; Lockwood wasn’t sure she’d reply at all. But then she spoke, and her voice was careful.
“What happened?”
“Random American girl. So intrusive. I’m tired just from an hour of speaking with her. You’d probably have to be immortal or something to keep up with her, I think.”
“Hmm. Imagine that.”
Lucy was horizontal on the couch, head propped up at an unhealthy angle by a random pillow. It was wine-red and had rope trim. It didn’t look comfortable. Her eyebrows were drawn low on her forehead; little wrinkles had appeared on the bridge of her nose.
There was that fluttering, again.
“Right,” Lockwood said, taking his cue and leaving the library as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion. He'd failed, obviously, because George was aiming yet another sharp look at him that he once again refused to acknowledge. It had become second nature at that point: feel funky feelings; leave immediately. Lockwood was simply not ready to explore the implications of that territory. Not that there were any implications. Or any other territory of any sort between him and Lucy. They were coworkers, and that was it. Coworkers.
4 - Yet Another Near-Death Experience with Lucy Carlyle
A spectral hurricane screamed around the ruins of the Aickmere Brothers Department Store, and there was Lucy in front of it all, wild-eyed and desperately reaching for his hand. A million pounds-worth of multi-coloured department store inventory whipped wildly around them - he could barely see anything - but for them, for just one second, time stood still.
“Just you, Luce,” he shouted, and that twisting in his torso was back in full force. She was just an arm’s length away. He would grab her, and pull her to him, and she would be safe. Just like always. He would keep her safe. He wouldn’t lose her.
And then the floor collapsed underneath her. Someone let out a ragged cry.
Lockwood moved quicker than he’d ever moved before. There she was, backpack caught on a piece of floorboard, and there he was, wrapping his hand firmly around hers. He wouldn’t lose her.
Well, the poltergeist had other plans.
—
Lockwood had been thrown backwards by the poltergeist’s unearthly force, landing in a heap somewhere in the wreckage. A minute later (he wasn’t sure how he got there, but it must’ve been a combo of army-crawling and climbing), he was in front of the gaping black chasm that had swallowed Luce. He hadn’t hesitated. The thing that lived in his sternum had screamed a stabbing pain as the spectre had ripped his hand away from Lucy’s, and for once, he didn’t quiet it. Probably couldn’t have, anyway. He knew what it was; clueless as he was, even he couldn’t deny it any longer. The heart wants what it wants, and all that. No need to get soppy - you know what I mean.
And wouldn’t you know it, maybe that feeling ended up helping him out after all. Because it was with a burning heart that Lockwood had climbed down into that dark crack in the ground towards probable death, because he knew Lucy could not be gone. He knew he’d find her. He had to.
—
Lockwood had no idea how long it’d been since he’d scrambled down into the basement after her. It was slow-going down there, much to his annoyance. He’d literally had to hack through stone to get to the prison chamber, and that had taken way too much time. But he’d be no good for Lucy dead , he reminded himself. Still though, it was agonising, forcing himself to be careful all the while not knowing what condition Lucy was in. Not dead, not dead, not dead , he repeated in his head, and it was that sheer trademarked Lockwood™ optimism (tinged with a bit of what was probably insanity) that kept him going.
There - on the ground - a candle! One of Lucy’s candles! His hopes soared. She’d survived at least this far. Now all he had to do was find her. He could do that, he did that all the damn time.
A couple wrong turns and a tunnel filled with water later, Lockwood’s steely optimism had started to flicker a little. But then-
“I know what you are! You’re not him!” A thin and wobbly voice that sounded nothing like Lucy reached Lockwood’s ears.
“...Luce? Is that you?” He said. She didn’t hear him.
“You’re a Fetch! An imposter! Feeding on my thoughts!”
Her voice was louder now; that was definitely her. Probably with a concussion or two, but definitely her nonetheless. The thing in his chest flapped alarmingly huge wings, threatening to take off. He rounded one last bend, and that’s when he saw her.
She looked downright loopy. Her hair was incredibly asymmetrical; one side was all squished and matted. Her eyes were unfocused and she swayed in front of a shapeless mass - it emitted just enough other-light that Lockwood could see her face. Her expression was twisted into one of revulsion and anger. She was probably the most stunning thing Lockwood had ever seen.
“No! No, I don’t believe you,” she slurred.
Yeah, that ghost had to go.
He crossed the distance in just a couple strides, and sliced it cleanly in half with his rapier.
The ghost flared bright once before blinking out and leaving them in pitch blackness, but just before it did, he’d caught a glimpse of her standing there - in one piece. Not ghost-touched, not broken, not stabbed, shot, or otherwise bleeding out or in obvious corporeal disrepair.
The relief hit him like a brick wall; he realised with shocking clarity that he probably would’ve spent the rest of his life down here looking for her if he had to. He accepted that fact calmly, as one accepts that the sky is blue, the grass is green, and water is wet. Anthony John Lockwood would die in an abandoned old prison underneath a wrecked department store without hesitation for Lucy Joan Carlyle.
“Hey, Lucy,” he said, vaguely aware of the massive grin on his face.
Lucy didn’t say anything.
She just screamed.
—
So there they were again, dusty and bloody, covered in iron and salt, sat in the dark beside a pile of bones. The candles actually made everything look quite cosy; Lockwood fought the urge to put his arm around Lucy’s hunched body. It was nice, talking to her freely again. She was shivering under his coat while they caught up, exchanging recounts of what had just happened. Lucy was sad and apologetic and saying stupid things like “you shouldn’t have risked yourself for me”. Lockwood reassured her that Holly and George and Kipps and the rest of them were safe, trying to crack some jokes in between to cheer her up, and saying much more reasonable things like “come off it, you know I’d die for you” (which somehow had the opposite effect of turning her paler and sadder).
It was a little later when they’d gathered up some strength and were traversing the horrible tunnels of the King’s Prison, after they’d distracted themselves with the case and the mystery of the Chelsea Outbreak. She’d just apologised for being generally unpleasant in the past month or so; he was apologising for being distant, thinking about how silly it was, trying to run away from the way he’d felt. As if he could ever outrun that.
“It’s just” - he took a deep breath - “I didn’t trust myself to be with you. I was too anxious about what might happen.”
And it was true . Perhaps the worst thing about falling in love is that it can be taken away from you. In as many horrible, gruesome ways as the mind can conjure.
But funnily enough, he was happy there, amongst the white mould and roughly hewn grey stonework, the half-decayed skeletons and thick clusters of cobwebs, with Lucy and her familiar, soft Northern accent spilling her heart out to him. He kind of wished they could stay like this for a long while. Would this count as a date? He sure hoped so - it would change his mind about dates entirely. Maybe it wasn’t that dating was insufferable, maybe all a good date needed was mould, spiders, a couple of dead bodies, the looming threat of imminent death, and Lucy Carlyle.
—
Things grew easier between them after their time in the notorious King’s Prison below the previous Aickmere Brothers Department Store (now the Aickmere Brothers Abandoned Wreck). Sure, Lucy was still a bit quiet, but that was to be expected after that head injury she’d sustained. On Lockwood’s end, he just tried to include her in as much of his day-to-day life as possible, as if he could make up for all the time they’d missed in the past month. Cue lots of interjections such as “What do you think, Luce?”, and “Penny for your thoughts, Lucy?”, which would always succeed in getting her to look up and produce a smile. In turn, the thing in Lockwood’s chest did flips freely, and he was happy to let it do its thing. Some examples of when it fluttered like that include:
- Lockwood hands Lucy a piece of toast. His chest flutters. He translates it into a beaming smile. George comments that it is too early in the morning to be seeing anything that bright.
- Lucy comes to sit with him in the library. His chest flutters. He indulges it; they end up talking for hours.
- George asks Lockwood about what happened in the mouldy old prison. Lockwood grins, thinking about his time with Lucy, and his chest flip flops. His grin widens. George blanches, tells him nevermind please don’t tell me, and leaves quickly.
Two days of this. To love Lucy in these small ways was akin to taking a breath after staying underwater slightly too long. It felt like sweet relief, for two sweet days.
All the worse for him though, because it felt like being awoken by a very large bucket of ice when those two days were up; it was all too soon when they were sat at that fateful feast of a breakfast, and Lucy was announcing her resignation.
“Of course, it was too late by then,” a wistful voice said quietly in his mind. That jarring New York accent was already fading from his memory.
Lucy was going to move out. Would he forget her, too? No, never.
Would she forget him? He didn’t necessarily have an answer for that. But what was he supposed to say?
“Hey, remember that time we got stuck in the nastiest underground prison I’ve ever seen? You had cobwebs in your hair and a severe head injury; I had flecks of rot and mould all over my body and bruises on my arms from knocking through solid stone to get to you? How could you leave Lockwood & Co while we offer the tantalising possibility of further experiences such as these?”
He spent another couple of days saying all of the above and more, but Lucy was both avoidant and adamant. No matter how many times he told her “ You’re not a liability, Lucy, what in the world put that in your head?” and “No. No, you don’t put us in danger, Lucy. You keep us - me - out of it. Promise,” she wouldn’t be swayed. Two whole days of this, and it ended at that dumb little cafe. You could say something about poetic justice, or something, if you were really mean about it.
He was basically pleading with her at that point. They were stuffed in a little corner, coffees untouched. Lucy’s cheeks were wet; Lockwood’s eyes were watering dangerously. His hair was the messiest he’s ever allowed it to get in public. His leg bounced up and down under the rickety wooden table uncontrollably. She was still as a stone, eyes permanently cast down, hands gripping the mug with a white-knuckled grip. The other patrons had been giving them an eclectic mix of looks, ranging from curious to judgemental to downright accusatory (the latter of which were mostly aimed at Lockwood; he tried not to think about what their situation looked like).
“ Why, Luce? Just tell me why?” He almost didn’t recognise his own voice. It was quiet, ragged. Defeated.
“You have to let me go, Lockwood,” she said. “Please.”
“No,” he said. “No, Lucy.”
“Don’t you know how hard this is for me?”
“So don’t do it, Luce. Stay.”
“No. I…I can’t. It’s for your own good.”
“For the love of -” he paused, ran a hand through his hair with agitation, “- you’re not a bloody liability , alright? What is this really about? I don’t want to lose you, Lucy.”
She didn’t say anything. She just looked up at him - the tears in her eyes made him feel nauseous - and he saw in her sad eyes that he’d already lost her.
He thought he might puke; he stood up in one motion, coffee things clattering around from the sudden force. He ran a hand through his hair one last time, then he sputtered something (mind you, Anthony Lockwood does not sputter), and stormed out of that blasted cafe before his heart could explode.