Chapter Text
Lucy arrived at Waterloo Station at a quarter to eleven in the morning. She’d needed to get up stupidly early to take the first train to Newcastle from her small town in the Cheviot Hills and she hadn’t managed to sleep on the train. She was too full of nervous, excited energy.
She was going to visit Lockwood for the Christmas holidays. It was her first time seeing him since the end of the Fittes Summer Programme in August, and she found herself caught between elation and terror.
They had tried repeatedly to find a weekend in the autumn for her to visit, but between her school, his school, her after school job at the supermarket, and a badly timed head cold, they hadn’t managed it.
For three and a half months they’d spoken on the phone every Sunday for hours, and often four or five times during the week as well. They’d be on the phone while doing homework together, rarely talking, just knowing the other person was there. It had felt like too much and not nearly enough.
Lucy’s mum had threatened to take a hammer to the phone in Lucy’s room — one she’d bought with her own money — but Lucy managed to sweet talk her by telling her that Lockwood was rich and would cover all the bills and she’d even pick up some extra hours at the supermarket. Her mother had grumbled and blustered but ultimately let her be. For some reason, Lucy had found it easier to be around her mum since the summer. Maybe it was because less and less of her self worth was tied up in her mother’s opinion of her.
Lockwood, for his part, seemed to think that Lucy could do no wrong. This actually caused her some anxiety, though she knew it was stupid (a word Lockwood refused to hear her ever use in reference to herself). She worried that Lockwood had acquired a biassed view of her, that he’d somehow missed all the flaws that were so obvious to her and everyone else. They’d only known each other for six short weeks before parting. What if, in her absence, he’d built up an idealised picture of her in his head that she would never be able to measure up to?
She’d fretted about that to her best friend, Norrie, who had told her that she was being a silly goose and that she was amazing and that Lockwood must be quite intelligent to have figured it out so quickly. Norrie was clearly biassed as well, so Lucy took this with a grain of salt.
Lucy stepped off the train with her suitcase in one hand and her French horn case in the other. She wore a wool skirt and tights under her nicest winter coat, the one that had belonged to her sister Mary before she moved to Newcastle with her boyfriend. Nobody stayed in their little town if they could help it.
Waterloo Station was crowded – no surprise given that it was the first day of the December holidays. Lucy followed the stream of people along the platform, trying to keep her horn case from whacking into anyone. She had briefly considered not bringing it at all, but the idea of leaving Skully behind and not playing even once for two whole weeks was more than she could bear.
She was so focused on threading her way through the crowd, she didn’t spot Lockwood until he was right in front of her. He was leaning casually against a pillar, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like a model in a fancy catalogue, with his crisp white shirt, sweeping coat and elegant tie. His eyes were hooded, his face a mask of indolent boredom. Lucy felt her heart pounding in her chest, a million “what ifs” clamouring in her head.
Then he turned his head towards her, and the moment their eyes connected, his face split into a grin. It was like the sun had burst out from behind the clouds, banishing the shadows of all her fears. Lucy couldn’t keep an answering grin from spreading across her own face. She had been longing to see that smile for months.
“Hey,” she said, stopping in front of him.
He straightened up, looking down at her with his beautiful dark eyes. She’d been longing to see those too. “Hiya,” he said.
Lucy suddenly felt awkward. The last time they’d seen each other, they hadn’t been able to keep their hands off each other. Now her hands were full of luggage and she didn’t know what she would do with them even if they were free.
“How was the journey?” he asked.
“Fine,” she said. “I umm… I’d give you a hug but…” She lifted her arms apologetically.
“Oh, that’s alright,” Lockwood said, and there was a sudden gleam in his eyes. “In fact, I don’t mind at all.”
“What are you…?” Lucy started to ask, but Lockwood stepped forward, his hands circling her waist. He bent his head to hers, capturing her lips with his. Their first few kisses, way back in the summer, had felt like foreign things, until her lips had learned the contours of his lips and her tongue had learned the taste of him. She had wondered if she would have to relearn what it was like to kiss Lockwood, but it seemed that wasn’t the case. From the instant his lips touched hers, she remembered and she felt her whole being sing with the joy of it.
Lucy would have happily stood there for hours, sharing Lockwood’s breath, her soul dissolving into his. But her arms were growing tired and her legs were beginning to shake from the tension of holding herself on tiptoe to reach him. She reluctantly pulled away, her body struggling to orient itself to the gravity of the Earth, rather than Lockwood. If she hadn’t had his hands steadying her at the waist, she likely would have fallen over.
“Steady,” he chuckled. “Here, let me take something.”
Lucy handed him her suitcase. He held out an offering hand for her horn as well, but she kept hold of it, giving her own hand in its place. Lockwood smiled and twined his fingers with hers as they turned to walk through the station together.
They took the tube to Marylebone, still holding hands, and speaking only occasionally. Lockwood pointed out a funny advertisement on the wall. Lucy asked about one of the theatre posters she saw through the window. They’d said so much over the past few months, when words were all they had, it seemed there was little to talk about now. They’d even been on the phone together the night before as Lucy packed her suitcase and vacillated on whether or not to bring her horn.
“Are you really sure you won’t mind me practising?” she asked, looking up at him in the seat beside her. “It’s going to be quite loud in the house.”
Lockwood shook his head, smiling. “Luce, I am going to sit you down in the living room and make you play for me,” he said.
“I’m sure my scales will be thrilling to listen to,” she laughed.
“I honestly don’t care if you play the same note for twelve minutes straight, as long as I get to hear you.”
Lockwood squeezed her hand reassuringly. Lucy found herself blushing and looking away. He was exactly as she remembered him, handsome, charming, magnetic. She still wasn’t used to the sort of compliments Lockwood paid her. As though she were the most perfect thing in the world, the only thing in the world that mattered to him. How could she ever live up to the picture of her he had in his mind?
The walk from the tube station to Lockwood’s house was short and brisk. Lockwood unlocked the door and ushered her inside. The house was dark and quiet. It smelled of wood and old paper with a faint undercurrent of burnt toast.
Lucy had spent only a single night in the house over the summer and it had felt strangely empty to her then, despite being full to the brim with strange wonders from all over the world. Entering the house now did nothing to dispel that feeling. Something about the way only one coat hung on the hooks in the front hall with one pair of shoes below it, the way the mantel was full of dusty curios yet the coffee table was empty. The house was cluttered, yet it contained no life.
Lockwood led the way up the stairs to the small attic room she’d stayed in before. He set her suitcase down on the bed, then stepped over to the window to draw back the curtains. The pale winter sunlight glinted off the wooden rafters and brass bed frame. This room at least, felt quite homey.
“Well, I’ll leave you to unpack, settle in,” he said. “George should be here soon with lunch.”
“Sure, that sounds great,” Lucy said. “I’m excited to catch up with George. He doesn’t call me nearly as often as you do.”
“I mean, I should hope not.” Lockwood smiled wolfishly down at her and Lucy was seized with a sudden urge to sling her arms around him and kiss him senseless.
She didn’t realise she was staring at his mouth until he licked his lips, somewhat nervously, and said in a hoarse voice, “Luce?”
She looked up into his eyes and saw a mirror of the desire she felt reflected back at her. They both moved at the same moment, crashing into one another like two ships on the storm tossed seas. For a moment things were unsteady, Lucy balanced on the tips of her toes, Lockwood tilted precariously towards her, but then Lockwood’s hands were on her back, pulling her tight against him, steadying her, and she let herself drown in the kiss.
Lucy lost all sense of time. It had been so long, and she had missed him so much. All her worries seemed to melt away, like snowflakes on her tongue, and she kissed him with a ferocity she hadn’t even known she possessed.
They only broke apart when a horrific clatter reverberated throughout the house, making Lucy jump.
“Lockwood, is that a doorbell or a monkey tap dancing on a gong?”
Lockwood rested his forehead against hers and chuckled softly.
“That’ll be George,” he said.
“Ah, well, I suppose we ought to let him in then,” Lucy sighed dramatically.
“Yes, he’ll be tetchy if we leave him to stand on the doorstep too long.”
“Yes.”
Lockwood gave her a swift kiss. Then another. He was leaning in for a third when Lucy put her hands against his chest.
“Um… Lockwood?”
“Hmm?”
“George?”
“Damn it, alright.”
He gave her one more kiss, then pulled back grinning. “Come on,” he said. He took her by the hand and they went downstairs in search of George and their lunch.
Despite his reservations around physical affection, George allowed Lucy to hug him tightly in greeting. He and Lockwood exchanged a friendly hand squeeze manoeuvre that was the sole purview of the male of the species, then they all traipsed to the kitchen to eat the rice and kebabs that George had brought.
After lunch, Lucy left to unpack her suitcase, giving them some time together. George had apparently visited the house a couple of times since the summer, but Lucy thought it was still uncomfortable for Lockwood, having so many people in his family’s house.
Lucy put her clothes away in the dresser and hung up her skirts in the wardrobe. She found a cup in the tiny attic bathroom for her toothbrush and plopped her makeup bag on the back of the toilet. Lockwood had provided clean towels and there was even soap and shampoo in the shower.
All in all it had only taken ten minutes. She really didn’t own much. She grabbed her sketchbook and made her way down to the ground floor, thinking she might make some tea while the boys finished whatever they were up to.
She’d just put the kettle on when she heard a strange, rhythmic banging growing closer, and turned to see stack of cardboard boxes on legs emerge from what she’d assumed was a broom cupboard.
“Lucy, is that you?” George’s voice came from behind the boxes. “Would you mind grabbing one of these?”
“What’s this?” she laughed, crossing to him and lifting a box off the top of the stack, revealing a harried looking George.
“Decorations, apparently,” George grumbled. “I thought all you needed was a tree!”
More banging sounded below them, and Lucy craned her neck to see Lockwood climbing a metal staircase from the basement, carrying his own stack of boxes.
“You’ve got to decorate the tree, George,” Lockwood said cheerfully. “Not to mention garlands and stockings and mistletoe.”
He winked at Lucy as he passed her. “Into the living room, George, if you don’t mind.”
“No, why would I mind being a beast of burden,” complained George.
Lucy followed them into the lounge where they stacked the boxes on the coffee table.
“I was going to make some tea,” Lucy said.
“Better hold off on that, Luce,” Lockwood said, grinning. “We have a tree to get!”
The tea turned out to be entirely necessary when they got back to the house, almost two hours later.
The nearest tree lot was a good half mile away and Lockwood had selected an incredibly large tree that would never fit in a cab. Both Lucy and George had expressed reservations about the tree being too tall for the ceiling heights in the house, but Lockwood insisted it would be fine.
They’d taken turns hauling the tree all the way back and George had grumbled most of the way. Lucy worried that they were losing pine needles at an alarming rate, but didn’t want to say anything that would dampen Lockwood’s evident enthusiasm.
The truth was that while Lucy was delighted to be spending the holidays with Lockwood, she was not overly enthusiastic about Christmas itself. Lucy hadn’t much liked Christmas since her sisters had all departed, leaving only her and her mum in the house. Her mum had stopped bothering to buy presents, and these days it was usually a couple of tenners and a candy cane in Lucy’s stocking, if she was lucky. A couple years ago, she’d had Christmas Eve dinner with Norrie’s family and come home to find her mother drinking her way through an entire litre of spiced rum in front of the tv. All she’d gotten that Christmas was a couple of sharp words.
She’d told some of this to Lockwood. He’d asked if she would miss spending Christmas with her family and she had told him quite emphatically that she would really rather be anywhere else.
“That’s alright, Luce,” he’d said. “I’ll make sure it’s the best Christmas you’ve had in a very long time.”
Lucy was quite certain he would, if for no other reason than because the bar was set very low.
By the time they made it back, George’s mittens had holes ripped in them, Lucy’s leg had gotten scraped through her tights, and Lockwood had discovered that, in fact, the tree was about a foot too tall for the ceiling in the living room. Lucy had left the boys shouting at each other as they tried to get the tree straight in the old metal stand Lockwood had dug out of a box, and gone to reboil the kettle.
Three cups of tea and a whole packet of chocolate biscuits later, they were all feeling, if not relaxed, at least less belligerent.
They returned to the living room and stood regarding the tree, its top bent at a 90 degree angle against the ceiling.
“You could cut a hole in the ceiling,” George said, cleaning his glasses on his shirt.
“Brilliant, George,” Lockwood said sarcastically.
“It’d be like you have your own mini tree up there. You could put a star on it and everything.”
Lucy giggled, she couldn’t help it. Lockwood glared at her, a betrayed look on his face.
“Sorry,” she said. “I just thought, you could put a fireman’s pole there after Christmas and then you’d be able to slide down to breakfast every morning.”
George guffawed. Lockwood tried to maintain his glare, but the mischievous glint in Lucy’s eye wore him down until he finally cracked with a wry chuckle.
“Fine, you were both right,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should have listened.”
Lucy hooked her arm through his companionably. “I think if we trim it and put the star right at the top, nobody will know.”
Lockwood looked down at her and his expression softened into a shy smile. His face was full of such heartbreaking gratitude, Lucy almost couldn’t look at him. It was like staring into the sun.
“I mean, we’ll know,” said George. “And we’re probably the only ones who’ll see it.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and smacked him lightly on the arm.
As it turned out, Lucy was right again, and a judicious trim was all that was needed to correct Lockwood’s mistake. They began digging through the boxes for the star for the top, and soon the floor was littered with garlands, bows, bells and holiday bric-a-brac. Lockwood found a whole box of holiday records and immediately ran to the library to put one on.
A deep baritone as smooth as hot cocoa warbled through the house.
“What the hell is this?” George asked.
“Bing Crosby,” Lockwood said, smiling as he reentered the room. “One of my mum's favourites. She loved all the old American crooners.”
“It’s nice,” said Lucy, swaying to the music.
“Come on,” said Lockwood smiling, “Help me get these lights on the tree.”
They crammed as many ornaments as they could manage onto the tree, and had barely made a dent in the pile of decorations. There was nothing for it but to continue outward, draping garlands and ornaments over lintels, windowsills, bookshelves and lamps. Lucy scattered baubles on various end tables and shelves and George took it upon himself to deck out the kitchen, with bells jingling on every cupboard and bows on all the chairs.
Lockwood found the mistletoe and chased both Lucy and George around the house with it. George kept screaming that it was unhygienic and was completely unapologetic about using Lucy as a human shield. She didn’t really mind, so it worked out.
By the time they were finished, the house looked like nothing so much as the dwelling of a trio of mad elves. Which, perhaps, was not so far from the truth at the moment. For all the bickering, Lucy had never laughed so much. Each time Lockwood caught her by the waist and quirked his eyebrow up at a sprig of mistletoe he’d tucked behind a picture frame or a wooden mask or his ear, she melted into him, letting him kiss her until they were both breathless. Her cheeks hurt from smiling.
George needed to get home for supper, but promised to come back the next day. Lockwood and Lucy made fish fingers and chips in the oven for their supper, then retired to the living room to admire their handiwork.
“What is on the agenda for tomorrow?” Lucy asked as they kicked back on the sofa.
“I thought we’d see if we can get tickets to a matinee,” said Lockwood. “It’s Sunday, after all.”
“Oh, I’d love that,” said Lucy, draping her legs over Lockwood’s lap. “I also need to do some Christmas shopping,” she said, hoping Lockwood didn’t hear the nervous tremor in her voice.
“Oh yes, me too,” said Lockwood, stroking her calf with one of his hands.
“That feels nice,” said Lucy. “All that decorating and tree hauling was hard work.”
Lockwood obliged her by massaging her legs more thoroughly. She let her head fall against his shoulder, the twinkling lights on the tree lulling her into relaxed stupor.
“Was it… is it okay?” Lockwood asked hesitantly.
“Is what okay?” Lucy asked, looking up at him.
“The tree. The house. Everything.” He was looking fixedly at the tree, but Lucy sensed he was entirely focused on her reaction.
“Lockwood, I’ve never seen such a beautiful, crazy, wonderful house for the holidays. Truly.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. It seemed like he wanted to say something, so Lucy stayed quiet. She had learned that it was counterproductive to push him to open up. All she could do was wait.
“After our parents died, Jessica kept up all their holiday traditions. The decorations, the music, the presents. She even maintained the facade of Father Christmas for a few years, until I was too old to find it fun anymore. Then it became a game of trying to catch her filling the stockings.”
He smiled at the memory but his eyes shone with emotion.
“Where are the stockings?” she asked. “I haven’t seen them.”
“I know where they are, I just… Not this year,” he whispered.
Lucy scooted forward, wrapping her arms around his neck, and Lockwood buried his face in her hair.
“I’ve really missed you, Luce,” he whispered.
“I’m here,” she said simply.
Lockwood wrapped his arms around her and she nestled against him, finding the Lucy shaped hollow within his embrace. It had been so long, she’d almost forgotten it was there, but once she found it again, it felt like coming home.