Chapter Text
“It’s a shame we don’t have any Christmas decorations.” Lucy says over their morning cups of tea in the kitchen.
They did their final job before Christmas last night, an easy affair that had them in bed before midnight. Lockwood had promised no jobs on Christmas Eve and the day itself – muttering something about it being his gift to them to have a few days off.
(“Nice try, mate.” George had scoffed, even as he had started drawing up a shopping list for Christmas dinner. “We’re still expecting real presents.”
“Besides, we shouldn’t work Christmas anyway.” Lucy had added, looking at them both pointedly. “Christmas is for family. And we’re family.”)
Lockwood looks into his tea for a long moment, almost long enough that Lucy thinks about asking him if he’s feeling the urge to start doodling swirls on the Thinking Cloth. Then his head snaps up with a steely determination in his eye.
“I think I might be able to do something about that.” He tells her. “Do you mind if I come up to your room, Luce?”
From the back of her wardrobe, he pulls out a few dusty wooden boxes which he and George had set on her rug.
Carefully, they all blow away the cobwebs and draw out a childhood’s worth of decorations; delicate spun glass baubles that looked older than Lucy, childishly crafted handmade paper chains and lights that flicker when first plugged in, then glow steadily.
George falls about laughing when Lucy pulls out a little plaster cast Nutcracker with ‘Anthony’ printed along the bottom. It’s a little faded, but unbelievably cute with a rictus grin and a loop through his hat to hang him from.
Lockwood is all bluster about the childish decoration until she finds its partner; a beautiful ballerina in sweet little slippers, hands over head so when Lucy holds her up she spins in a little pirouette.
Beneath her pointed toes, ‘Jessica’ is written in the same font, a matching set clearly bought by doting parents.
Lockwood goes quiet after that, until Flo brings them a squat little tree - did you expect better on Christmas Eve? Come on Locky, even I can’t work miracles - and joins them to decorate it, accepting an invite to dinner the following day too from a profusely blushing George.
Lucy carefully hangs the nutcracker and the ballerina next to each other, their little plaster hands brushing at they sway on their branches.
Lockwood swallows hard when he steps back from affixing the star on top of the tree, his knuckles brushing against Lucy’s in a mirror of the figures’, as he stares a little too hard at Jessica’s name in the soft glow of the fairy lights.
“She should be up there.” Lucy says. There had been more than a years’ worth of dust on those decorations, another memory of Jess locked firmly away.
He twines his index finger around hers, squeezes gently.
“Yes. You’re right.” He agrees. “Christmas is for family.”
-
On Christmas morning, George makes them bacon sandwiches and they rip into the small pile of presents that waits for them under their dinky little tree.
They all have a wonky scarf knitted by George’s mum (he turns scarlet, but Lockwood immediately puts his on over his pyjamas and doesn’t take it off until they get dressed), and Penelope Fittes has sent them a fairly impersonal hamper of teabags and fruit which Lockwood doesn’t shut up about for a good fifteen minutes.
Lucy gets Lockwood a navy tie and George a new wok, since he’d burned through the bottom of his last one when experimenting with a bit of the Skull’s ectoplasm.
When it’s her turn, she unwraps a box of her favourite biscuits from George, with the ‘bonus gift’, or so he claims, of them not being circulated into the biscuit rotation so they’re really all hers.
Lockwood, uncharacteristically quiet, hands over a rectangular parcel, messily wrapped in shiny red paper. She tears through it to reveal a slim book. She’s never mentioned it to him, but Lockwood has found her after tough cases nursing her tea and flicking through old paperbacks in the library enough times to know she likes to read.
“It has a girl called Lucy in it, who is kind and strong and stubborn and… well. Need I go on?” Lockwood explains quietly, while George is distracted rooting around under the tree for his gifts to hand out.
Lucy feels her cheeks growing warm and looks down to the volume in her lap, gently thumbing through the pages. They’re soft and worn in the corners, slightly crinkled in the exact spot smaller hands might grip them in delight or concern.
She gently opens to the title page, where under the bold print of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, a childish hand has declared in pink crayon ‘from the library of Jessica Lockwood’.
“I, uh, I didn’t actually get round to Christmas shopping.” Lockwood admits, the tips of his ears turning red as he rubs a sheepish hand at the back of his neck. “I hope that’s okay. I wasn’t trying to be a cheapskate or anything.”
"The guy who hasn't paid us in months, a cheapskate?" Lucy teases, just to try make him relax a little.
He doesn’t need to justify himself to her. Giving Jessica’s copy of the book feels much more personal than going out to buy her a glossy new copy. Like he’s handing her a bit of his past, a bit of his heart, in this faded paperback which has absorbed so much love from its previous owner in every dog-eared page.
“I’ll take good care of it.” She promises; the book, his past, this piece of his heart if that is really what he’s offering.
Lockwood smiles softly. “I know you will, Luce.”
-
Flo comes over for dinner with a suspiciously bulging satchel, which turns out to be full of slightly damp chocolate boxes. She distributes them between Lockwood and Co – George gets the largest, which Lockwood gets in a snit about, and Lucy gets the smallest (and wettest), although she can’t be bothered kicking off about the obvious favouritism.
She eats a soft caramel which has an overwhelmingly briny aftertaste while Lockwood whines that we’ve known each other the longest, I’m just saying, before they hand over a bag of liquorice and an Aztec mask that Flo has strict instructions to sell to a museum and not on the black market.
Lucy has a feeling they won’t be seeing it in a glass case or nailed to a wall anytime soon, but it’s Christmas, so she doesn’t bother bringing up her and Flo’s usual spat. It’s a gift for them all.
-
“I took down all the mistletoe Flo hung up in the doorways when she came in.” George tells her when she helps him wash up after dinner. They’re all stuffed to the brim with turkey and honey glazed parsnips, roast potatoes so fluffy it felt like biting into a crispy cloud. “You can thank me later.”
Lucy’s eyes slide over to Lockwood, stacking plates up at the table while Flo polishes off the last slice of turkey.
“Or not.” George snickers and she whips the tea towel at him. He darts away, socked feet almost slipping on the soapy water he splatters over the tiles. “God knows where she got it from anyway. I think it had mistletoe bugs in it. Nasty things.”
Lucy pauses. “You’re making that up.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not! They’re real bugs. Mostly found in the South of England.”
She tuts. “You softy southeners with your fake bugs.”
“Listen here-“
“Everything alright?” Lockwood interrupts, setting down a stack of plates with the empty gravy jug balanced precariously on top.
“The mistletoe has bugs-“ George starts, but Lucy throws her tea towel at his face.
“Everything is fine.” She assures Lockwood, as George attempts to swipe the tea towel away and only succeeds in knocking off his glasses.
He raises an eyebrow. “We have mistletoe?”
“Lucy wishes.” George mumbles from underneath the damp terry cloth.
Bemused, Lockwood glances over at her.
“Ignore him.” She says through gritted teeth.
“Right. Well, it looks like George has this under control.” Lockwood says, as their researcher emerges from under the tea towel with his curls springing wildly and glasses hanging from one ear. Lucy ignores the kissy faces he makes at her from over Lockwood’s shoulder. “Can I show you something, Luce?”
-
Something is the piano at the back of the living room, neatly dusted and dragged away from the wall so it sits by the Christmas tree.
“Do you play?” Lucy asks redundantly as he takes a seat on the little bench, patting the space beside him for her to slide on next to him.
“A little.” He cracks his knuckles, then lets them rest on the row of white keys. Lucy studiously does not watch them flex over the ivory. “Jess was always better and she tried to make me keep up with lessons after our parents… But there were more important things to pay for.”
It’s like a second gift, or at least a continuation of the first one from this morning. Another little peek into his childhood after half a year of never bringing it up, each memory a present for Lucy to treasure as she learns more about him.
She sidles a little closer to him on the bench, nods her head to invite him to continue when he looks at her uncertainly.
“She loved Christmas though, so she always made sure to practice some carols. It was family tradition to sing around the piano, although you know I can’t carry a tune to save my life.” He chuckles, pressing a few keys. “What I lacked in ability, I made up for in enthusiasm.”
Lucy smiles at the image of a small Lockwood, hair unruly and Christmas jumper lopsided, merrily belting out lyrics off-key until he was red in the face.
“I’m not singing.” He warns her, before settling both hands on the piano and playing a familiar Christmas tune.
“I’m not either.” Lucy murmurs, as the chorus of ‘White Christmas’ floats around her, coaxed from the keys by Lockwood’s clever fingers. He huffs a small laugh, but acquiesces, wrapping them both up in a cosy wall of sound. She can feel the muscles of his arm moving where they brush against hers through their jumpers, moves back only slightly when he leans across her to reach the keys further away from him.
He finishes with a very on-brand flourish, running from one end of the piano to the other, before rounding it off with a final chord. Lucy claps obediently and he grins at her in the way he always does when he grabs the spotlight, although it’s a little softer and a little warmer than usual.
“I wish I could play.” She admits as he tinkles about a little, stitching together little patterns of notes.
He mock-frowns at her, over the top even for an audience of one. “What do you mean? You can.”
He takes her hand from her lap, cups his palm to the back of her hand, his index finger stretched out parallel to hers. He manoeuvres their joined fingers to the centre of the piano, hitting one key repeatedly, then jumping up a few.
“There.” He says, proudly, like she’s just flawlessly played Beethoven and not bashed out Jingle Bells under his control. “We’ll have you onstage at the Royal Albert Hall in no time.”
She laughs and knocks her shoulder into his; he knocks hers back and then they’re just sat there, shoulders and arms and knees pressed together on the little piano bench, hands entwined and resting on the piano keys.
There’s an energy around them again as they sit in comfortable silence, one that seems to build and crackle more and more often these days when they’re alone together. Lucy can’t put a name to it, but she can taste it on the tip of her tongue, something smoky and sweet like Lockwood’s preferred brand of Earl Grey.
“This is the best Christmas I’ve had in years.” Lockwood tells her.
“Me too.” She says.
“I’m glad I got to spend it with you.” He adds. “And George and Flo, of course.”
“Of course.” Lucy agrees, although she feels toasty at the thought that he listed her first. “I’m glad I was here for it. At Lockwood and Co, I mean.”
“With family.” Lockwood corrects and the toasty feeling rises to a marshmallow-melting fire in her stomach.
“Dessert is ready.” George calls from the kitchen, his voice interrupting the quiet of their moment.
She’s reluctant to break away; an open Lockwood is a rare one, even if he has begun sharing more with them all since the Bickerstaff case. It might be months till he next lets her peek into his past, trusts her with another golden memory, one more block that has built him into the boy he is today.
But she knows she also can’t push him lest he break and close himself off again, making them start from scratch. She can’t get greedy or try fill up to quickly on him, because it makes it even harder to go cold turkey after she’s pried too hard.
Plus, she doesn’t fancy George or, god forbid, Flo coming to look for them and finding them tucked close at the piano; she’s already had enough ribbing for today and doesn’t need to add fuel to that particular fire.
She slides off the piano bench, immediately noticing the drop in temperature without Lockwood’s side pressed against hers, heading for the door when Lockwood’s voice makes her pause.
“Uh, Luce?” When she turns back, Lockwood has stopped just shy of the doorway, his eyes fixed over her head.
“What?”
Lucy looks up and there it is – a cluster of green leaves, a little droopy and limp, tacked onto the doorframe above her head.
“Looks like George missed some.” She remarks, then freezes.
Because if that is above her, that means she’s underneath it and the only other person in the vicinity is Lockwood.
Despite the realisation coursing through her, Lucy can’t seem to move her feet from where they are rooted to the carpet, even as Lockwood walks towards her, examining the plant. He stops only centimetres away, head turned up so all she can see his the ling of his jaw, the strong jut of his chin melting into his long, pale throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, a deliciously pink flush crawling up his skin.
“It’s just a dumb tradition.” Lucy hears herself saying over the roaring in her ears. “We don’t have to…”
She trails off when Lockwood slowly lowers his head, eyes drifting from the sprig of sad greenery to Lucy’s face. Or more specifically, to Lucy’s forehead, then down the slope of her nose to land on her lips.
“Luce?” He says, her name a gentle breath across her mouth.
“Yes?” She whispers, eyes half-lidded as she lifts her chin, her face drawn towards his like he’s a fire on a cold winter’s night.
“I think it’s actually rocket.”
She blinks at him, more focused on his lips than the words coming out of them. “Huh?”
“Rocket.” He repeats. “Like the salad? George uses it for that walnut and pomegranate salad he makes sometimes.”
“Oh.” She says dumbly. Then- “Oh.” And hurriedly steps back into the hallway, putting some much needed distance between them as reality douses her like shocking ice-cold water.
Well. That’s just- mortifying is really the only word for it. It’s embarrassing on the one hand to mistake something she’d find in the supermarket for mistletoe and even more embarrassing to actually expect Lockwood to kiss her underneath it.
She nods hurriedly. “So that would mean we wouldn’t-“
“Absolutely not, no-“
“-because it’s only tradition if it’s-“
“-right, which it isn’t, because it’s-“
“Rocket.”
“-yeah.”
“Not mistletoe.”
“Yeah.”
Lockwood looks uneasy as he steps out from under the salad leaves, still keeping the yawning space between them as they stand at either side of the hall.
“We should go get dessert.” He says quickly. “Are you hungry?”
“Um. No?” Lucy still feels discombobulated, cheeks hot and mind reeling.
“No. Well. That’s fair enough. Watching Flo inhale those pigs in blankets at dinner earlier is enough to put anyone off their Christmas pudding.” Lockwood seems to be talking to her, but his gaze is firmly fixed on the floor. “But we should probably still go to- ah, supervise George lighting the brandy on fire.”
“Sure. We don’t want to get a reputation for burning down houses.”
Lockwood barks out an awkward chuckle. “No, no, that wouldn’t do at all.”
She laughs back nervously, watching the flush crawl down his neck, back under his collar. He clears his throat, the fingers that just been carving beautiful sounds into the air now scrambling to undo his top button.
Lucy makes herself look away.
-
“Did you like your Christmas present?” Flo asks conspiratorially when Lucy sits beside her at the kitchen table, while Lockwood goes straight to hover over George at the hob with the brandy.
“Yes, thank you, the chocolates were very nice.” Lucy lies in the spirit of festive good will, even though she’s already making plans to throw the box out first thing in the morning.
Flo rolls her eyes. “No I meant-“
“Lockwood!” George barks. “Move back if you want to keep your damn eyebrows.”
“George confiscated the mistletoe so I had to get creative.” Flo tells her. “You guys don’t have much in your salad drawer.”
Any retort Lucy has – which is going to be somewhere between tart irritation and some sort of remark about being surprised Flo knows what a salad drawer is - is cut off by George proud presenting a plump Christmas pudding in the centre of the table, Lockwood as safe a distance as he can be away while still worrying at his elbow.
As the burning brandy spreads across the fruitcake, the sudden heat flaring at their faces, Lockwood catches Lucy’s eye over the blue flame and offers her a hesitant smile.
We’re okay? It asks.
We’re okay. She answers, with a gentle nod and he smiles.
-
George makes eggnog so alcoholic it manages to permeate through all the food they’ve eaten and leave them flushed and giggly in the living room.
Lucy takes out her new-old book, tucked into one of the armchairs while the fire roars in the grate. George has put some before-Problem Christmas film on, black and white and grainy on their little TV, while he and Flo engage in what can only be described as a vicious game of chess.
Lockwood is stretched out on the sofa, one long leg lazily slung over the arm and the other bent so his foot is on the floor, flicking through a trashy magazine. In the warm glow of the Christmas lights, he looks younger than normal, hair flopping in his eyes as he sips his eggnog.
As though sensing her watching him, he glances over at her, mimes a cheers with his mug across the room.
She goes pink – from the heat of the fire, obviously, not from having been caught looking – but lifts her glass in return.
Lucy settles down to read her book, half-planning how she can shove George and Flo under the not-mistletoe still limply swinging from the doorway, but mostly content to listen to them bicker over the old movie’s soundtrack.
Her first Christmas at Lockwood and Co.
She’s already looking forward to next year.