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“It had to be you,” Kipps bites out, once the relicmen have been dispatched.
Lockwood, to be honest, is a bit taken aback by his tone.
Kipps is bound to a metal chair, his hands cuffed behind him. There’s a spotlight over him that puts his features in stark relief, paints shadows where there aren’t any, normally. His cheeks look more hollow, the curve of his jaw even sharper, if that’s possible. Lockwood’s already sheathing his rapier and digging into his inner coat pocket for his set of lockpicks.
“You’re welcome, Lockwood,” Lockwood says brightly, smirk curving his mouth. “Thanks for saving my sorry arse again, Lockwood - “ he stops when he sees a flash of red, brighter than what passes for the dark auburn of Kipps’ hair. He’s beside the chair in a flash, his fingers gently pressing on Kipps’ jaw, turning his head so he can get a better angle.
A trickle of bright carmine snakes its way along the edge of Kipps’ hairline, behind his ear, disappearing under his collar. Kipps doesn’t wear Fittes gray anymore, not since he officially joined Lockwood and Co., but he’s still in the habit of wearing the fitted long sleeve tees with the high collars. Lockwood figures it must be because they really do show off the breadth of his shoulders and Kipps is an arrogant prick who takes every advantage he can get.
Lockwood’s fingers are tentatively exploring along Kipps’ head. There’s a bump, and Lockwood knows from experience that it’s going to smart in about two hours. George’s voice is in his mind, clinical, dispassionate: Concussion , he whispers.
Lockwood puts two fingers under Kipps’ chin, tilting his face. Kipps squints, wrenching his head away. “Uncuff me, you barbarian,” he snaps.
Lockwood wrests his face back under the light, peering at his eyes. His pupils are two dark pools; much too wide for the bright light Kipps is sweating under. “You’ve got a concussion,” he says decisively, fighting to keep his voice neutral and not snap back. “We should get you looked at.”
Kipps grunts. “I don’t have a concussion. They drugged me.” He strains against the cuffs. “Tony. Let me go.”
Lockwood pauses, swallowing back bile. “They drugged you?” He repeats, not liking the way his stomach drops into his feet. Both the feeling and the person provoking it. He’s still getting used to caring about Kipps’ well being. But once the former Fittes agent had confessed he’d lost his Talent and then signed on with them anyway, Lockwood couldn’t help the flowering sense of protectiveness encroaching in their precarious relationship, like a vine slowly strangling the life out of a tree. A tree of disdain and seething rivalry, but still. Lockwood had spent a long time tending it, okay?
Lockwood licks his lips, looking Kipps over. He’s heard stories about the substances relic men used on unwilling captives. “Maybe I should leave you bound,” he suggests, mouth dry. He has no doubt he can take Kipps in a match, but he doesn’t actually want to hurt him and -
Kipps rolls his eyes. “It’s not sex pollen,” he says, then smirks when Lockwood blushes. “What, are your virgin ears on fire?” Kipps mocks. Lockwood very carefully does not look at him, but the blush lingers.
“You did that on purpose,” Lockwood accuses, then drops to his knees and starts fiddling with the cuffs. He wishes that Lucy were there; she’s by far a steadier hand at picking locks than he is. Still, in the work of a minute, Kipps is free.
Lockwood heaves him to his feet. They take stock of their situation; one relic man had fled, while one was currently unconscious in a heap, having taken the brunt of a blow from Lockwood’s rapier handle. Once he’s sure Kipps won’t fall over or try to attack him, Lockwood steps away. He finds the cache of silverbound relics in the corner and busies himself stuffing his messenger bag with them.
“Have you seen my - ah,” Kipps says, stooping over carefully and easing his sword out from under the downed relic man. “Would hate to have lost this,” he says, and Lockwood’s stomach flips with the wistfulness in his voice.
“Kipps,” Lockwood says, hands clenching and unclenching as he watches the other man. He’s moving carefully, and his eyes are glassy, pupils wide. “What did they give you?”
“Just take me home, Tony,” Kipps sighs.
Lockwood folds his hands over his arms, prepared to be stubborn about this. “Fine,” Kipps grumbles. “I’ll tell you, but let’s get into a car first. I don’t fancy being here when they come back.”
*
“So?” Lockwood asks, once they’re tucked safely into a nightcab. Lockwood leans forward and starts to give the address of their preferred A&E - it’s not the closest, but George has some friends there and they get better treatment than some of the other hospitals. Not to mention the bills are usually reasonable, without all the stacked fees and hiked insurance rates DEPRAC is supposed to shield them from.
Kipps puts his hand on Lockwood’s elbow. “Don’t,” he says, shaking his head. He gives the address to his flat, instead.
“Kipps,” Lockwood warns, and his tone must give away his worry, because Kipps closes his eyes and leans back against the worn seat of the cab.
“Just… try to avoid asking me any direct questions.” When Lockwood doesn’t respond, Kipps’ eyes slit open. They’re dark, so much darker than Lockwood is used to.
Lockwood raises a brow. “I’m waiting.”
“It’s an empathogen. When given at high doses, it functions as a truth serum.” Kipps’ lips twist. “Of a sort.”
“An empath- “ Lockwood stumbles over the word. He’s never heard it before.
“Empathogen. Typically used as a party drug.”
A light goes off in Lockwood’s mind, and he stares at Kipps, incredulous. “You’re high, aren’t you?”
Something like a smile twitches on Kipps’ lips. “Don’t spoil my fun.”
Lockwood sits back, taking him in. Now that they're in the car, Kipps looks relaxed, almost sated, legs sprawled open, a flush in his cheeks and his eyes dark and - Lockwood swallows, and is silent for the rest of the car ride.
*
Relief settles over Kipps like a cloak, as he unlocks the door to his flat and lets himself in. Lockwood follows closely on his heels, prowling and sniffing, like he wants to rub himself on Kipps’ furniture, mark his territory.
Just because I work for you doesn’t mean you own me, Kipps almost says, but he swallows that thought down. He’s had to do that twice a minute since Lockwood showed up out of the blue, not fifteen minutes after the relic men had pinched his nose shut til he was forced to open his mouth, and then they’d poured a whole capsule of foul tasting powder onto his tongue. Kipps had tried not to swallow it, saliva pooling in the back of his mouth, but one of them had stroked along his neck, hard, and it had been reflexive. Kipps knew it was a hopeless gesture of resistance, anyway; it would have got into his system through his gums. But still. Gestures counted. They let him go, waiting with grins that showed too much teeth.
“What did you give me?” He’d demanded, and the two men had exchanged looks.
“They’re callin’ this one fae dust,” said one, casually, and Kipps’ eyes widened. But no - that couldn’t be right. It had been bitter, not sweet, and he still had a hold of his faculties. They had to be lying.
When Lockwood had shown up, coat flapping dramatically in the doorway and rapier held straight out, Kipps had felt a swooning, tightening sensation in his low belly as an undeniable wave of affection swept through him.
On the one hand, now he knew what they’d given him.
On the other hand: Lockwood.
“You can leave now,” Kipps says pointedly, reaching for the aluminum water bottle he keeps on his coffee table. He uncaps it, taking a long draught. That’s one of the only real risks of the thing they’d forced into him: dehydration. Well, that and spilling your sorry guts to whomever is around to do the asking.
“How do I know you’re okay?” Lockwood says warily, eyeing the water bottle as if I might bite him.
Kipps wants to be annoyed, would have really appreciated it if his limbic system could cough up some hostility or haughty dignity or something other than this feline urge to preen under Lockwood’s concern. He grits his teeth, tells himself sternly that he’d do the same for anyone on his team. Had done, when it had happened to them.
He very quickly steers his mind away from thoughts of them, but it lands him looking right back at Lockwood, the chiseled cut of his jaw, the strong, aquiline nose and proud brow, now wrinkled. In concern. For him.
Fuck. Focus, Quill. Get him out and then you can enjoy the rest of this in peace.
It’s Kat’s voice, stern like when he needs her to be, when he can’t be.
Or, and now it’s Bobby, sly grin on his lips. Do you want him to stay, after all?
“I’ve had this before,” Kipps says. He goes into the kitchen and retrieves the first aid kit he has stashed there, coming back with a gauze pad and a bottle of alcohol. The alcohol barely stings, and even the pain feels a little good, pleasure singing through his body now. The pad comes away sticky. Good. The wound has clotted. It can’t have been serious.
Lockwood chokes. “You - what?” he says, trailing Kipps into the kitchen and then back to the living room. He takes the gauze and alcohol from Kipps, pushing him down onto the sofa with quick efficiency, and sits next to him. His hands are gentle, stroking through his hair, searching for something he might have missed. Probably to rub it into his face, but Kipps can’t bring himself to care. Pleasure shivers through him as Lockwood essentially pets him, cleaning up the dried trail of blood behind his ear and under his collar . Kipps resists the urge to arch into his touch, but barely.
“I think I should stay,” Lockwood says authoritatively, and it scrapes at Kipps, but much less than it used to.
Kipps shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’m fine, though.”
Lockwood exhales in surprise. His shoulders drop; clearly he was expecting more of a fight. “Good. Fine. I’m going to call George and Lucy and let them know.” He strides off to Kipps’ kitchen, where the phone is. Kipps lays his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes. His whole body feels warm and soft. Nothing hurts. He wants to curl up in bed and pet Bobby, listen to the steady thump of Kat’s heart. Or - his mind places him at Portland Row instead. Lucy would run her nails through his hair, against his scalp, that fine line between petting and scratching that he loves. George would bring up a tray of fresh fruit, and they’d all sit around laughing, with sticky chins and sweet breath.
He can hear the hushed cadence of Lockwood’s voice, reassuring, plaintive, then soft. It must be Lucy on the other end. The phone clicks as Lockwood places it back in its receiver. Kipps’ flat is quiet - it’s on the second floor, and the murmur of London is a quiet hum through the drawn curtains of his living room. He hears Lockwood come back, and the cushions dip when he sits next to Kipps.
“When did you, why…” Lockwood is fumbling, clearly thrown off. Kipps wishes he were just a tad more lucid, so he could enjoy it. Right now he just finds it endearing.
“Cat got your tongue, Tony?” he teases lazily, and it seems to provoke Lockwood just the right amount.
“When have you taken this before?” Lockwood says, faint disapproving tone to his voice.
Ah. Kipps rolls his head to the side, squints at him. “Fittes made us take it,” he says.
“What?”
“Not every team, mind,” Kipps acknowledges. “But some of the senior ones, the ones that got put on the high profile cases. Like mine. So we'd know how to cope with it, what to expect.”
Lockwood is silent, and that would normally be fine but Kipps is feeling loose and warm and downright loquacious. He’s aware of how quickly that could spin things out of control but he can’t… it’s not that he doesn’t care, he’s just not particularly worried about it, right now.
“We loved it,” he adds, and the memory doesn’t hurt, this time. “They let us go after about an hour, but it lasted for another three.” They’d come back here, to Kipps’ tiny flat, piled on the couch and then spilling onto the rug when that wasn’t enough room, laughing and giggling and cuddling together. Even Ned, not prone to the same affectionate touching as the rest of them, had joined in, gently running his hands through Bobby’s hair and massaging Kat’s shoulders.
“Why,” Lockwood’s voice is hushed, and he fumbles a little. “Why did you say that, earlier? When I came in?” There’s a stutter of breath by his ear, and Kipps opens his eyes, only realizing then that he’d let them fall closed. Kipps tips his head. Things are a bit foggy, he can’t quite -
“You said, ‘It had to be you,’” Lockwood parrots back. “I want to know why.”
“Tony - “
“This is the only time I’m going to get a straight answer from you, isn’t it?” Lockwood says mulishly, a challenging slant to his mouth. He stares hard at Kipps, a little bit of anger but also confusion on his face, and Kipps’ temper, what little he can feel of it, snaps.
“Oh please,” he snorts. “Can’t you ever drop the act? Fancying yourself the precocious agency head, as if that entitles you to all the answers.”
Lockwood bristles. “Still can’t accept my authority, can you? I knew it. Knew you couldn’t let go of being in control - “
Kipps sighs, some of the fight leaving him. “But I have, though,” he interrupts. “I’m not in control anymore, I can’t be. You know as well as anyone that I can’t See - “ his voice chokes up, unwillingly, and he swallows down the lump in his throat. He’d lost everything, his sense of self, his partners, nearly his livelihood. Lockwood had given him some of that back and he’s desperately grateful and he hates it.
“This is why you’re not the right person to be here,” he says, gesturing between the two of them. Lockwood gives him a furious, mystified look. Kipps rolls his eyes. “You can hardly blame me that you’re not the person I’d choose to be this…” vulnerable supplies his mind, but he glosses over it, “unguarded with.”
It feels like he’s tossed a pebble into a placid lake, one that he knows is hiding a monster in its depths. But that’s how it’s always been with Tony, the two of them poking at each other, because deep down, they both know they’re far too similar. It’s uncomfortable to see your own flaws so proudly on parade in someone else.
“Oh, and Lucy and George are?” The jealousy in Lockwood’s voice is dark and thick, like molasses. Kipps wonders if Lockwood realizes how much it betrays.
“They don’t want me,” Kipps fires back.
Lockwood’s eyes widen almost comically, and Kipps thinks maybe this whole debacle will be worth it, for seeing that. He gapes at Kipps.
“And what - I do?” Lockwood says, on the verge of hysterical.
“You do,” Kipps says agreeably, the last of the fire gone from his belly, now that he’s finally said the words that have been sitting heavy on his tongue for the last hour. “Now hush, so I can roll in peace.”
Lockwood doesn’t move, barely even seems able to breathe. Kipps’ head lolls to the side. He closes his eyes. Everything feels soft and warm around him, like being in a cloud of fine-spun gold, of sunshine. He wonders if Kat’s awake at this hour, if she’s on a job tonight. Maybe Kipps will call her, just to hear her voice, low and amused - but no. He should keep away. No use in digging into old wounds.
Beside him, Lockwood is fighting with himself, and Kipps tries to hold back his amusement. Lockwood notices, jumping up to pace the room. “You think this is funny?” He says, eyes blazing. “You’re high out of your mind and clearly - clearly imagining things and - “
“Tony,” Kipps says, very gently. He pats the couch next to him in invitation, but Lockwood stays where he is.
“Why would you say that?” Lockwood asks, almost desperately. Like he wants Kipps to talk him out of it, or unsay it.
Kipps shakes his head. “Because you do,” he says simply.
Lockwood takes a step forward. “And I say I don’t,” he says, pointedly. “It’s my word against yours.”
Kipps smiles. “Oh sure. Except, I can prove it.”
The blood rushes to Lockwood’s face. It sends a corresponding rush of blood through Kipps’ body, warm swell of arousal creeping up behind the unbearable affection. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can beg,” Kipps says, standing up. “But not for my pardon.” He crosses the room in two short strides, getting a fistful of Lockwood’s shirt and yanking him forward. Their bodies collide, Lockwood stumbling with the force of it, his hand falling on Kipps’ arm to steady himself. But then Kipps stops paying attention to anything but their lips, because they’re kissing, soft press of lips and oh it’s odd, Lockwood’s just barely taller than him, perhaps a centimeter, but Kipps has always had to tip his head down to kiss, even with Bobby.
Kipps threads his fingers through Lockwood’s hair, because it feels good, and he’s always wanted to, and Lockwood moans, suddenly coming unfrozen. His mouth moves against Kipps’, and there’s a flutter of tongue against his lower lip, and then they’re really kissing, sharing breaths, swipe of warm heat igniting a slow stuttering glitter of arousal firecracking down Kipps’ spine.
Kipps doesn’t mean to, but he gets lost in it. He’s always liked kissing, and when he’s feeling like this, and with Tony -
At some point Lockwood whines, and it sends another bolt of heat crawling through him. He leaves the sweet heat of Lockwood’s mouth to travel along his jaw, down his neck, then grumbles when he’s brought up short by Lockwood’s stupid collar, cinched tight by his stupid tie. Kipps tugs on it, meaning to undo it, but Lockwood’s fingers wrap around his and they stutter apart.
Lockwood stares at him. He’s more than a little flushed, his lips plump and wet from their kissing, his eyes wild. “You - you - “
“Told you,” Kipps says, and he means it to come out smug but he’s just breathless and aching.
Lockwood goes rigid at his weak attempt at antagonism, anyway; they’re both groping for familiar ground. “Well, you obviously want me,” Lockwood snaps, but his voice is low, ragged.
Kipps bites his lip, and Lockwood’s eyes dart down to follow the gesture. “I never said I didn’t,” he shrugs. “But you didn’t ask, did you?”
“You’re so - “ Lockwood says, his eyes blazing, taking that half step forward, and oh yes, they’re kissing again, and Lockwood is helping him with his tie, tugging it off and flinging it behind him. Kipps doesn’t waste any time, getting his mouth on the tender skin of Lockwood’s throat, and, just like he guessed, Lockwood throws his head back and moans. His hands wrap around Kipps’ biceps, pulling him closer, and Kipps can feel the heat of Lockwood’s prick through his snug trousers, hard and insistent.
Lockwood breaks the kiss, his mouth trembling. “I, you’re not,” he says, and there’s fear lurking there. Lockwood is hard, but Kipps is very clearly not.
Kipps shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t be. It’s the drugs. Probably for the best, anyway. Keeps me out of trouble.” He grins, wolfish, at Lockwood. “It’ll wear off in a few hours.”
Lockwood blinks. “Oh god,” he groans, and he tries to step away, but Kipps knows Tony well enough to expect this.
“Where d’ya think you’re going?” Kipps asks, grabbing his arm and towing him towards the couch. “You volunteered to keep me company. I’ve been drugged, Tony,” He says, barely surprised at the soft, teasing thread in his voice. “You know, my body temperature can drop on this stuff. It’s your sacred duty to keep me warm.”
Lockwood lets out a disbelieving huff, as Kipps pulls him back onto the sofa, so that Lockwood’s straddling him, long legs splayed over Kipps. He runs his palms along Lockwood’s thighs, feeling the shift of the lean muscles there, before wrapping his arms around Lockwood’s back. Lockwood bows forward, and their foreheads brush.
“Did I mention you must also dispense petting and cuddling?” Kipps says archly, and Lockwood laughs again, hiccuped out of him like he can’t help himself. He hadn’t meant to have this conversation with Lockwood in quite this way. To be honest, he’d planned to never bring up their mutual attraction. But now that he has, he can’t bring himself to mind. Lockwood’s fingers are stroking through Kipps hair, trailing down the lines of his neck to his shoulders and oh, his fingers are strong. Kipps sighs, and finally, finally, allows himself to lean into the touch.