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“I think Lockwood wants a tree,” Lucy says, mouth screwing to the side as she wrestles with Riley, her plump little legs kicking against the changing table. She wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, that smells, baby,” she chides, sliding the dirty diaper out and a clean one under immediately. They’d all learned that lesson the hard way, as failing to do so often necessitated an agonizing middle-of-the-night clothes change.
George’s head bobs up from where he’s bent over the bed, folding laundry with a precision Mrs. Karim would be proud of. He smooths down another onesie, laying it neatly on top of the others. He won’t let Lucy or Lockwood do it; he never says that they’re doing it wrong, but he twitches when he watches them attempt to fold and Lucy always finds them refolded to his standard when she opens the drawer later.
Lucy knew George and Lockwood very well; working together for seven years, partners for five. They’d weathered the toppling of the Problem, the resulting sudden change in career trajectory, the wild publicity given Lockwood and Co.’s part in said toppling. They’d had every possible argument to be had, down to whose turn it was to do the dishes, George’s neverending annoyance at Lockwood and Lucy’s untidiness, Lockwood’s passionate jealousy. It turned out he was fine with sharing George and Lucy with each other, but attempts at dating outside their little triad had met with utter disaster (see footnote: Kat Godwin. Lucy still thought of her wistfully, sometimes).
Anyway the point was, they’d essentially grown up together, so when Lucy had found herself late on her period one windy day in September last year, she’d been a bit surprised, but she knew George and Lockwood would be as excited as she was. And they were. Sure, it wasn’t a hundred percent planned, and they were pretty sure the baby’s biological father was Lockwood, but they’d talked about starting a family together for ages and Lucy didn’t see the sense in not taking this gift, as it seemed, from the universe.
They all wanted this, but were they ready, Lucy worried. But she needn’t have. Lockwood, with all his manic energy, calmed down immediately with baby Riley in his arms. He’d taken one look at her sleepy dark eyes and had been completely speechless. Not that George had been much better, mind.
Lucy has a photo, taken by Mrs. Karim, of the two of them sitting side-by-side in the hospital, heads bent over the little bundle in Lockwood’s arms. Lockwood’s eyes are full of disbelief and devotion. George is smiling as wide as she’s ever seen, joy shining out of his face. She’s stuck it up in the mirror on what she still thinks of as Lockwood’s dresser, even though they’ve been sharing it for the last four years. It’s companion to the photos of her and Norrie from the old days, sandwiched between a few candid shots of two of the three of them eating donuts. Her favorite, aside from the Lockwood and George with Riley, is the one Kipps took. It’s the three of them, arms around each other, grinning triumphantly from behind at a table at their favorite cafe, following a case. George’s glasses are smudged and Lockwood’s hair is sticking up all over the place. She and Lockwood are kissing George’s cheeks and he’s laughing, his eyes crinkled up with joy.
The photos show the good moments, but they’d had their fill of horrible, dark, shitty moments, too. Professionally and personally. Lucy tries not to linger on those. They’d made it out, and they had their beautiful daughter. The days were short, drawing close to winter solstice, and it’s still odd, to not have to fear the winter any more.
“Does he,” George says carefully, as Lucy deposits the gently squirming baby into his arms. Lucy yawns, her jaw cracking, and flops back on the bed. Lockwood’s sleeping in their bedroom. He’d been on point, helping with Riley last night, while George had gotten a full night’s sleep. Lucy knows it’s temporary, but she has to wake up with the baby every three hours to nurse her and she’s exhausted. The idea of four hours of unbroken sleep makes her want to weep.
She watches as George lays Riley on the bed, waving his fingers at her. Her toothless grin of delight is infectious; George is smiling helplessly in return as the baby snatches at his fingers. “She’s tracking!” he says proudly. “Did’ya see that, Luce?”
“Mmhmm,” Lucy says sleepily. She lets the silence hang for another moment. “It’s Riley’s first Christmas, and he’s been talking about how he and Jess used to decorate their tree. They put them in the front parlor, where that old loveseat is.”
“Makes sense,” George says. “It’d look beautiful there, from the window, too.”
“I was thinking… maybe we could get one?” Lucy suggests tentatively.
They didn’t celebrate Christmas, or Easter. Lucy wasn’t really sure why, except that it seemed to be kind of painful for Lockwood, and Lucy had always been rubbish at holidays. George had always been stubbornly silent on the topic. But now they have Riley and…
“It might be nice, for the baby,” Lucy says. “Have some traditions and such.”
George grunts. “I’m not the one you have to convince, Luce,” he says, flipping Riley onto her tummy. The baby squawks indignantly, stretching her head and neck up to look around. George smiles involuntarily again. “Such good neck strength!” He praises their daughter. “She’ll be rolling over in no time.”
“But you - “
“Lockwood’s the one with the baggage, on this one,” George says, an edge to his voice. Lucy bites her lip. She’s touched a sore spot, apparently.
“So if we surprise him with one, you don’t mind?”
George leans back to look at her, one hand on the baby’s back to make sure she doesn’t roll off the bed. “I think it would be lovely,” he says softly, and she beams at him, before yawning again.
“Go on,” George says, scooping Riley up from the bed. “I’ll take her downstairs, you try to catch a nap.”
Lucy nods. She thinks about falling asleep here. They’d turned George’s old room into the nursery. There’s another bed up in Lucy’s old room in the attic, in case any of them ever need some space, but until Riley’s arrival they’d hardly ever slept apart.
Lucy can only remember it twice, both times after a very bad row, George hadn’t come to bed. It had hurt almost as badly as the fight. Eventually she and Lockwood had climbed all the steps together, side by side, to stand at the top of the attic, looking at George. He’d swallowed hard, staring at them from Lucy’s old bed, then nodded, and they’d piled in with him.
Lucy drags herself out of the nursery, shaking off the old memories. She stumbles across the landing, opening the door into their bedroom as softly as she can. Predictably, Lockwood is starfished in the center of the bed. She sneaks onto her side, crawling under his arm. He rolls over a bit, pulling her close to his chest, and buries his face into her hair. His legs curl under hers, and her whole body goes limp and relaxed. He’s so warm. She’s in their bed, Riley is with George, and right now, everything is perfect and safe.
*
George brings her the baby when it’s time to nurse her. Lucy hunches up, bleary-eyed, and Lockwood wakes up, too. He rubs her shoulders for her while she does it, and she tips her head back against him gratefully. She gazes down at Riley. Her tiny fist waves in the air as she drinks, and Lucy gently offers a finger for her to curl hers around. It’s curious, how much love she can feel for something so small, but Lucy feels it engulf her again. This beautiful little baby with her light brown hair and sharp little chin. She’s so obviously Lockwood’s daughter and it had been equally obvious George and the rest of his family hadn’t cared.
When Riley is done, Lockwood takes her, burping her over his shoulder and then climbing out of the bed. “I’ve got it,” he says warmly, cradling Riley in his arms. “We’ll go contact nap downstairs; I’ve got a new issue of the London Star to catch up on,” he adds.
Lucy bites back a grin and George rolls his eyes, but George climbs into bed all the same. His bare legs curl under hers as he pulls her firmly against his chest. “Georgie?” she queries sleepily, after a few minutes. She can tell he’s not quite asleep; his breathing isn’t the deep, slow cadence it is when he’s out.
“Mmm,” he responds muzzily, dropping a kiss against her shoulder.
“Have you thought about the other thing? That we talked about giving Lockwood?”
She can feel George nod against her. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it.”
Lucy rolls over in his arms. She can see his smile in the dim light, curving warm in the dark. “Really?” she asks, a huge grin splitting her face. He nods again. “Okay. Okay, great.”
“Great,” George echoes, nudging their noses together before smacking a kiss against her forehead. “Now sleep, little mama, before Riley needs you again.”
Lucy yawns and closes her eyes.
*
“What’s this?” Lockwood says, laughter in his voice. “What are you up to, George?”
“Not me this time,” George swears, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses, though of course, Lockwood can’t see.
“Not Lucy, my heart,” Lockwood says, mock scandalized. He’s blindfolded, sitting placidly in the library despite the ribbing he’s giving them. He’d taken Riley over to the Karims, for a visit, and to pick up some old clothes and toys George’s sister had left for the baby, her own children having outgrown them several years before. Lockwood had come back with Riley tucked into the front-carrying pouch, both his arms full of overflowing bags: not just donated clothes, but treats and gifts from the whole Karim family.
George had taken the bags, then the baby, Riley cooing softly, her little cheeks pink from the brisk winter air. Lucy had promptly slid a sleep-mask over Lockwood’s head, having to strain on tip-toe to get it on.
Lucy bites her lips, exchanging a glance with George. They’d guided Lockwood into the library and sat him on the sofa. The pocket doors between the library and parlor, usually closed, had been opened in anticipation of their gift.
Lucy sits crosslegged next to Lockwood, taking Riley from George and pulling up her jumper to nurse. George crosses both rooms, fiddling with the lights, touching an ornament and tipping it ever so slightly to the right. Lockwood twists his head, chin tipped up, the satiny purple mask nudging up over his brow. “No peeking!” Lucy scolds, and Lockwood’s lips curve up in amusement, even as he obediently ducks his head back down. George comes back to the couch and sits on his other side, tangling their fingers together.
“All right,” Lucy says, anticipation coloring her voice. “You can look now.”
“Not even going to take it off for me?” Lockwood teases, as he tugs the mask off. His eyes, crinkled with laughter, go very wide as he stares across the library and the parlor, at the tree.
“You - “ he swallows, his throat bobbing, and Lucy and George exchange glances again. Lockwood’s voice is thick with emotion, even just the single word he’d uttered. He crosses the rooms in long, quick strides, his hand outstretched. Gently, he strokes his fingers along the boughs, pine needles tickling his palm and the little branches springing back.
Their Christmas tree is spectacular, Lucy thinks, though she admittedly doesn’t have much experience with these things. They’d found two boxes of decorations tucked in the back of the basement, string lights and diaphanous glass ornaments; garlands and a heavy, embroidered tree skirt and a glorious, delicate tree star. She and George had put it all on the tree, working fast in the scant hours whilst Lockwood was gone. George had thought ahead and bought new lights - he’d been right to, half the old ones didn’t work anymore.
The tree glows, rainbow spray of lights twinkling softly amongst the green branches. The ornaments peek through, evenly distributed by George’s careful hand. Lucy had even found a bundle of peacock feathers, royal blue-green sheen untarnished by the years, and had artfully threaded them throughout the boughs. Lockwood touches one of the ornaments with a fingertip reverently, then presses that finger to his lips. It’s silent in the house, the only sounds are the tiny, contented noises Riley makes as she busily gulps milk.
When Lockwood turns, there’s a radiance in his eyes that Lucy associates with some of the highest points of their relationship: when George had told them he loved them; when they’d both moved into his bedroom with him; their first morning after together. It’s golden, shining, gilded by a tinge of sadness Lucy knows comes with every numinous moment.
He drifts back to the couch, still with that stunned expression on his face. He tugs George up off the couch and kisses him, then bends down to kiss Lucy, too. She grins at him, shifting Riley to her other breast, pleasure suffusing her at his obvious delight. She tips her head, and George pulls out their other gifts from behind the bookshelf.
The first is a little box, brightly wrapped. “Now?” he inquires, tipping his head at the tree.
“Now,” says George firmly. “The other things can go under the tree.”
“This one’s from Riley,” Lucy adds impulsively, biting back a grin as Lockwood tears into the paper. He opens the box and takes out the ornament. It’s a wooden blue elephant, beautifully carved, all curving together. Little rhinestones are inset into the surface, so it glitters when it catches the light. At the bottom, in flowing text: Baby’s 1st Christmas! Riley Lockwood, 2030.
Lockwood twists down to plant a smacking kiss to the top of Riley’s head. She squawks, pulling off the breast to give him some serious side eye, before returning to her business.
George hands him their other gift: a thin, manila envelope. Lockwood’s forehead crinkles. “This one’s from me and Luce,” George says, secret smile curving his lips.
“Didn’t even bother to wrap it! Lazy,” Lockwood teases, but his fingers are already opening the flap and pulling out the few, official pieces of paper tucked inside. He flips through them quickly, then stops. His jaw drops. Lucy feels her stomach swoop, too, and she swallows, forcing herself to breathe.
In his hands, Lockwood holds two deed polls from the Royal Courts of Justice. For a nominal fee, Lucy and George had joined their family not just in fact but in word. Lucy Lockwood and George Lockwood and Riley Lockwood and Anthony Lockwood and maybe another baby someday, assuming they survive this one…
Lockwood doesn’t say anything. His mouth trembles as he carefully sets the documents down on the table. Lucy bites her lip. She’s seen so many expressions on Lockwood’s face over the years, but she can’t quite parse this one.
Riley pulls away with a satisfied coo, and Lucy automatically hands her to George to burp, as she pulls her bra up and her jumper down. The silence grows. Had they miscalculated?
“Is it alright?” Lucy finally asks cautiously, waving her hand, encompassing the tree, the ornament, their new names.
Lockwood tugs her to his feet, then pulls her and George into a crushing hug, still mindful of the baby in George’s arms. “It’s everything,” he says, muffled into George’s shoulder, and Lucy’s heart stutters with happiness.
“We love you,” George says, very softly.
“Merry Christmas, Lockwood,” Lucy adds, wrapping her arms around both of them, her eyes squeezed shut, wound tight in giddy togetherness.