Work Text:
And it starts sometime around midnight
Or at least that's when you lose yourself for a minute or two
As you stand under the bar lights
And the band plays some song
About forgetting yourself for a while
And the piano's this melancholy soundcheck to her smile
And that white dress she's wearing
You haven't seen her for a while
- Sometime Around Midnight,
The Airborne Toxic Event
Lockwood should have known she’d be there. But Lucy hates fancy parties, so it doesn’t occur to him that she might make an exception for an agents-only thing at an underground nightclub. Or maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe she only hated going to parties with him. Maybe it’s because Kipps invited her — it’s his birthday after all.
Lockwood doesn’t know and he doesn’t get a chance to ask.
He’s late to the party in any case, strolling in sometime around midnight. They’d had a case, nothing too big, but not worth blowing off for a birthday party. They had it wrapped up early, George volunteering to take the Source to the furnaces so he has an excuse to skive off the party entirely.
Holly, predictably, managed to change into a bright red wrap dress she’d packed in a kit bag, and so looks nothing like she’d been scrabbling about in a dusty attic an hour previously. Lockwood is wearing his usual suit, which he spent ten minutes brushing off as they waited for the night cab. One of the perks to his habit of dressing to impress is that he’s ready for any occasion.
He holds the door open for Holly and the deep thrum of the pounding bass washes over them. They hang their long winter coats in the dark entry hallway, hats and gloves stuffed into their pockets. Then they make their way into the dimly lit club.
The place is packed with agents and supervisors, many wearing Fittes grey, but not all. They aren’t the only ones who’ve just come off a job. A band is set up on a little stage at one end of the room, across from the long bar, and a mass of bodies are writhing to the beat in the clear space between them. Lockwood quickly resolves not to do any dancing tonight.
Holly is immediately accosted by someone she knows and Lockwood heads to the bar to get them drinks. He orders two glasses of red wine, partly because that’s what Holly prefers and it’s just easier, and partly because he doesn’t want anyone to know he prefers whiskey sours to actual whiskey.
He and Holly shmooze their way around the room, making connections, talking themselves up. He finally loses her to a gaggle of female agents who are consoling one of their number that’s been recently dumped, or so he gathers. He goes to get a second glass of wine.
That’s when he sees her, standing at the bar in her blue dress, the one she wore to the Fittes Ball last winter when she was still… they were still…
Lockwood loses himself for a minute or two, standing open-mouthed in the centre of the club, watching her lean on the bar, tapping her foot impatiently. The lights over the bar turn her hair into a halo and he realises with a jolt that it’s shorter than it was the last time he saw her. He decides he doesn’t like it. It doesn’t frame her face the right way.
The bartender finally acknowledges her and starts making her order. He says something and Lucy laughs, her head thrown back, a familiar grin on her face. He imagines he can hear it cutting through the din of the music and the chatter filling the air between them, but it’s probably just a riff on the piano. Or maybe his mind is supplying the sound that he knows so well.
Lucy takes her drinks, a pair of gin and tonics, and turns around. Lockwood’s breath freezes in his lungs as her eyes sweep past him. He doesn’t want her to catch him, standing there like an idiot with his mouth agape. He thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and swallows, realising how dry his throat is.
He glances around, hoping to god nobody else has noticed his embarrassing behaviour either, but they all seem preoccupied. He’s trying not to look directly at her, but out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees her eyes dart back to him, widening suddenly in recognition. He takes a deep breath and turns to walk toward her, but between one moment and the next she’s gone, vanished into the crowd.
He looks around frantically for a second, forgetting that he doesn’t need to find her, doesn’t want to find her. She’s not his to keep track of anymore. She’s made it very clear she doesn’t want his protection.
Just then, he spots her, traipsing over to a tall table against the wall. She hands one of the drinks to Kat, of all people. When did she become friends with Kat? They’re surrounded by a bunch of Fittes uniforms, everyone drinking and laughing. Load of arrogant tossers. What’s she doing with them? He thought she’d gone independent. Maybe she’s changed her mind about that, too.
Lockwood shakes himself and strides purposefully up to the bar. Now it’s his turn to tap his foot impatiently, waiting. He doesn’t turn around to watch her. He won’t turn around. Instead he stares up at the lights over the bar, pink and yellow and blue, blinking against the riot of colours. It’s stupid, but it distracts him long enough for the bartender to arrive.
“Whaddya need?” the bartender yells over the music.
Lucy.
“Wine,” he says. “Red.”
The bartender fills up his glass and he drains it in one long pull, like it’s a pint
This is not the way to drink wine, not even tasteless nightclub wine, but he doesn’t care. The bartender raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t hesitate when Lockwood signals for him to fill it again.
Lockwood slides some money across the bar and the bartender disappears. He nurses his third glass, shoulders hunched, taking slow breaths and waiting for his heart rate to come down.
The band starts another song, something about knocking a couple back and forgetting yourself for a while. Bitterly, he wishes it were that easy. If he could just let loose, let everything go — it would all be so much simpler if he could just forget that Lucy Carlyle had ever existed. Forget that she’d ever sauntered into his house, into his life. Forget that for a while they’d been… whatever they’d been.
He can feel the wine starting to work, giving the world a hazy glow, his muscles loosening little by little. He gives himself a mental talking to, telling himself that there’s nothing to be upset about. She’s a former associate, that’s all. They worked together for a time, and yeah, they made a great team, but things had needed to change and this was really the best for everyone.
He doesn’t believe a word of it.
But it’s enough for him to slowly piece his shattered heart back together, letting the professional mask slide over his features once more. He has just a few more people he wants to talk to, a few more connections to make, then he can go home. He can crawl into his bed and pretend to sleep while he licks his wounds.
He turns and begins to scan the room for Holly, but he doesn’t see Holly. He sees Lucy. She’s watching him from across the room, her half drunk tonic clutched in front of her like a cross. Lockwood doesn’t quite know what possesses him, but he raises his glass to her in a salute, giving her an ironic twist on his usually dazzling smile. Then he turns and makes his way through the crowd once more.
He’s such a fucking coward.
He talks to a supervisor from Atkins & Armstrong and a couple of agents from Tamworth. He manages to slip some recent triumphs into his conversations, making sure everyone knows that his team is as strong as ever. It isn’t, of course, but they don’t need to know that.
He thinks he can probably pack it in now without anyone taking note of his absence. He drains his glass and sets it on an empty table, then turns and…
…runs right into Lucy.
“Oh, sorry,” she says hastily, stumbling back. Lockwood automatically puts out a hand to steady her, catching her elbow. She looks up at him and his heart stops. She’s so close, he can see every lash, count every freckle. He can see that her lips are chapped and her eyes are slightly bloodshot, like she’s seen a lot of late nights recently.
Who hasn’t?
He takes a sharp breath and his senses are flooded with her, that unique combination of citrus shampoo and lavender perfume and sugary tea that is pure Lucy.
The memories that he’s been holding at bay all night, like a ghost beyond the whirl of his blade, come rushing back to him in feral, ferocious waves.
Lucy nibbling at a biscuit.
Lucy hurling a salt bomb at a Visitor.
Lucy climbing the stairs to the attic — her attic.
Lucy safe in his arms as he holds her beneath Aickmere’s, sobbing into his chest as he feels the jagged edges of his heart start to mend. She curls into him like a broken thing, her arms holding him as tightly he holds her, like two perfect circles entwined.
He releases her arm, the room spinning around him like a top, wobbly and chaotic. He’s afraid it will fall over at any moment and he doesn’t know what happens when it does.
“Hi,” he says, his throat dry, despite all the wine he’s just drunk.
“Hi,” she says, brushing her hair behind her ear. “How, um… how are you?”
With a herculean effort, he pulls himself together and gives her a radiant smile.
“Great, Luce,” he says. “Just great.”
“Oh,” she says, and he’s not sure if she’s happy or disappointed.
“That’s… great,” she says, illuminating nothing.
“And you? I hear you’ve gone independent. How’s that treating you?”
“It’s…”
“Hey, Lucy!” someone shouts, and she turns to look at them. “Are you coming?”
“Yeah, just a sec!” she yells back. She has strong lungs for someone so small. The thought drifts like a bubble on the surface of his storm tossed emotions.
She turns back to him with an apologetic smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve gotta go,” she says simply.
“Right,” he says.
She looks up into his face, holding his gaze with hers. She opens her mouth as though to say something, then stops. After a moment, she mutters, “Bye,” and bolts for the door.
Lockwood stands there, lost in the haze of the wine and Lucy’s lingering perfume. He watches her go, catching up with a tall, blonde boy he doesn’t know.
He feels like he doesn’t know where all of the pieces of himself are anymore. How can he ever hope to pull them back together when he doesn’t even know where they’ve fallen?
“What’s the matter, Tony? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Kipps swims into his vision, a goofy smile on his face, and Lockwood can tell he’s already three sheets to the wind. Lockwood suddenly remembers why he’s even here and is suddenly, irrationally angry with Kipps.
“Kipps. Happy Birthday,” he says stiffly.
“Don’t sound too happy about it,” Kipps says with an exaggerated pout.
“Who was that, just now?” Lockwood asks, ignoring the quip.
“Lucy Carlyle? That’s funny, I thought you two knew each other.”
“Har har. No, the guy that she left with. Tall, fair, I think his uniform was from Tendy’s?”
“Oh, that’s McEntire. He lives out in Tooting. I expect they're sharing a cab.”
“Are they…” Lockwood couldn’t finish the question.
“How should I know?” shrugs Kipps.
Lockwood’s blood is boiling but his hands are freezing and his stomach is in ropes.
“Oh, come on, Tony,” Kipps says, banging him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so morose. It’s a party! Come on, come have shots with me. Unless you’re scared I’ll drink you under the table.”
The last thing Lockwood wants to do right now is shots with Kipps. He wants to go home and be alone. He wants to be somewhere that he can scream and scream and scream and nobody will care.
“Sounds great,” he says.
Lockwood stumbles out into the street hours later. He has no idea what time it is, but it’s still dark. He briefly considers calling a cab, but decides against it. For one, he thinks the walk might help him sober up. For another, he’s not sure he isn’t going to be sick and the cabbies really don’t appreciate anyone making a mess of their seats.
Speaking of which, he quickly finds a bush and vomits into it. He wipes his mouth with the back of a shaking hand, feeling marginally better. He knows he shouldn’t have done that last round of shots with Kipps and Kat, but he’d felt everyone’s eyes on him and for some reason he was terrified that they would see the gaping hole in his chest if he didn’t keep laughing.
He walks for miles, hands in his pockets, uncaring of the cold. He passes under the ghost lamps and crosses the street to avoid a shade. For what may be the millionth time in his life, Lockwood wonders how everything can seem to be so normal when the world is crashing down around him.
He remembers breakfast the morning after his parents died, how it was the usual toast and fruit that their nanny cut up for them. They sat in their usual places, looking at the familiar view, everything so perfectly normal.
He remembers the evening that Jess died. He’d sat on the front step talking to an agent, lying to them to hide the fact that there were a dozen more crates in their basement that might contain ghosts. He’d looked down the street and seen the lights on in his neighbours’ windows, knowing that they were inside, cosy and warm, probably eating their suppers or watching telly. They had no idea that everything had suddenly ended for him and there was no way back.
He remembers Lucy telling him that she’s leaving, then waking up the next morning to her empty attic. The hopeless feeling that rooted itself in his stomach then, the feeling of being homeless in his own house that has haunted him ever since.
By the time he got to Jessica, it was too late. By the time he saw his parents’ ghosts, they were already dead. But Lucy…
He pauses, somewhere between Soho and Marylebone, his mind and his stomach both churning.
Lucy isn’t dead. She’s alive, and whole, and if he wants her to stay that way, he needs to find a way to bring her back.
An ache blooms inside him, seeping out of his very bones.
He needs to see her.
He needs to hold her.
He needs her.
He shivers, the frosty winter air finally beginning to penetrate the bubble of alcohol induced-heat that he’s been carrying with him. He begins to walk again, his mind turning everything over and over. He needs to do this right. He needs to figure out why she left, figure out what might possibly entice her to come back.
There is a part of him that screams that he shouldn’t risk it, that if she rejects him again it will break him beyond all repair.
He kicks that part of himself into a dark corner of his mind. He doesn’t care if he has to try a thousand times, he’ll do it. Even if it means he has to break a thousand times, well, he’s been broken before. He’s always found a way to put himself back together.
He walks through the wine dark streets of London, making his way slowly, unerringly towards home.