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After the Sightless Blue Face
It had been a good day. Their case, which Holly had found through some of her old contacts, had been easy and profitable. George had found some interesting tidbits about Marissa Fittes in old newspapers from near the start of the Problem. Kipps had given himself a cocoa moustache and they’d spent a good half hour making fun of him for it.
Now it was just Lucy, George and Lockwood in the library, munching on biscuits and spinning wild theories like strands of gold.
“What if, no listen for a sec, what if she’s a muppet,” said Lockwood.
“A muppet? Like an actual muppet made out of felt and string?” asked George.
“Is that what they’re made of?”
“If anything I think she’s made of plastic,” said Lucy. “She’s too hard and shiny to be made of felt.”
It was possible the celebratory bottles of beer they’d drunk were having an effect, but Lucy didn’t mind. She felt relaxed and warm and like she might just melt into a puddle on the sofa and never move.
“Maybe she’s a puppet made from human skin!”
“Ew, George, gross,” Lucy said with a shudder.
“I used to wonder how she made her hair so shiny.”
Lucy looked at Lockwood, unsure whether he was being serious, but his expression was far away and dreamy, his long limbs draped elegantly across his favourite chair. She caught George’s eye and they both cracked up simultaneously.
“What?” Lockwood asked, a faintly offended expression in his face that made them laugh even harder.
“You would covet the hair of an evil, immortal witch,” George laughed.
“Well somebody has to care about appearances,” grumped Lockwood, running his hand through his hair so that it was dashingly ruffled for a second, before half of it flopped back over his forehead into his eye.
George snorted.
“I think your hair is perfect as it is,” said Lucy without thinking.
Lockwood was blowing on the bit in his eye, trying to dislodge it. He cocked his head, his eyes meeting Lucy’s across the space between them.
“Really?” he asked.
“Whelp, that’s my cue to go to bed,” said George, heaving himself to his feet. “And for the record, I still think she could be a muppet.”
“Good night!” Lucy called after him.
“Night, George,” said Lockwood with a lazy wave of his hand.
There was a moment of silence, then Lockwood looked back at Lucy, a considering look on his face. Lucy felt self conscious under his scrutiny. Not for the first time, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
“You really like my hair?” he asked suddenly.
“What? Oh, yeah. I mean, it’s nice. I like it.”
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!
Lucy was sure she was turning a bright scarlet. To hide her embarrassment, she flopped over and put her head on a throw pillow, not meeting Lockwood’s eyes.
“Hmm, that’s good to know,” Lockwood said, nodding absently. “How would we know?”
“Know what?” Lucy asked, peeking at him over the arm of the sofa.
“How would we know if she was a muppet?”
Their conversation meandered from there. Lucy couldn’t have said later what they talked about, only that she was warm and content and even though she was stifling yawns and fighting to keep her eyelids open, she would have rather faced a Rawbones or Holly on a bad hair day than go up to bed. Bed was where nightmares happened. Bed was cold and lonely.
What she could say for certain, is that she eventually fell asleep and didn’t wake until the sun was creeping across the ceiling. Lockwood was passed out in the armchair and someone had put an afghan over her, tucking it in around her body. She smiled and went back to sleep.
After the Milk Jug That Poured Blood
Lucy woke up in a place that was at once strange and familiar. The pillow was soft but the mattress was firm. The room was full of light and the heady scent of lavender and a sweet musky scent she associated with…
Lucy sat up abruptly. She was in Lockwood’s room. How had she gotten here? Where was Lockwood? What was…
There was a soft tap on the door, then Lockwood himself poked his head in. Spotting her sitting up, he smiled.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, stepping into the room. “Did you sleep well?”
“I… yeah,” Lucy said, running her hand through her hair and realising she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn on the job the night before. “Lockwood, what happened?”
“You don’t remember falling asleep in the cab?” he asked, drifting towards her across the floor.
“It’s… fuzzy,” she said, trying to recall.
“Do you remember me carrying you?”
“No,” she shook her head.
He was standing next to the bed now, looking down at her with a hint of concern wrinkling his brow.
“Lucy, are you feeling alright?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said quickly.
“You’re sure you’re not falling ill or–?”
“No, nothing like that,” Lucy said, pulling her knees up to her chest. “Just tired. I… haven’t been sleeping well.”
Lockwood sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, not quite facing her. His shoulders slumped slightly and she could see the plum coloured bruises beneath his eyes. Lucy wasn’t the only one who hadn’t been getting enough sleep.
“Lockwood,” she said, a thought occurring to her, “where did you sleep last night”
“Hmm? Oh, don’t worry about me, I slept on the sofa,” he said with a perfunctory smile. She wasn’t sure she believed him. He seemed to be looking at his hands, fiddling with his father’s ring like he did sometimes when he was thinking through a thorny problem.
“Luce, do you…” he started, then stopped.
“Yeah?” she asked.
He swallowed. “Do you want breakfast? I was thinking about making some eggs.”
“Oh… sure.”
“Great. You can take your time, get dressed and all that.” Lockwood straightened up and smiled at her, bright and sunny. “See you downstairs?”
She nodded. He was nearly out the door when she called out to him.
“Lockwood?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“Of course, Luce. Any time.”
After the Blind Man Holding a Cane Made of Children’s Bones
Lucy stumbled up the steps of Portland Row, her mind still swirling with the memories of the dead and a horrible bruise blooming across her ribs.
Yeah, this wasn’t going to go down as her favourite case they’d ever done.
But they’d found the Source (finally) and she’d mostly managed to dodge the grandfather clock George had knocked over on her (he swore it was the Spectre but she didn’t believe that for a second) and Lockwood hadn’t left her side since pulling her out from under it, so she wasn’t entirely unhappy.
“In here,” he said, supporting her elbow and steering her into the library. “You lay down, I’m going to get you an ice pack. Oh good, Holly you’ve brought the med kit.”
Lockwood disappeared down the hall, hissing at George to be quiet as he heaved their kit bags toward the kitchen. George’s response was loud and impolite and Lucy heard their bickering all the way down the hall.
Holly checked her over, prodding at her ribs (probably nothing broken) and checking for signs of concussion (not this time). She gave Lucy some paracetamol and stuck a plaster to a small cut on her forehead.
“There, you’re all set,” said Holly with a sparkling smile.
“Ready to run a marathon, am I?” Lucy deadpanned.
“Not a chance,” said Lockwood, returning with two ice packs wrapped in kitchen towels. “You will be taking it easy until you don’t gasp every time you move.”
“Doctor’s orders?” Lucy asked, lifting her head to look at him and wincing.
“My orders,” Lockwood said darkly.
Holly gave her a look that was somewhere between “yikes” and “lucky you,” which more or less encapsulated how Lucy felt at the moment.
Lockwood placed one ice pack on her ribs, the other on her head where she could feel a lump forming. She wasn’t sure if she’d hit it on the grandfather clock or the floor.
She closed her eyes and listened to Lockwood rustling around, placing a pillow beneath her head and another beneath her knees. After a time she heard Holly depart out the front door and George stomp his way upstairs. Lockwood tucked an afghan around her, then sat on the floor, holding the ice pack on her ribs in place to keep it from sliding off.
Lucy opened her eyes just enough to watch him, his head hanging at a weary angle, his lips drawn down. He so rarely let anyone see him like this, exhausted and vulnerable. It made Lucy’s heart ache.
“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbled.
Lockwood looked up, his face softening into a small smile, the weariness seeming to fall from him, or to be sucked inside where nobody could see it.
“I’m fine, Luce,” he said. “Twenty minutes with the ice packs, then I promise I’ll let you go to bed, okay?”
“Okay,” said Lucy. “No need to rush on my account.”
“That’s good to know,” said Lockwood with a soft chuckle.
Lucy must have drifted off to sleep. She dreamed that Lockwood brushed her hair back from her face and rested his forehead against hers.
*
Holly found them the next morning, Lucy curled up on the sofa, Lockwood sprawled on the floor beneath her. She rolled her eyes and made his morning tea double strength.
After the Giant Disembodied Mouth in a Concrete Floor
“Lockwood? Are you asleep in there?” Lucy asked the darkened library.
“Yes,” Lockwood’s moan came from within the room.
“Okay, well since you’re asleep, I guess you don’t want any more painkillers,” she said, padding softly into the room.
“Don’t tease me,” Lockwood mumbled, “ ‘s not nice to tease someone who’s ill.”
Lucy could see him now, stretched out on the sofa, his back to the room, face buried in a pillow.
“You’re not ill,” Lucy chided, standing over him with pills in one hand, a glass of water in the other. “It’s just a tension headache from all those death-glows.”
“Don’t say that.”
“What?”
“The ‘D’ word.”
“Death-glow?”
Lockwood groaned.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “The word can’t hurt you, and anyways, it’s two words, isn’t it?”
“Don’t care.”
“Me neither. Do you need help to sit up and take these?”
Lockwood twisted around and sat up. The lights were dim, but Lucy had rarely seen him look this rough. His eyes were bloodshot, his face gaunt and pale. Even his hair was limp and lifeless.
Lucy handed him the pills, his fingers brushing against hers as she placed them carefully in his palm. He popped them in his mouth and Lucy handed him the water.
She sat beside him as he drank, one hand tentatively stroking his back. “It’s bad, huh?” she asked. Holly had made some comment about boys being such babies when they got sick, but Lucy had seen Lockwood shake off much worse.
He swallowed the last gulp of water and handed the glass back to Lucy.
“Do you want me to leave you alone?” Lucy asked. Sometimes when she wasn’t feeling well she preferred quiet, but sometimes she wanted company. She usually ended up with the skull–the worst of all possible worlds.
“No,” Lockwood said in a small voice.
She set the glass on the coffee table and settled herself at one end of the sofa.
“Lay your head here,” she said, patting her lap.
He obeyed, lying on his back and looking up at her with large, kicked-puppy eyes. She stroked his forehead with her thumbs, then scratched gently at his scalp with her blunt fingernails. His eyes fluttered closed and she massaged his temples. He seemed to melt into her, turning his head this way and that, chasing her touch.
She smiled, watching his face relax inch by inch. She traced her finger down his long, straight nose, then brushed over his fine cheekbones and along his commanding jaw. After a while, he sighed and rolled onto his side, his face turning towards her stomach. She scratched the back of his head with one hand, wondering if she ought to grab a book.
“Lockwood?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
He didn’t respond. A moment later she heard a soft snore. Too late to get a book then. She could reach one of his magazines she supposed, but she found herself leaning back and watching Lockwood’s face as he slept. He looked so peaceful in the dim light. She stifled a yawn and grabbed a pillow to prop up her elbow.
*
George looked in on them before he went to bed and shook his head, but was quiet on the stairs so as not to wake them.
* * *
As spring gave way to summer, Lockwood and Lucy found themselves spending many nights sitting up late with each other, talking together, laughing often, even just reading in companionable silence. Neither of them ever seemed to want to leave and go to bed. They never said why, but Lucy knew she wasn’t the only one suffering from nightmares. The bruises under Lockwood’s eyes had grown noticeably lighter in the week after the Rotwell Institute, but they’d grown steadily worse since.
On nights when they didn’t stay up talking, there was a good chance she’d still end up in the kitchen at four in the morning, making tea and pretending like she hadn’t woken up sweating and trembling at visions of a blank, black sky. Lockwood joined her more often than not.
However, the other members of Lockwood & Co. were starting to lose patience with them.
*
Holly came in the morning after the orpha’s spinning bed to find Lockwood and Lucy both passed out on the Thinking Cloth, notes and doodles crammed into every available corner, largely unintelligible. Neither of them could remember what they’d been discussing or if it had been important.
*
George found them asleep in the library nearly any time he tried to use it–or so he said. One afternoon he came back from a quick jaunt to ask Flo something about the evil swan that had followed Lucy through the park earlier that week. He tromped in to find them on the sofa, Lucy’s head on Lockwood’s shoulder, Lockwood’s head resting atop hers.
“Oh don’t mind me,” George said loudly and irritably. “I’m just trying to do enough research to keep you all alive while at the same time solve the murky and murderous origins of the Problem itself. But sure, you two take a nap in the one room I need to use!”
“Huh?” Lucy had said groggily as Lockwood stirred beside her.
“Nevermind,” George snapped, grabbing a stack of books and stomping out once more.
Lucy shrugged and went back to sleep.
*
Kipps found them the afternoon before they took on the case of the gurgling bathtub, asleep on the basement floor. They’d been drilling rapiers together, Lockwood urging Lucy to attack faster and faster while maintaining precision. By the end, Lucy was sweating and exhausted. She glugged half her water bottle, then lay down on the practice mat to catch her breath.
Lockwood lay down with his head near hers, his feet pointing away.
“That was a good practice,” he said. He was barely even breathing hard, damn him.
“Yeah,” Lucy said.
“This mat is surprisingly comfy.”
“Yeah.”
The next thing either of them knew, it was an hour later and Kipps was standing over them, giggling like a deranged ape at finding them like that. They ignored him and went upstairs to change.
*
Things came to a head the morning after the case of the vile spectral pig in the shower. Holly opened the front door punctually at nine to find Lockwood lying dead asleep in the middle of the front hall, Lucy on the stairs, her face pressed against the railing.
“What the hell do you think this is, nursery school? You’re not toddlers! Why can’t you make it to your own beds?”
Lockwood tried to apologise, but Holly was having none of it.
“If you’re not sleeping enough (which I think we all know you aren’t) then you need to deal with it. If you just can’t be arsed to get yourselves to a bed after your late night chats, then maybe you should try having your cosy catch ups in your room so that when you pass out from exhaustion, you’re already in a bed!”
To be fair, Holly had been on the case with them the night before and couldn’t have had a great deal of sleep either. Her hair was immaculate and her makeup was flawless, but Lucy was put very much in mind of the deranged madwoman who had fired strange ghost weapons at Steve Rotwell back in the Spring.
“You’re right, Holly,” Lucy said quickly, drifting nervously up the stairs. “We’ll do better, we promise.”
“Good,” Holly snapped, then turned on her heel and marched to the kitchen.
Lockwood caught up with Lucy on the first floor landing.
“I don’t see that it’s a big deal,” he grumbled under his breath. “Besides, it’s my house.”
“Holly’s right though,” Lucy sighed. “We should try harder to get enough sleep. We don’t want to be a liability to the team.”
Lockwood nodded, glancing at Lucy out of the corner of his eye. Lucy knew this, because she was also watching him out of the corner of her eye.
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked carefully. “For getting more sleep, I mean.”
Lucy sighed. Of course, she would have to be the one to say it. She took a deep breath, then said bravely, “I don’t have as many nightmares when you’re around.”
Lockwood looked at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Me neither,” he admitted.
“Alright,” said Lucy. That was the first step taken. What came next?
“If you…” Lockwood began, then cleared his throat. “If you ever need to… join me, in my room, you’re welcome.” he said carefully.
Oh. That made sense.
“Okay,” said Lucy. “And same for you. You can come up to the attic, if you need. Or if you think you might need it later.”
“That sounds like a good plan.”
“Yeah.”
“So…”
“Um…”
“My room?”
“Yeah.”
*
When George bumped into Lucy coming out of Lockwood’s room a few hours later, he didn’t say anything, though as she climbed the stairs to get dressed for the day, she thought she heard him mutter to himself, “About time.”