Work Text:
"We can't pass this case up. A poltergeist attached to voices?"
"I'm afraid we have to, Luce. We're already overbooked. And I'm not sending us into that context without extensive research."
"But Lockwood, if this is true, we might have the opportunity to discover an entirely new type of ghost." She looked at George. "Back me up."
George hesitated, but before he could answer, Lockwood sighed.
"Fine, I'll call Mrs. Butters and reschedule."
"No, absolutely not. You can't do that to Mrs. Butters. She's been turned away by every other agency, and her children are terrified."
"Well then, Luce, it seems to me our hands are tied," Lockwood sounded drained, rounding back to the beginning of the conversation.
"No, they aren't. You and George help Mrs. Butters. I'll examine the visitor on my own."
"Absolutely not. No way."
Lucy crossed her arms. "Why? You know I'm strong enough—"
"Yes. And vulnerable enough to get absolutely pulled in and killed immediately. You are not trying to communicate with a poltergeist on your own. By nature, you would immediately give away where you were standing."
"We've been splitting up for cases for weeks, Lockwood. And I've been fine."
"Lucy, you're not listening to me. This isn't just a shade, or a lurker, or even wraith. This is a poltergeist. And yes, maybe the owner of the house reported hearing voices, which shouldn't be possible for a poltergeist, and that's really interesting, and you are incredible and I would love to explore this, but we don't have the time, or energy, or the mental capacity to take on that job safely. Especially you alone."
Lucy was growing impatient. "I know you don't trust ghosts, Lockwood, but—"
"There are not 'buts' to that, Luce."
"But I'm not Jessica—"
"Lucy, enough!" Lockwood slammed down his mug, sloshing tea on the Thinking Cloth.
Lucy flinched away, shielding her face.
Everything went quiet
"Luce..." Lockwood murmured.
She lowered her arms, looking back at her collegues.
They were staring at her.
"Lucy, you know I'd never—"
Lucy cleared her throat. "Yes, well. I think I'm going to go for a walk."
"Curfew's in an hour," George cut in.
"Then I'll be back in an hour." Lucy stalked out of the kitchen before either boy could fight her.
The front door slammed.
"What the heck just happened?" George asked.
Lockwood starred at the still swinging kitchen door. "I'm not sure."
~~~
Lockwood and George migrated to the library. The latter buried his nose in a science text book, and a magazine lay open on Lockwood's lap.
"It's like she thought I'd hit her. Like I was a threat."
Smothering a sigh, George dragged his eyes up from his textbook. "You do know the world doesn't revolve around you, don't you?"
Lockwood's gaze snapped over to his friend. "Of course I do. What's that supposed to mean?"
"That her flinching might have nothing to do with you. Could be a learned reaction."
"Yeah, but from who?"
George shrugged. "We know she doesn't have the greatest family life. Could easily be her parents, or even her older sisters."
An image of two small cigarette burns flashed in Lockwood's mind's eye. "We talked about it once. I asked her if they hurt her often. She said it only happened one time."
"Her definition of 'hurt' might be a bit different than ours."
A shiver ran down Lockwood's spine and he shrugged it off. He imagined a smaller version of Lucy, on tip toes, reaching her hand into a biscuit jar. It toppled from the counter and shattered on the wood floor. Angry, coarse voices. Lucy cowering backward. "Quit crying or I'll give you something to cry about." A slap. Lucy in her room without dinner.
George was right--- the bar was on the ground.
After all, they were talking about the woman who sent her 8-year-old daughter off to the local psychic agency for a bit of pocket money.
Lockwood settled back into his chair.
"I wouldn't bring it up to her," George said. "She obviously doesn't like to talk about it." He paused, then looked intently at Lockwood. "That's something you should understand."
Lockwood looked at the fireplace.
~~~
They heard the front door slam and the clink of the dead bolt. Lucy rushed passed the library doors and raced up the stairs, not bothering to give the boys so much as a glance.
Lockwood put down his magazine.
"Don't," George didn't even look up from his book. "Give her at least 15 minutes, Lockwood."
Lockwood settled back into his chair. "Why do you know so much about girls, anyway?"
" 'Cause I'm a ladies' man, obviously."
Lockwood snorted.
"What? I'm a complete and total catch."
Fifteen minutes later, Lockwood tapped on Lucy's door. There was no answer.
"Luce," he called gently, opening the door ever-so-slightly.
A small, muffled "come in" granted him permission.
She was lying on her bed, staring at nothing in particular. Steady tears wet her face.
"Luce," he said again, the nickname catching in his throat. He glanced around the room. A brown paper bag was crumpled up on the floor, a half-empty bottle of scotch on her nightstand.
Hesitantly, he sat on the bed. "Are you alright?" He asked.
She pushed herself into a seated position, her movements sluggish. Her slumped posture resembled the abandoned paper bag. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. They were red rimmed and puffy, not to mention the cherry hue covering her nose and cheeks.
"I'm fine," she said, the barest hint of a slur.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he began. "You know that I'd never—"
She held up a hand. He fell silent.
"It's not about you." Her eyes danced around the room, searching for something to focus on. Her breaths were slow and tired.
He cleared his throat, for once a bit out of his depth. "Your family, then?" He asked.
She swiped the green glass bottle from her side table and took a long sip.
"Hey—" Lockwood said, taking the bottle from her. "Hey, that's enough."
She fought back but only weakly, pathetic little slaps and shoves, until she grew bored of the effort.
Lockwood put the bottle on the floor at the end of the bed. She'd have to pass him to get it.
"You know," she said, lazily drawing out her words. "My da' was a drunk. Did'ver tell you that?"
He nodded. "Once."
She laughed bitterly. "Strange that I..." she trailed off.
Lockwood looked at her. "Strange that you what?"
She shrugged. "Look for them in the bottle, I guess."
"Them?"
"Mam, too." She looked down at her hands, and Lockwood noticed fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Swallowing hard, she turned to Lockwood. "Why didn't they love me?" Her voice cracked.
Desperate, pleading eyes gazed into Lockwood's, hazel glinting emerald beneath the tears.
Lockwood's throat constricted. "Lucy, I—"
Her face crumpled, her shoulders curling under the weight of her sobs. They pulled her forward and she allowed herself to collapse in a heap on his lap.
Between her violent, messy tears, she rechoed her earlier question. "Why didn't they love me?"
Lockwood froze, every muscle tensing. He hesitated, staring at the rumpled girl on his lap. He didn't recognize her, the girl who had shown up at his door with no other place to go, as fiery as if no one had ever turned her down. The girl he'd seldom seen cry, who heard the worst of death loops and only trembled. Now, short brown hair disheveled and clinging to the tear-stains on her face, she shook from whiskey-scented hysterics.
He stroked her hair, brushing back the pieces clinging to her face. "Shh," he whispered.
"I tried, Lockwood. I promise, I tried."
"I know you did," he said, combing his fingers through her hair and down to her shoulder, where he traced little circles on the sleeve of her jumper. "It wasn't your fault."
"They hit me," she choked out, and he didn't know if she was listening to him or just saying what came to mind. "They hit me when I messed up." Her voice lowered, and she whimpered, "I always mess up."
"Hey," he said, his own voice quickening, "Hey, no, don't talk like that—you don't. And even when you do, it's no reason for anyone to hit you." He gritted his teeth against a wave of justice burning in his chest.
She flinched at the change of his tone, and he kicked himself. Lucy didn't need his anger right now.
"I'm sorry, Luce," he said softly, playing with her hair. "I'm not mad at you---I'm mad at the people who hurt you."
"You should be."
"What?"
Lucy's voice pitched up as a fresh emotion surged into her throat, making her words almost unintelligible. "You should be mad at me."
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"It's my fault—" she hiccuped. "Alfie-Joe, and Steph, and Julie—"
Cold electricity zapped through Lockwood, flushing his face and making his head buzz for a moment. "No, Luce," he managed to get out, perspiration gathering on his forehead. "Lucy, that isn't true."
Her sobs slowed, but she no longer responded to his prompts.
"Lucy, come on, you have to sit up," he grabbed her shoulders, pulling her into a seated position next to him. She let her head loll, fatigue setting in. He tapped her face gently, moving her chin towards himself. "Luce, come on, look at me."
Glassy, bloodshot eyes lazily rolled to meet his. The corner of her mouth pulled up in a lopsided smile.
"I'ma curse," she slurred. She leaned heavily against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
He shifted slightly then grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers in hers. He cast a sidelong glance at her.
Her eyes were closed and her breathing deep and steady.
He waited ten minutes before laying her back on her pillow and leaving the attic. He took the bottle of scotch with him.
~~~
Lucy's head was pounding as she pried her eyes open. The morning sun streamed through the window, a thousand little darts piercing her retinas. Dimly, she was aware of the events of the night before. She glanced at her sidetable. The bottle was gone, replaced by a glass of water. The crumpled paper bag was still on the floor.
Her muscle's cried in protest as she dragged herself out of bed. Stopping in her bathroom, she threw cold water on her face, studying her countenance in the mirror: puffy under-eyes, red flush -- there was no hiding it. Not that there was a reason to. Lockwood had seen.
She stalked down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. George sat at the table eating a donut.
"Morning," he said cheerily. "Sleep well? It's 11:00 AM."
Lucy scowled, passive aggressively preparing her tea
"Woah," he held up his hands. "What's gotten into you?"
"Where's Lockwood?"
"Oh, I see how it is. The scowl is just for me, right? 'Cause you want to talk to Lockwood—"
She groaned. "That's not what I said. I just asked where he is."
"Running some errands. Should be back soon."
Lucy sighed, resting her face in her hands.
"What's wrong?" George asked. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
Lucy glared daggers from across the table. "Gee, thanks."
"You aren't answering my question."
"I may or may not have had a little too much to drink last night."
"Ah," George snapped his fingers, "and Lockwood noticed when he came up to talk to you."
Miserably, she nodded.
"So, what are you so embarrassed about?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe that my boss found me a blubbering, intoxicated, emotional mess last night?"
George raised an eyebrow. "You're nervous that Lockwood of all people saw you emotional?"
"Yes!" Lucy slammed her hands on the table, exasperation oozing from her words. "If you haven't noticed, he isn't exactly Mr. Emotional."
"Lockwood has emotions. He just doesn't show them."
Lucy rolled her eyes. "Same thing."
"What's the same thing?" Lockwood swung open the kitchen door. He grinned. "Luce, you're up."
She tried to rub at the weariness in her eyes, to no avail.
"Where'd you go?" George asked.
"To pick up some new flares I special ordered." He plopped the cardboard box down on the table, sifting through to grab one of the narrow tubes. "Color coded fire," he explained. "This way, if we are ever in a situation where we can't see each other well, we can tell who threw the flare."
"Personally, that sounds like a waste,," George said.
Lockwood didn't stop smiling. "Well, I think it sounds cool. And I'm the boss. So." He turned to Lucy. "How are you feeling?"
She shrugged.
"Headache?" He asked. "Nausea?"
"Bit of both."
"I've got something for you," he started rummaging in a cabinent. "Here we go: chamomile tea. Mum used to make this for my dad when he...errr...had a few too many cocktails." Ignoring her untouched cup of everyday tea, he prepped a new mug.
"Your father had a drinking problem?" George asked.
"Oh, goodness, no. Not at all. In fact, that kind of was the problem. They almost never drank, except on fancy occasions. And well, my dad-- a regular bean pole-- didn't have a great threshold for alcohol," Lockwood laughed. "To say the least, no matter how often he tried, high-brow cocktail parties had him feeling miserable the next morning." He chatted away as the tea brewed. "I called Mrs. Butters today. Moved her up in the schedule. George and I'll go tonight. That leaves Friday open to inspect the poltergeist."
"You changed your mind?" George asked.
Lockwood shrugged. "It could be an important case."
"Do I have a case tonight?" Lucy interupted. "You said you and George are going to Mrs. Butter's."
Lockwood shook his head. "You're off tonight, Luce. Rest up."
Indignation sparked in Lucy's chest. "Don't baby me, Lockwood."
"I'm not. But you're clearly not in the best emotional—or physical—state to be out in the field tonight. I won't jeopardize your safety like that."
"But—"
"You do know not all forms of affection are condescension?" George interrupted, sipping his coffee.
"George," Lockwood warned. "Not helpful."
Lucy scowled. "Of course I know that."
"Luce, you take care of George and me all the time. Just think of this as us returning the favor." He flashed her one of his mind-bogglingly bright smiles and continued, "Besides, we'll need you at your best and brightest on Friday."
"Yeah," George said. "Do whatever it is you do when you aren't working—paint your nails black and glower at the skull or something. Practice your best goth impression."
"George!" Lockwood raised his eyebrows in warning.
"Okay, I'm done."
Lockwood turned back to Lucy and gave her a soft smile. "Really, Luce, I promise. This isn't either of us implying you aren't strong enough. We both know how strong you are. Right, George?"
"Sure," George said around a bite of toast. "Who else can have cat fights with a disembodied skull?"
"George, if you aren't going to be of any help, kindly leave the kitchen."
"Sorry," he murmered. "She was ornery with me this morning."
"You're always ornery."
"Touché."
"We're in agreement then, Luce?" Lockwood asked. "You're safety is top priority this week. Has to be, if we have any hope of success on Friday."
She nodded. "Okay. Agreed."
He grinned. "Great, I knew you wouldn't let us down. You're a star."
Lucy sighed. Sometimes, when he smiled like that, she wondered just what she had gotten herself into.