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The tail ends of winter swept over London, a chill soft on the air with the faint promise of green peeking through the last bits of snow. It had been a rough season — as they all were since the Problem began — but for the Agents of Lockwood & Co. it had somehow managed to be mostly uneventful.
That is, until the Kentings case.
Of all their case reports for the season, it was the only one noting, as Lucy liked to put it, a genuine almost-Sheen-Road-level fuck up. Ms. Abigail Kentings had been a typical run-of-the-mill client with a typical run-of-the-mill haunting; a minor Shade lurking in her new apartment. The case had seemed simple enough, even, that George had recommended Lucy and Lockwood take it on alone. A suggestion he insisted had nothing to do with the much-larger case he was researching they had slated for the following weekend.
“After all,” George had said with the usual smug grin, “what’s the worst that could happen? You two burn down another client’s home?”
In their defence, they didn’t burn down the apartment. Or even damage it, for that matter, save for a minor scuff mark on the hardwood from Lucy’s quick rapier spout against the Visitor in the kitchen whilst Lockwood contained the Source.
No, the fucking-up instead came after the psychic danger had been contained.
“Luce!” Lockwood called her way in excitement, fastening his rapier to his belt with one hand as he held the Source — silver-glass container and all — in the other. “Was that a new rapier form I saw you use just then?”
Lucy put her rapier up as well, crossing her arms with a grin as she watched Lockwood come down the hall. “Possibly. May have been doing some reading up on the new trendy forms.”
“From Rapiers Weekly? Or the Agents Fencing Guide?” Lockwood was vibrating with the questions, smiling his typical brilliant smile. There was a small step-down between the hall and kitchen that had him just above her eyesight, and that, combined with his general energy, almost made it seem as though he were floating as he came her way.
“Rapiers Weekly. Snagged your copy from the coffee table the other day.” Lucy’d been practising the move the whole week, running the forms again and again with only the thought of Lockwood’s smile at her success getting her through the frustration of not being immediately perfect at it. The expression on Lockwood’s face at her success made all the efforts worth it.
“Absolutely brilliant, Luce.” Lockwood made to step into the kitchen to join Lucy, his eyes fixed on her own in a way that did not have Lucy’s heart acting differently than normal.
And then Lockwood proceeded to fall unceremoniously down the step-down between the hall and the kitchen.
He’d managed to get a faint “oh” out before he hit the floor; a hiss of pain, his entire equipment belt, his rapier, and — of course — the silver-glass jar containing the Source all clattering across the linoleum at once.
To Lucy’s credit as an Agent, she did glance the way of the Source to make sure the silver-glass was in-tact before bursting into laughter at the sight.
“Ouch,” Lockwood mumbled, “thank you for your sympathy.”
“I’m sorry.” Lucy couldn’t stop laughing, breath coming in delighted short gasps. “It’s just — you just —” she couldn’t find the words to express just why Lockwood falling had been so hilarious, but her laughter was blocking her from articulating anything anyways. As she caught her breath, she reached a hand down to help Lockwood up.
He took it and, grin turning to a smirk, proceeded to pull her down to the floor with him.
“Hey!” Lucy gasped between laughs.
“It’s only fair; welcome to the floor.” Lockwood gestured from his mostly-prone position, chuckling. “It’s rather nice this time of year.”
“Welcome to the floor? That’s the best you have?” Lucy took stock of her limbs; with how she’d been pulled down, she was half atop of Lockwood, the two of them touching in more places than she could count. She quickly slid away from him, ignoring the catch in her breath at the contact.
“To be fair, I am in a bit of pain,” Lockwood said, pushing himself up to sit as well. “Think I twisted an ankle on the way down.” He brought said ankle around, touching it gingerly to inspect it.
“Shit,” Lucy’s grin abated as Lockwood flinched at his own touch. “Are you alright?”
Lockwood shrugged. “It’s not the worst I’ve had.” He met Lucy’s eyes again. “May need some help getting back home though.”
“Of course,” Lucy said. Then the image of what that meant came to mind — Lockwood clinging to her by the shoulder, their sides entirely flush — and her face heated. She shrugged the feeling away; now wasn’t the time to deal with that . “Feel a bit sorry for laughing at you now.”
“No, don’t be.” Lockwood put a hand on Lucy’s arm as he spoke, and she felt the universe settle into the gentle brush of his fingers. “It was downright hilarious.”
“Right,” Lucy said, voice coming out high. She cleared her throat, and sprung back up to her feet. The quicker this was over with, the better. “Let’s get on then.”
This time, Lockwood allowed himself to be pulled to his feet without incident.
***
By the time they were half home, Lucy had given up on feeling normal about having Lockwood’s arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t that she hadn’t held him up like this before — between him, George, and herself, one of the three was more often injured than not — but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time felt different.
Perhaps it was something to do with the rapier move she’d learned just to impress him, that smile of his still fresh on her mind. Or possibly it was the faint twinkle of the last bits of snow in the sunrise, giving everything a magical energy. Or, just maybe, it was the way Lockwood’s free hand (surely accidentally, and for balance) kept brushing against her side as they walked.
Which. She was totally fine with.
“You know, George is going to get a real kick out of this case report,” Lucy said, trying to take her mind off the way the touch shot through her soul in the most brilliant way possible.
“Of course,” Lockwood said with a serious nod. “Especially the part about the escaped Visitor at the end there.”
Lucy paused their motion, turning to give Lockwood a quizzical look. “Did you hit your head on the way down? The Visitor didn’t escape.”
“No,” Lockwood said, “it didn’t, but as far as George will know, it was more powerful than we anticipated, and got loose from our first attempt at sealing it.”
“Really,” Lucy said, catching on slowly to his train of thought. “Remind me, what happened next?”
“Well,” Lockwood said as they continued to hobble along, “we fought valiantly, but it wasn’t enough. All hope seemed lost, and our only option left was to be grab the flares and run a Plan S —”
“S for Sheen Road?” Lucy interrupted with a roll of her eyes.
“Of course. But,” Lockwood waved his free arm for emphasis, “just as the Visitor lunged forwards to Ghost Touch me, you were able to push me out of harm’s way and execute that brilliant new rapier motion of yours.”
“It wasn’t that brilliant,” Lucy mumbled.
“Brilliant enough to need inclusion in our new story I think, Luce.”
She never knew how to react when Lockwood said praise like that so casually. Even now, having been a part of the Agency for ages, it felt new and strange. Each time Lockwood said something, it had her heart pounding in her ears with joy, while also forcing her defences to raise as she waited for the backhanded insult to come after.
It wasn’t quite fair to him — he had never been anything but honest and polite — but old habits were hard to break.
“I’m assuming that me heroically pushing you aside is where the ankle injury comes in?”
“Precisely,” Lockwood smirked.
“Right.” Lucy bit at her lip. “So we’re changing our story from ‘this case was easy but you’re a clutz’ to ‘we fucked up and didn’t contain the source the first time like we should have, and because of that I injured you to get us out.’”
“But see, you saved my life, so it cancels out the whole ‘you causing the injury’ thing.”
“Does it though?” She said it lightly, but the thought still stung. It was one thing to change a story to save face, but it was another to make her the villain in the matter. Just another case to prove that she wasn’t good enough for this job.
Lockwood paused their motion again, hopping on one foot to gain his balance before pulling at Lucy’s shoulders to have her look towards him. “It does,” he said gently, eyes intense and bright in the fresh morning light. “You did brilliant, Luce, really. I wouldn’t want to erase that for the world.”
Lucy blinked at him, overwhelmed with the intensity of his words and his gaze. His touch washed over her, bright and tingling through the layers of her winter coat and his gloves. She shivered slightly, even though she had enough warmth coursing through her to heat a whole room.
“Look,” Lockwood said, gaze finally falling from Lucy to the sidewalk, “we don’t have to change the case report if you don’t want to. I’ll leave it to your call.”
Lucy shuffled her feet, then gently placed a hand on one of Lockwood’s, drawing him to look back up at her. “Come off it, you know you want to tell your version.”
“It would be much more exciting,” Lockwood admitted, “ Just think of how dramatic it could be for our book deal once we’re famous. No one wants to read about some bumbling Agent tripping over his own feet.”
“Alright,” Lucy chuckled, giving Lockwood a lopsided grin. “I don’t think anyone’s ever described you as bumbling, though.”
“Really? What have they described me as?”
“A prick.”
“Hey!” Lockwood shoved her by the shoulders, then immediately stumbled after her as he lost his own one-footed balance in the motion. Lucy caught both of them from falling, Lockwood’s chest pushed flush against her own as their breaths clouded into the small gap of cold air between them.
It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds that they stood like that — chest to chest, faces inches apart — but it felt like an eternity. Lucy could have sworn she memorised every portion of Lockwood’s face in that brief moment. She took in everything; the curve of his nose, the dimples on his cheeks, and that one out-of-place strand of hair on his forehead.
She was suddenly overcome with the urge to fix it, to bring her hand up to brush it back and away, putting him back to perfection like he should be.
Her brain took the thought further, teasing her along the fantasy. She could brush his hair back, then pull him in by the back of his head, kiss him softly as he relaxed into her. They could pull away, laugh, and brush their foreheads together in an entirely care-free embrace.
That wasn’t a future allowed for Agents, though. So instead of brushing his hair away, she brushed away the impulse.
“Perfect,” Lucy breathed out, doing her best to not glance down at the closeness of Lockwood’s lips.
“Hm?” Lockwood mumbled, half distractedly.
“What people have described you as.”
“Right.” Lockwood’s voice was just above a whisper. His eyes met Lucy’s, shining in the growing light. “And… what would you describe me as?”
“I…” Lucy swallowed. That was a dangerous question. She… What was she supposed to answer to that? Anthony Lockwood was many things, but half of those things were not fit for her to be thinking of, with how filled with unrealistic dreams they were.
“You’re… injured,” she finally managed to get out, pulling slightly away from him with a breath.
“Ah, yes.” The disappointment in Lockwood’s voice was palpable, but he hid it away with a quick smile. “That I am.”
***
It was full morning by the time they stumbled into 35 Portland Row, dumping their coats, rapiers, and kit bags unceremoniously in the hall before Lucy led Lockwood into the sitting room to collapse him onto the couch.
“Let me get you some ice,” Lucy said, pulling away from him.
“Honestly could do more with a cup of tea after the cold,” Lockwood replied, wincing as he adjusted his ankle to elevate it on a throw pillow.
“Got it,” Lucy called as she left for the kitchen.
When she came back, tray with two mugs of tea, bandages, and an ice pack in hand, Lockwood was flipping through the pages of the detective novel she’d finished and left on the side table the night before.
“Any good?” She asked, setting the tray down.
“Not my usual fare,” Lockwood replied, tossing the book back where it came from to give Lucy his attention. “Not enough scandal.”
“It gets there in the end.” She handed him a mug before lifting his leg and placing it in her lap as she sat on the couch. She slowly raised his pant leg and lowered his sock, taking a look at the injury.
As she shifted the ankle to begin wrapping it, Lockwood hissed in pain, hand suddenly reaching out to grasp Lucy’s shoulder. She jumped at the touch, quickly removing her hands from his ankle as Lockwood did the same from her shoulder.
“Sorry,” they said simultaneously, then chuckled.
“It's okay,” Lockwood said. “Just shocked me is all.”
Lucy nodded before gingerly continuing to wrap the bandages around his ankle. “Tell me if it hurts again.”
Lockwood grimaced at the movement, but didn’t flinch this time. “I’m fine, Luce, honestly.”
Lucy fastened the bandage and gently laid the ice pack over his ankle. “Liar.”
“In that case,” Lockwood said as he dramatically laid a hand across his forehead, “I’m dying Luce. The pain will take me by the morrow. The only thing that could save me from such a horrid fate is aid from a fair lady such as yourself.”
“I am so not a lady,” Lucy chuckled, rolling her eyes even as she put a posh affect on her voice to match his energy. “And what, pray tell, does the dramatic lord need to save himself from certain death?”
Lockwood beamed at her. “Well, I’m stuck here till the first round of ice is done, right?”
Lucy nodded. “Twenty minutes on, fourty off; you know the drill.”
“Excellent. Then all I request is a bit of company and entertainment.” He twisted his head around to look at the side table behind him, careful to keep his leg still. “Perhaps you could read that book of yours to me for a bit to take my mind off things?”
“Alright,” Lucy replied, not even thinking before responding.
Lockwood turned back to her, shoulders relaxing. Almost as if he thought Lucy would have said no, which was absolutely ridiculous; even if Lockwood hadn’t been injured she would have obliged the request.
“Thanks, Luce,” he said, soft and sincere.
Lucy waved her hand dismissively. “You’d do the same.”
“Still,” he said, “thanks. Genuinely.”
Lucy felt heat rising to her face, and did her best to shake it away. “Can you reach the book?”
Lockwood felt blindly behind himself but it had fallen just beyond his reach. “Ah. Not quite,” he said sheepishly.
“Here, I’ll grab it,” Lucy said, and shifted to stretch over top of Lockwood to the side table, her one arm supporting her beside Lockwood’s face, and the other stretched to the far side of the table.
She didn't think much of the motion until she felt a slight breeze against her side where her shirt had ridden up. As she grabbed the book and made to retreat back to her side of the couch, she glanced down wide-eyed at Lockwood, only to find his gaze set directly on the small patch of skin revealed at her side.
Lucy froze, breath catching in her throat as she followed his eyes. Her heart beat wildly against her ears, tapping out her anxiety and anticipation in a thunderous mesh of beats.
Lockwood’s hand was inches from her side, open and shaking slightly. Like he was doing everything in his power to keep it just a few inches away from touching her.
Thoughts raced through Lucy’s head, each a step closer to her losing her composure and giving into the need to throw logic over the bridge. One thought took precedence over the rest; why the fuck did Lockwood have to be such a gentleman?
Actually, when she really thought about it, logic could go picnic in a graveyard at night for all she cared. She needed to feel Lockwood’s hand on her.
Lucy slowly glanced back up at Lockwood’s face and met his gaze. She let the book slide from her grip back down to the table as she gave the smallest, barely perceptible nod.
When Lockwood’s hand glanced against her side, Lucy felt as though every ounce of restraint in her body was let loose.
All the emotions she’d been carefully holding back came rushing through her full force, sending a gasp past her lips and forcing her breath to quicken.
She wanted Lockwood to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her. To wrap her in his arms and just exist, the two of them, not Agents or coworkers or anything other than two teenagers who liked each other. She wanted it so badly, it burned through her like an ache in her muscles, constant and familiar and almost-painful.
“Oh,” she gasped out.
“Oh?” Lockwood breathed back, and Lucy felt his hand shake against her side.
“I…” Lucy swallowed, then met Lockwood’s eyes, placing her hand against his face. “I…” she tried again, but the words caught themselves somewhere in the swirl of sparks beneath her skin. Almost involuntarily, Lucy felt her eyes glance down to Lockwood’s lips, then back to his eyes again.
She wanted to kiss him.
She needed to kiss him.
Lockwood cautiously pressed more of his hand against her side, keeping his eyes trained on hers. “Okay?” He whispered, breaths as fast as her own.
“Fucking brilliant,” Lucy managed to gasp back.
“May…” Lockwood swallowed, and Lucy watched his eyes dart down to her own lips. “May I—”
That was as far as Lucy let him get with the question before she surged forward to kiss him herself.
There was a brief, shocked moment where their lips met and neither did much of anything other than bask in the explosion of contact.
Then Lockwood reacted, pulling Lucy in closer by the waist until she was properly laying atop him. There was just enough thought left in Lucy’s brain to be careful not to jostle Lockwood’s leg, but that was the only thought allowed amongst the sheer joy coursing through her.
The kiss was desperate, all pressure and movement and adrenaline. It was like the rush of a case done well, comfortable and somehow familiar despite how new it was. Their lips connected together like they belonged, like they had been formed for just this purpose and this purpose only, and Lucy simply couldn’t get enough of the feeling.
When they broke for air, Lucy could see the wideness of her eyes mirrored on Lockwood’s face below her.
“Alright?” She breathed out in a gasp.
“Brilliant,” Lockwood replied, similarly breathless.
And that was all they managed before they were kissing again, all soft noises and desperate hands pulling each other closer. Not that they could get much closer, with Lucy’s full weight pressed against Lockwood where they laid. Lucy didn’t think she could ever feel close enough, despite that.
It was beyond brilliant. It was the best thing Lucy had felt in her life. It was so perfect that she knew it would fuel her through Visitor miasma and chill for ages, even just as a memory. She could keep kissing Lockwood forever, and even then she didn’t think she would ever have enough.
A pointed cough came from behind the couch.
“Don’t stop on my account,” George said with a smirk, arms crossed as he took in the scene. Lucy stood up off of Lockwood faster than she thought was possible, face heating as she picked up their still-full but now-cold mugs, giving something for her hands to do other than touch her tingling lips.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said quickly, gesturing vaguely in Lockwood’s direction without looking his way. “I was fixing his ankle.”
George laughed. “Oh, you sure were.”
“I was,” Lucy scrambled to say, “I mean I did.”
“Really? Cus to me that looked like snogging.”
“Rather felt like it too,” Lockwood mumbled, and Lucy gave him a glare. He coughed, sitting up straighter, cheeks red. “I mean, she was fixing my ankle.”
“Right,” George said dully, making his way across the room to his armchair and sinking into it with that smug look plastered (permanently, Lucy was sure by now) onto his face. “Admittedly it’s been a while since I took a DEPRAC first-aid refresher, but something tells me his ankle’s on the other end of his body, Lucy.”
“I should take care of these,” Lucy mumbled, raising the still-full mugs as an excuse, then rushed out to the kitchen. She was not dealing with this, especially when all she could think of was the ghost of Lockwood’s touches on her back, and the still-there tingling pressure left on her lips.
As she dumped the cold tea and made to make a fresh batch — with a third mug this time for George — she heard the faint mumblings of Lockwood and George’s conversation drift across the hall.
She really hoped they were discussing the case, and not the kiss.
That kiss …
Lucy leaned back against the counter as the water heated in the kettle, finally giving in to the urge to touch her lips. They felt swollen and unreal, almost like she could still feel Lockwood’s lips on them. She brushed her finger in an imitation of the motions, wondering at how different it felt when it was her hand as opposed to Lockwood.
Lockwood…
She jumped as the kettle shut off with a click, and she began pouring the fresh teas. She shook the feelings away, pulling out a sleeve of biscuits for the three of them to share.
There would be time later to think about Lockwood, to think about that kiss. Time later to think about what it meant, to ask Lockwood what he thought it meant. To figure out what she wanted it to mean, in the end.
Despite their job, despite the ticking clock on when this whole Agent thing would end — whether it be in death or Talentless anonymity — for the first time, Lucy felt like the whole future was open to her.
With Lockwood looking at her and kissing her the way he did? Lucy had nothing but time.
She made her way back to the sitting room, fresh tray of tea in hand.
“Lockwood tells me you learned a new rapier move,” George said as Lucy sat down and set the tea on the table. The boys immediately grabbed their respective mugs. “Shame you had to break his leg in the process.”
“Oh, he had it coming,” Lucy said with a mischievous grin, glad the attention was away from the kiss, if only for a moment. “Did he tell you how he tried to contain the Source first?”
Lockwood sputtered against the tea he was blowing on to cool. “What?”
George sat forward in his chair. “No, he conveniently left that part out. Do tell, Lucy.”
“Well, he simply insisted that wrapping the Source in a ball of chains would be as sufficient as a silver-glass container.” Lucy grinned at Lockwood, who was giving her a betrayed, yet amused look.
As Lucy went on to explain the case — her version of the case, that is, the one which made its way into their official case books — the last snow of the season began to flurry its way outside of 35 Portland Row. It swept against the warmed, orange-lit windows of the home, sparkling in the light of day.
The three agents inside didn’t notice; they were having too good a time to care.