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Lockwood is objectively taller than most people, and he’s long since grown used to hearing ‘Fuck me, you’re a tree’ masquerade as a greeting. The growth spurt at thirteen had taken him by surprise; it felt like he’d gone from average to giant overnight, and his last week with Sykes was full of being laughed at as he ran into things and tripped over his own feet. Eventually, though, he’d grown into his body, becoming accustomed to viewing the tops of peoples’ heads and being able to intimidate people by simply straightening up. His height has its advantages.
And yet he still remembers fondly a time when he was small and the world so big. His memory is full of sofas so large he had to climb onto them, staircases so steep he had to clamber up on his hands and knees, and kitchen counters so high that, when scaled to reach illicit sweets, the drop beneath his feet seemed dizzying. He also remembers that disappointing afternoon when, lying in bed, he suddenly realised that his sister did not in fact replace all of the cool, giant furniture in their house with items more usable but, instead, Lockwood had simply grown larger. The world had lost a little bit of its grandeur that day – which is, Lockwood muses, another symptom of growing up.
St. James’s, though, is now somehow much, much bigger than the cosy family church in his memories. Physically, of course, that’s impossible; it’s centuries old, for a start. But the grey of the brick is foreboding against the dark, rainy sky, and the towers and spires make it look like Dracula’s castle, and as he gazes up at it he feels small.
Time, stress, and mourning has erased a lot of his memories of the place, and the ones that remain are carefully ensconced in that warm bubble of ‘family’, too fragile to even look at most of the time. But he has a few. He remembers being comfortably squished between his parents, flipping the kneelers up and down with his feet and being hushed by his mother; later memories are of being scolded by Jessica for saying the wrong (rude) words, of the creepy staircase that led to his catechism classes, and then one very vivid memory of trying not to step on the train of the dress on the girl in front of him (which, he supposes, must have been from his First Holy Communion). Like his house, the bricks in front of him are full of memories.
The thought rankles. He’s not even sure why he’s here. He hasn’t been back since the week after Jessica’s funeral, when he’d come to Mass at the urging of their priest (Father…John? Matthew? Nicholas?) and then had to slip away from the crowd of do-gooders fussing over him after the service. He’d signed up with Sykes not long after and enjoyed the excuse of ‘no time’, though for a few years he still found ruined baskets of food and invitations to missed events whenever he popped by to check on the house. Eventually they’d got the hint, though, and Lockwood’s personal schism with the Church was complete.
It’s tempting to let it stay that way, too. Rain drips from his fringe to his eyes and he swipes at it with a huff, still hesitating on the threshold like it’s his first day on the job, and isn’t that an embarrassing thought? He hasn’t been nine for a lifetime. Deliberately, he fixes his gaze to the brickwork over the door and takes one breath, then another, and then one for good luck before opening his eyes and straightening up. Right.
Whatever the reason, he’s here now. He might as well go in.
The inside feels bigger than he remembers it, and darker, too. Across the way and straight ahead stands a little shop, a small island of golden light playing host to a group of customers despite it being an hour after a midweek mass. To his left is the church itself, with its cavernous ceilings, gothic archways, and gold-inlaid sanctuary; between him and it are hundreds of chairs lined up in rows, their few occupants hunched and still in the almost-silence. Like all churches, there’s a psychic pressure to the place, but the pressure doesn’t feel threatening. Still, psychical activity is psychical activity, and his hand automatically drifts to his waist to check his supplies – except, of course, he’s not wearing his workbelt at 2pm on a Tuesday. He forces himself to relax. Most churches are haunted, true, but right now the only ghosts present belong to the people trying to exorcise them – among which, Lockwood muses, he’s probably one.
Between the church proper and the large foyer stands a little table laden with booklets and papers, and a rapier stand – which gives him pause. He’s been in plenty of churches for work, and very few of them bother to pay for weapons stands – agents don’t really do religion, and neither does the Night Watch. Sure, plenty of girls wear crosses, and others keep a rosary or medallion in their pocket; Lockwood does, too, but it’s more of a concession to appease his sister’s spirit than anything else (she never used to let him leave for his paper round without a medallion for protection and he’d kept up the practice, even if the little copper coin was useless). Eventually the mountains of unanswered, terrified prayers pile up and even the most devout of his esteemed industry colleagues decide it’s not worth getting up early for anymore. Plus, all the agents local to the area work for him.
He divests himself of his rapier and drops it in the stand anyway, starting up the aisle with quiet steps. Who is he to judge? Fortune’s a fickle mistress that’s here today and gone tomorrow, and plenty of families fall on hard times; 35 Portland Row can’t be the only house with a moneyed facade and an empty fridge. He’ll pick up a newsletter on the way out, he decides, see if there’s a name anywhere; he has contacts now, after all, so maybe he can help smooth the path ahead of whatever kid it is that needs it.
He stops half-way along, hesitating once more before genuflecting clumsily and slipping into a row. The seat creaks beneath his weight, and the kneeler sounds an all-too-loud thud as he flips it down, and for a heartbeat he waits for someone to tell him off. (Of course, nobody does – he’s a far cry from being a little boy.) He’s still not sure what’s brought him to church, but he figures that playing Career Santa Claus might go some way towards repaying the debt he’s racked up with Lucy. It’s hard to believe that miracles are given out for free.
That’s actually probably why he’s here, he thinks as he kneels, his face turned towards the distant sanctuary with its golden crucifix. Lucy drove him to it, with her smiles and pouts and heart-stopping brushes with death. He loves her, he knows – he’s willing to admit it now, both to himself and to anybody foolish enough to ask – though perhaps not to Lucy, because wouldn’t that just make everything awkward? He doesn’t even know what he wants from this feeling yet and the enormity of it all churns under his skin, making him feel like he’s going to be ripped asunder from the pressure.
And it’s not just that, either; he’s worried about her. They’re friends, she’s younger than him and she’s working for him, and all of those are good reasons for him to care. She’s been oddly distant since the department store, trailing off mid-sentence to stare at him, making excuses to follow him around the house and then disappearing off to her room for hours as though he’s said something to spook her. (He hasn’t. He’s gone over it again and again, and he hasn’t.) Between DEPRAC and the reporters Lockwood’s been too busy to pay her any proper attention; but Lucy is (somehow, miraculously) still alive, so at least he has time to figure it out.
The thought clicks into place like a puzzle piece. Yeah, okay – that is why he’s here. His prayers are never answered and God’s a fairytale for people who’ve never had to look a Rawbones in the face, but Lockwood’s been gifted Lucy’s life twice in one month and where could that come but from above? He shouldn’t have been able to make that jump at Hanover Square, and Lucy shouldn’t have been alive under Aickmere’s – never mind upright, walking and talking. It’s sentimental and foolish, he knows, but it feels like a gift; every moment with her since Chelsea feels like a gift. He chalks it up to that childish part of him he can’t seem to shake; despite the blood and gore and horror and death, the blades and bombs and bills, there’s always a part of Lockwood that’s still a little boy holding his sister’s hand at the bus stop. And it’s Jessica’s voice that he hears now, too, reminding him that if he doesn’t say thank you for his gifts they’ll be taken away.
So he bows his head, closes his eyes, and clasps his hands together like a good boy. The quiet of the church breathes around him, its psychic pressure a gentle presence underlying the murmurs from the shop and the small sounds of people shifting in their seats.
What’s he even supposed to say? Dear God, thank you for not making Lucy die. The words feel too childish in his mind, so he conjures up the few prayers he remembers from when he was a boy: an Our Father, a Glory Be, and then a prayer to a Guardian Angel, ignoring the cynical voice telling him he should be admonishing the angel for slacking off instead. He hesitates over reciting a Hail Mary – the hour of our death part has always felt much too much like tempting fate – but then rattles it off anyway because in for a penny, in for a pound, right?
And, somewhere amongst all this, it begins to unwind. The tightness under his skin, the pressure in his chest, the tension in his head, it all starts to trickle away, released with each exhale. It’s a floaty, all-encompassing kind of peace he hasn’t felt in ages, like being wrapped up warm in his quilt before drifting off to sleep. A million things need to be done back home and Holly has a list of calls he needs to return but he doesn’t need to focus on that right now, so when he runs out of words he simply goes with it, emptying his mind out and offering up whatever’s left to whoever’s listening, letting it dissolve into the emptiness around him.
His awareness narrows down to himself and the tiny space around him and, for once, it’s nice to simply exist.
Time passes – how much, Lockwood can’t say – and an ache is just starting to form at the back of his neck when he feels rather than hears somebody slip into his row, the chair in front of him jostling as they lean down to place their bag on the floor. A stab of irritation pierces his little bubble of calm – there’s a whole bloody church for them to sit in! – and he frowns, determined to return to his meditation.
Alas, Lockwood’s never been very good at it. His mind is too busy, his pride is too loud, his body too big to be easily ignored for long; he can feel the peace of the moment before washing away with the tides, and he knows better than to fight it. He lifts his head with reluctance, stretching and rubbing the back of his neck as he shifts up and back into his seat, carefully avoiding looking at the interloper. The sanctuary gleams up ahead, somehow brighter than it had looked before, but Lockwood pushes away the memory of kneeling at the altar rail to focus on more practical things. There’s a horde of reporters outside his front door and Holly’s probably having kittens – he’s got that phone interview at four-thirty, for a start.
He glances at his watch to check the time and does a double take. There, one seat down from him, is Lucy.
For a single, wild moment Lockwood wonders if his clumsy prayers somehow summoned her – but no, she doesn’t seem to be there for him (also, that’s ridiculous). She’s sitting prim and proper, her skirt smoothed over her knees and her hands in her lap, an umbrella laying on the floor beside her boots. The kneeler’s still up and her eyes are on the sanctuary, her gaze dark and steadfast. Lockwood stares.
It feels like an eternity before she turns to him and smiles, and it’s like the sun has come out and Lockwood forgot to bring his sunglasses. Amusement colours her voice as she asks: ‘What?’
The question brings him slamming back down to earth. Suddenly he’s all too aware that she’d found him on his knees, and it makes him feel known in a way that’s highly uncomfortable. He flashes a practiced smile as he casts his mind around for an acceptable topic. ‘I didn’t know you were Catholic, Lucy.’
She snorts, entirely at ease. ‘I’m one of seven, Lockwood.’
‘Oh,’ he says, eloquently. ‘Erm, well…I suppose I never thought of you as the ‘going to church’ type.’
‘I’m not,’ she says, sadness tainting her smile. ‘I just…come here sometimes. To sit. It’s quiet, and familiar.’
She’s doing that thing she does, where she says a lot but all too little. Normally Lockwood’s fine with it – he’s not one for sharing, either – but sitting here with her is already beginning to feel like a shared secret, and he wonders if he can leverage that into getting her to open up a little more. (Jessica might not approve, but Jessica’s not the one sitting next to him, is she?)
For a moment, he considers his options. Finally, he says: ‘You don’t seem surprised to see me.’
Lucy turns towards the back, pointing at the distant entrance. ‘I saw your rapier in the stand,’ she says, then flashes him a grin alight with mischief. ‘Did you know they got it because of me? My sword kept slicing up the kneelers.’
He laughs, then, amused by the quiet absurdity of the image – strong, stubborn Lucy, leaving a trail of destruction as she rises from prayer, like the worst kind of nun. The thought of Lucy praying at all is absurd even without the sword, if he’s honest with himself; she’d rather cut off her own hand than ask for help half the time. He wonders what she prays for.
‘So…you pray a lot, then?’
‘Uh…’ Lucy brushes her hair behind her ear in an embarrassed motion, her hazel gaze skittering away to somewhere behind him. Part of Lockwood almost feels bad for turning the conversation personal again, but the rest of him wants this – wants to drag her down to his level, wants to reach out and pull her close, to maybe create another warm soap bubble of a memory in this place. Now she’s here St. James’s almost feels too big again, and resentment floods him over the way the vast, cavernous space seems to echo back the strange distance between them that’s been expanding and contracting since the prison. They’re sitting one chair apart, teammates and best friends and maybe mores making small talk like strangers, and he’s sick of it. He wants to know more.
If there’s one thing he knows about Lucy, though, it’s that she hates silence. Maybe it’s the Listener part of her, maybe it’s because she grew up in such a large family; whatever it is, she can’t stand it for long. All Lockwood has to do is wait her out.
It doesn’t take long for her to crack. ‘Sort of,’ she admits, dragging her gaze back to rest somewhere around his collar. ‘I more… I light candles for them. For my old team, I mean.’
The smile she offers is a small, shaky thing, and Lockwood feels his pride deflate like a bouncy castle after the party. Now he’s got the admission he’s not sure what to do with it, and instead of bringing them closer it’s made her seem small, and very far away. Unease bubbles under his skin and he lowers his gaze, wishing there could be an easier way to connect.
Her hand is resting on the chair between them. Somehow, it’s not really even a question – with this, he doesn’t linger on the threshold; instead, he reaches out and takes it, rubbing her thumb as he threads his fingers through hers. She looks at him questioningly and he shrugs, ears burning, and tugs gently to pull her towards him before turning his gaze back to the front of the church. His heart pounds as he waits to see if she’ll come.
Of course, she does. Lucy shifts over, settling into the seat next to him without a word, their joined hands resting lightly on his thigh as they sit in silence. This time there’s no ulterior motive, though; Lockwood simply doesn’t know what to say. It’s another thing he’s never been very good at.
Lucy, as always, breaks the silence. ‘Do you?’
He glances down at her. She’s watching him, her gaze quietly steady. ‘Do I what?’ he asks.
‘Pray.’
‘Oh,’ he says, then shakes his head ruefully. Maybe it’s the quiet, maybe it’s having her steady presence so close, but somehow the church doesn’t feel so big anymore and that makes it easier to find more words to offer her. ‘No, I don’t pray anymore, not since I was a kid. It’s never really worked.’
A corner of her mouth quirks up, not so much in a smile but a sign of shared bitterness. ‘Same,’ she says. ‘There’s not much point. They’re never answered.’
Lockwood hums in agreement and looks forwards again, flexing his hand in hers as he readies some kind of flippant reply when he stops, because it’s not quite true, is it?
He turns back to her, taking her in – the wispy hairs at the top of her head, the bags under her eyes, the way her gaze seems to always be everywhere at once and always taking him in, the way her breaths are steady in the quiet air. No, no – actually, it’s not true at all.
The world has narrowed down to just them, ensconced in what feels like a bubble of wonder, and the words are falling from his lips before he can stop them. ‘Mine have been answered a few times, actually.’
She lifts an eyebrow, a look he knows well, and he can’t look away. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ he says, his voice rough. ‘Twice, in the last few weeks. When I prayed for you.’
‘Oh.’
Understanding floods Lucy’s gaze and now he has to look away but, for once, he doesn’t want to stop speaking. He stares at their hands in his lap, at her rough, bitten nails and the way her hand fits perfectly in his, and it lets him go on. ‘I didn’t even… I didn’t know I was doing it. I was just trying to get to you, both times. And, somehow, both times, you were still alive for me to save.’
The grip on his hand tightens, and he squeezes back. ‘Thank you,’ she says, her voice quiet.
‘Yeah,’ he says, again, then lifts his head and nods towards the altar. ‘That’s why… That’s why I came here today, I suppose. I haven’t been here since Jessica died, but I figured you’re worth saying thank you for.’
It feels like a little bit more than he’d wanted to tell her, actually, but part of him thinks it doesn’t matter – he’d climbed down into the prison for her so she knows, surely she knows. The knowledge creeps up his spine, prickling at the back of his neck and suddenly he feels awkward and gangly and oversized, clumsy in a way he hasn’t been since he first began to fence. He stretches casually (because he’s cool, he can do cool), Lucy’s hand still in his, and his gaze catches on the hanging wires far above the aisle. When he was a kid he used to think the priest used them for acrobatics in his spare time. Maybe he should tell Lucy that – it’d probably make her crack a smile.
Before he can open his mouth to share his stupid childhood daydreams (and isn’t it telling that silly childhood dreams suddenly feel like a less personal topic?) Lucy shifts, dropping his hand and reaching across him for the other one, bringing her side almost flush against his. An elbow prods the arm trapped between them and he looks back down at her, heat bursting across his cheeks when he realises how close her face is now.
Lucy’s cheeks are pink, yes – and she’s so close that he’d be having trouble keeping his eyes off her lips if she didn’t have that glint in her eye that means she’s getting annoyed, and the contrast makes him flounder. He can feel her breath on his chin and her other hand in his but he feels like he’s missing something vital, and it’s annoyingly hard to try and figure out when his brain keeps skipping back to ‘Lucy Lucy Lucy’ every time she bloody breathes.
She shoves his shoulder with hers – none too gently - and he settles on narrowing his eyes at her, because apparently proximity means nothing and irritation is what they were meant to be going for. ‘What?’
Exasperation fills her expression and she stares at him for another moment, then simply says: ‘Arm.’
‘Arm… Oh!’ Feeling like an idiot, Lockwood moves, extricating his arm from between them and wrapping it around her waist. The new position moves her face – and her lips – out of the danger zone as she turns back to the front and leans her head on his shoulder. It’s warm, and cosy, in a way that makes him want to flip the kneeler up and down and swing his feet again.
He’s much too big for the latter, though, and when he tries to do the former Lucy’s boot quickly comes to rest on the wood, stopping him from living out his childish fantasies as she huffs with laughter, her breath barely brushing against his neck. ‘Lockwood, stop it.’
‘Fine, fine.’ He smiles as he shifts them, shuffling himself closer to the edge between their seats and readjusting his arm around her until she’s leaning more fully against him without the awkward gap caused by the seating. ‘Better?’
‘Much.’
Lockwood rests his head atop hers. He’s still got a million things to do but he finds he doesn’t mind as she melts against him, her weight a pleasant warmth against his side, each breath that he can feel a reminder that she’s here.
They stay like that for a long time.