Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For the first month, they kept saying he’d wake up ‘any day now’. That everything looked good, and it was likely just the exhaustion from years of agent work that was keeping him asleep. That this might actually be good for his well being in the long run.

The second month, the doctors started doing additional scans and asking questions. Questions like how many times he’d been ghost-locked, if it had ever been near-morbid, whether he’d experienced severe ghost-touch, all those sorts of things. George would normally have loved their line of questioning, even would’ve asked a few of his own. He didn’t love them like this.

By month three, the hospital moved him out of the regular rooms and into the long-term care facility. Holly had to physically hold her back from attacking one of the nurses as they wheeled his bed out. It hadn’t been pretty for anyone involved.

Less than halfway through month five, George quietly closed the agency. It had been over two months since they’d taken a case, instead referring the rare people that came to their door out somewhere else. George and Holly had lost their Talents a year and two years ago, respectively, and the goggles couldn’t protect them both from the pain of going out there. Especially without her with them. They were all getting too old for this kind of work and, to be frank, their hearts just weren’t in it anymore.

Lucy’s heart, specifically, had never left that hospital room.

Chapter Text

Light streamed in through a tiny gap in the curtains, straight onto the floor. She stared at it, entranced. She didn’t particularly like the light. There wasn’t much she liked at all anymore. Even if she did, the universe wouldn’t let her have it. Never had, never would. She knew that well enough by now.

“Get out of my way, I’m getting her downstairs.”

“Would you just let her rest? She is having a horrid time right now, you know.”

“Oh, and the rest of us are out for a picnic in the park?!”

“Now, George-“

“I can hear you, you know!” Lucy shouted into the empty space of her attic. It was cold up there. But she couldn’t bring herself to care. The distant, muffled voices suddenly stopped, obviously having heard her. Lucy rolled her eyes and sighed. She didn’t need to hear them. They weren’t saying anything she hadn’t been lectured about for months. 

Lucy sighed, unable to tear her eyes from that sliver of golden on the wooden floors. Maybe she could blow it out like a candle. Let it be all darkness again. Hesitant steps came up the stairs, and the prim knock that followed was as distinctive as the white hairs on Lucy’s head. “Lucy, dear? George was wondering if you’d like to come down for some lunch. We know you’re probably rather busy with something or the other, but-“

“No, Holly,” Lucy said, pulling her blanket up over the head. “I’m not really hungry, alright? I’ll be down later.” Holly footsteps receded, and another muffled argument started in the hall. Those soft steps came right back up, and the door opened. “I said I’d be down later, Hol,” she grumbled, more into her pillow than to anyone in particular. Lucy had no intention of even opening her eyes until Holly was gone if she could help it.

“I- I know,” she started. Lucy could imagine Holly’s wringing hands in her mind. God, she’d known them for so long, been disappointing them for so long that she didn’t even have to look up anymore.  “It’s just that, well… You know how impatient George can be sometimes, and I cleaned up your desk if you want to try working on that manuscript of yours, if you’re feeling up to it. Maybe we could even go down to the flower shop and get some flowers to put in the vases, doesn’t that sound nice?” Lucy groaned and pulled her pillow over her head too. That just sounded like a list of things she wanted to do least in the world right now, especially when getting out of bed seemed a mammoth task. It was all too big. It was all too much. It didn’t even matter anyways.

Lucy hadn’t even gone down for breakfast in at least five months now, and lunch in about two. She thought anyways. She stopped keeping track of time a while ago, to be honest. Except for Sundays. Holly always told her when it was Sundays, helped her keep track. 

The first two weeks, she hadn’t been at home at all. Instead, she’d spent all her time at the hospital, holding onto Lockwood’s hand. After two weeks, Holly had made her come home and take a shower, rather than using hand wipes and occasionally washing her hair in the bathroom sink. Getting Lucy out of Lockwood’s hospital room hadn’t been pretty for anyone, and George claimed he got a new scar on his arm out of the whole ordeal. Lucy herself didn’t remember much of it, having had maybe eight hours of sleep total over all fourteen days. 

The next two weeks, Lucy had tried, she really had. She would come home late at night, just long enough to sleep, and she would wake up early and get ready to go back to Lockwood’s side. She’d been awake at somewhat normal hours and still visited the Thinking Cloth at breakfast and dinner, and there was a semblance of humanity about her. George and Holly had been worried then too, but at least she’d been eating, they’d said. But Lucy quickly realized that, no matter what she did, without Lockwood, it just tasted like ash.

Without Lockwood making her tea just how she liked it, it didn’t matter how much sugar she put in, it was still bitter. Without Lockwood making toast and sliding it over to her with that soft, sleepy smile just for her, she didn’t want it. Without Lockwood sitting across from her and cracking jokes and scribbling on the Thinking Cloth, she didn’t want to face the day. If she just waited a little while longer, waited until the sun was starting to go down, she could pretend he was out on a case. If Lucy didn’t go down there and have to face the truth that he wasn’t home, and he wasn’t coming home, then just maybe she could manage. Just maybe she could keep it up until it hurt a little less.

If it ever hurts a little less.

“I’m not coming down and I’m not going out and I’m not writing and I am absolutely not buying flowers, Holly,” she hissed. Lucy knew she was being harsh, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to be left alone.

“Alright then, Lucy.” Holly sighed, and her footsteps receded once more.

Lucy sighed in relief, hearing her door close once more. Just as she settled her pillow back under her head and closed her eyes, she felt something wrap around her ankle tightly. That’s different. 

Suddenly, she found herself yanked off her bed, hard, thudding dully onto the unforgiving floor of the attic.

“Ow!” She wrestled with the blankets that ended up wrapped around her body and face. “What the hell, Hol?!”

“It’s called upper body strength,” an unimpressed, deep voice said. Lucy finally pushed away the blanket, meeting George’s flat, disappointed stare. “See you at lunch in five minutes. Non-metaphorical, non-optional.” He unceremoniously trounced out of her room, leaving Lucy in a depressed heap on the floor.

— —

“You’re too soft on her,” George said as Holly slowly entered the kitchen. She personally thought he’d been too harsh. “She’s never going to respond to all that ‘we see you and we love you’ shit. Lucy’s too mean for that. You’ve got to speak her language.”

Holly scoffed. “What language? Violence?” She picked up the cup of tea George had made for her, taking a large gulp, despite it being so hot it burnt her tongue. She used to hate that feeling. She’d let it sit and breathe until it was just perfect. Holly liked everything just perfect, in its place. It was something for her to focus on, something she could do and control and maintain. Nowadays, though, the sharp, biting pain of her tea stinging her tongue was a rather welcome distraction. Something that felt a bit like penance.

“Yeah,” George shrugged. “Lucy understand violence. She understands violence and she understands threats. You want to fix her? Try being more like her.”

She shook her head. George is also upset. You can’t blame him, blame isn’t a luxury we can afford right now. “I’m pretty sure me and Lucy trying to be like one another caused a cave in at Aickmere’s all those years ago. It just pushes her away.”

“And everything else isn’t?!” George finally slammed his wooden spoon down. The sound echoed throughout the kitchen as he turned to Holly, shoving his finger in her face. “Listen, Hols, just because you can sit there and watch Lucy suffer doesn’t mean I will!” He shoved past her and set a plate of toast in front of Lucy’s chair. Did he really think she was coming? Would he actually be right? “Just because you aren’t as fucking affected doesn’t mean that my methods are bullshit, alright?!”

Aren’t as affected? Aren’t as affected?!

“What is your problem?” Holly hissed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Why on earth do you think you get to say things like that to me, George Karim?!”

“What, like how you don’t give a-“

“Shut up!” She scoffed, looking up to try to stop the tears from coming. Holly prayed it would work. “George,” she whispered, her voice so shaky she was afraid it would come out a sob. “I show up here every day and go up there. I keep going even though she is absolutely terrifying me. Even though I know damn well Lucy would rather-“ her voice caught, tears tight and the truth fighting its way to stay buried. “Lucy would rather be dead than up there, and I go up every week and help her get on the bus, and I do my best to be there for someone who can’t be here for me too.” George rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Two of my best friends weren’t even at my wedding, George, don’t you dare say that this hasn’t affected me!” She could feel the tears on her face, certainly ruining her eyeliner. Good. Let him see what he did. “Don’t you dare say that I care any less than you do.” Holly spun on her heel, storming out of that damn mausoleum of a house.

Whenever Holly got worried nowadays, she found herself drawn to the backyard. This house had been Lockwood’s pride and joy. His past and his future, his legacy. But this backyard? It had been Lucy’s since before Holly ever arrived. She remembered the times when she’d run into Portland Row, find it remarkably silent, and run to the backyard excited, knowing Lockwood and Lucy would be out there together. She would throw open that door and find them fighting over the hose and dousing each other with it, or climbing a tree and arguing over who could get the highest or the best apple, or bickering about Lockwood refusing to plant flowers because he didn’t want to stain his trousers. Of course, Holly told Vera that she believed the real reason he refused to help was that, from his yard chair, Lockwood got a fantastic view of Lucy’s arse when she leaned over to pack the soil. She even told Lucy so once. All that had come of it was Holly getting covered in mud and soaked by the hose. That was not an experience she was keen to repeat.

Nowadays, a silent Portland Row was normal. No, not normal. It was typical. Not even a faint whispering sound, their little radio, or even Lucy’s punk rock records had been heard in months. The silence and stillness made Holly want to break down and cry, even beg for times she’d once believed were the worst of her life. Because nothing had come close to this.

During the Black Winter, Lockwood had been impossible. He had said some horrible things to Holly, things she could moderately understand given the situation. He’d apologized afterwards, of course (notably, after Lucy came back to the agency and she had Holly had started getting on). Before everything had turned out though, Holly had insisted it was the worst four months of her life. Lockwood had been constantly flitting around, some kind of ever-moving husk of a person. Nothing had been enough for him, not praise or money or prestige. He just kept trying to fill this void inside of him, pretending he didn’t know exactly what would fix it. He had been a black hole.

This Lucy was a black hole too. But in an entirely different way. 

Whenever Holly went up to the attic, Lucy would barely react. Where Lockwood had gone through the motions of being himself, dialing every knob up to 100 without any actual humanness behind it, Lucy turned everything off. 

Holly and Vera had set their wedding date over a year in advance. Their anniversary would be on the solstice, and both women agreed it would be the perfect time. Holly had bought her dress months before Lockwood’s coma. Four months in, he’d already been moved to long-term care and Holly’s wedding was, somehow still on. Vera had held her as she’d cried, and had even already spoken to the makeup artist about paying for two looks: one for the ceremony and one for the photos, because of Holly’s inevitable breakdown as she remembered that, not only was Lockwood gone in the hospital, but Lucy had also been unable to leave the house to do anything but drag herself to see him in his comatose state. Holly got married to the love her her life at twenty-seven, with George Karim and her family there at her side, and it wouldn’t been perfect if not for two of the most important people in her life being so painfully absent.

When Holly first told Lucy that she was planning to propose, she’d expected Lucy to give her a thumbs up, maybe congratulate her. Probably just give her stick about how the whole ‘wedding industry’ is a scam or something. Instead. Lucy had been shockingly excited and invested throughout the entire process.. Lucy was the only one who stuck with Holly through her whole two-month bridezilla phase, helped hand-write invitations, and even put up with Holly’s thousands of requirements and dreams and store visits until they found her the perfect dress. She’d been there for it all, more thrilled and supportive than Holly’d ever seen the other woman, right up until the day of Lockwood’s accident. And so, though there wouldn’t have been a wedding without Lucy, she wasn’t actually there.

Lucy was the closest thing Holly had ever had to a sister. And now, Lucy was… gone. The person that Holly saw hiding in the attic or puttering around the library in the middle of the night was nothing more than a Visitor in their own right.

Going to the attic felt like entering a haunted house. Holly could feel that growing sense of malaise. The hopelessness that set deep into your bones would wash over her as she climbed the stairs, and Holly was left to wonder whether this was all psychological or if Lucy’s Talent had just gotten stronger and stranger over the past few months without anyone to watch over her. Without Lockwood constantly flittering around her, like an orbiting moon. Visiting Lucy always left Holly itching for the rapier she’d hung up years prior. 

Where Lockwood had been a moving human shell, Lucy was a floating spirit with no human bounds, no control, no attempt to function how the world expected her to. How Holly had needed her to.

And she never would again. How was Holly supposed to accept that?

— —

George collapsed into his old chair at the Thinking Cloth. He hadn’t really added to it since Lockwood’s accident. No one had. It reminded him of how Portland Row used to be: an empty house, stuck frozen, just how Celia and Donald Lockwood had left it, everything covered in a thin layer of frost that held Lockwood himself together.

As George moved in, he had begun to melt that impenetrable shell, adjusting a chair here, adding a Thinking Cloth there, bringing new spices into the cabinets. It was a slow process, and he’d always felt strangely like an intruder, skating on the thin ice of Lockwood’s hidden past and fucked up emotional state. Then, Lucy had happened. She’d practically sprinted through the frozen wasteland with a flamethrower. Everything that George had thought Lockwood would keep set in stone was just, in fact, one question or smile from Lucy away from completely changeable. 

And if he had used that trick too many times to get his way, well… who would be all the wiser?

But now, it was Lockwood’s world perfectly preserved. And it wasn’t as though Lucy enforced it. In fact, she couldn’t drag herself out of bed most days, how could she force anyone to leave things as they were? Still, though, somewhere, George knew exactly what would happen if he went and put a new Thinking Cloth on the table. Lucy would break down further, probably never come in here and eat again, even if it was just tiny bites of dinner. She didn’t have to tell him not to touch any of Lockwood’s things for him to know the consequences. I’d better figure out how to laminate a fucking tablecloth now, I guess.

He hated seeing Lucy like this. He hated that he didn’t know what to do. He hated that all he could do was force her to come down every few days, eat something, if only to stay alive. George couldn’t make her write, he couldn’t make her spar, he couldn’t make her be happy again. And Lockwood would want her to be happy. That was all Lockwood ever wanted. 

So, when George didn’t know how to deliver, he wasn’t just letting down Lucy. He was disappointing his best friend in the world too. And now, he was alienating Holly. If you don’t fix that newfound temper of yours, you’re really going to end up alone all over again. 

He wasn’t used to being alone anymore.

George was a researcher. He was one of the top researchers DEPRAC had ever had. He had more degrees than anyone with documentable Talent had achieved since the start of the Problem. If anyone could figure out a possible solution, it was him.

Plan of Action: First, apologize to Holly in the backyard. Second, shove some goddamn toast down Lucy’s ungrateful throat. Third, figure out how to convince Lucy to do something other than hide away in her room all day.

Now, what would scare Lucy enough to make her get out of the house for more than five minutes?

Chapter Text

I don’t want to be here.

Lucy looked around the small coffeeshop, at the books lining the walls, the billiard tables near the back, and the small microphone and stool set up across from the counter. As sure as she was that, once upon a time, this would’ve been one of her favorite places, it just seemed flat now. Since she’d lost Lockwood (he’s not dead, he’s just sleeping, he’s not dead, he’s just sleeping, he’s not dead, he’s just-) everything had felt flat. He would’ve liked this place. They’d gone to the pub occasionally, just to get a few drinks with friends every once in a while, and she would kick his posh arse at pool, and he’d drink her under the table, and the next day, in all their hungover glory, they’d head out in search of a good donut from Arif’s and a pumpkin spice latte from a cafe just like this one, with posters and colored lights covering every wall. Now, though, the bright fairy lights strung around were dull, pool couldn’t be more unappealing, and seasonal drinks made her heart clench instead of flutter.

She was only here because George threatened to call Barnes for an in-home check-up if she kept up her ‘shoddy daily routine’. In Lucy’s opinion in wasn’t shoddy. She’d managed to start taking daily showers. To be fair, for half of them, she would be sitting, curled up in the tub, and letting the water just rush over her, but still. Yet, the idea of Barnes getting involved in her life, scrutinizing her every moment, possibly suggesting (shudder) counseling gave Lucy some kind of motivation. Then—too quickly to not have been planned, Lucy wasn’t that stupid—Holly had come home with a flyer for an open-mic night at a nearby coffeeshop. As she’d read it over, it seemed like the least-torturous way of avoiding George’s wrath. Lucy took a seat at a tiny table in the corner with an only slightly obstructed view of the cobbled-together stage and settled in for a long night. She was grateful, as she watched people file in, that despite her popularity due to her recent successes in publishing her book, she wasn’t particularly recognizable.

At least, not without Lockwood.

When Lockwood was with her, Lucy was recognized constantly. The two of them could hardly go anywhere without being swamped, thanked for their work as agents, and asked if all the stories were real. Lucy would stand there nervously, tucked close against Lockwood’s side as he gave a blithe answer about how yes, they were wonderful agents, but of course Lucy did have to sensationalize things significantly. That was the deal she’d made with DEPRAC in trade for not signing the NDA: Lucy couldn’t market her work as nonfiction. She was afraid that, without Lockwood, she’d say something stupid and break the deal but, so far, no one cared about Lucy Carlyle on her own. Not even Lucy Carlyle.

As one of the baristas came around from the counter to start introducing the first performers—the pre-registered ones—Lucy pulled a small notebook out from her messenger bag. She didn’t want to be here, but if she was stuck here, she might as well sketch or something to pass the time.

— —

Lucy was honestly shocked. This strange little open mic night at this strange little coffee shop had been a surprisingly nice way to get out of the house. Lucy was used to running around in the dark, and this kind of event, one where everyone seemed shrouded in mystery, it was familiar to her. Listening to the songs and poems and short stories everyone read out, she almost felt like she was Listening again. She felt taken away from herself, wrapped up in darkness and someone else’s feelings instead of her own for once. She’d come back, Lucy told herself. Next month, she’d come back and listen again. She’d keep herself going like she always did and she’d come back next month. She had something to look forward to now.

She turned to write more in her notebook, the night having been shockingly inspirational. She still felt wrapped up in her grief, of course, but that tight cord around her neck had loosened just slightly. Just enough to let her breathe for a moment. As Lucy was combining intermittent sketches with a few thoughts or old quotes that came to mind, she felt a hot, weighty gaze settling on her. At first, she tried to ignore it, though it made her want to squirm in her seat. She was not going to look back at them, Lucy quickly decided. She had no intention of giving them the satisfaction.

Then again, she’d never been good with intentions.

When Lucy glanced up, hopefully surreptitiously, she saw a young girl, certainly no older than ten—she couldn’t be any younger and out here, right—staring at her. It seemed like this child was trying to look straight into her soul. 

Lucy had always been told that she had a piercing stare. She thought that was a bunch of poppycock. After all, how would that even work? Lucy had never been good at reading people, so everyone must’ve been making it up to make her feel better about being so plain. After all, piercing was somewhere close enough to pretty, right? If she wasn’t pretty, and she knew she wasn’t, at least people found her interesting, even if only in an unsettling way. However, this strange child made her give a small amount of credence to the idea. Maybe, somewhere along the way, someone might have had a point, if this is how Lucy herself looked at them. Lucy went back to scribbling in her book, unable to bear this little girl, with her long, dark plaits and all-seeing blue eyes for even a moment longer. She tried to focus on her notes, but she couldn’t think straight. Not anymore.

“You’re Lucy Carlyle.”

Lucy looked up from her notebook, at the girl who had instantaneously spawned into the chair directly across from her.

“When the hell did you get there?!”

“You shouldn’t use language like that around eight year olds, you know.” Eight?

“Mm-hmm,” Lucy responded nervously. “Okay, then…”

The little girl leaned across the table, conspiratorially. “You didn’t deny it,” she whispered. “That you’re her.”

Lucy leaned back in her chair, fiddling with the corner of her notebook. “And what if I did?”

She shook her head, smiling widely. “No point now. I already know you’re Lucy Carlyle, and Lucy Carlyle wrote herself that she’s a horrible liar. She also wrote that she hates publicity and crowds, so I won’t tell anyone, but just know that I know that you absolutely are Lucy Carlyle.”

“You’re got some guts,” Lucy chuckled, unsure what to do. If this was an adult, she’d run for the hills. She’d had a stalker a few months after her first book came out, but Lockwood and Barnes had taken care of him in less than a week. He’d been made an example of, both for her and for countless famous women across the UK. But this wasn’t a strange pervert, this was a little girl. In theory, this was Lucy’s target audience. At least, more so than the ghost-obsessed adults who read her work in some twisted attempt to understand their own issues since the Problem. “But it does seem like you have me at a disadvantage, young lady,” she eventually whispered back. “So, what is it that I should call you?”

The little girl sat back in her chair, tossing one dark brown braid over her shoulder before sticking her hand out. “My name is Beatrice Cartwright, and I’m going to be your first and only writing protégé.”

“Is that so?” Lucy cocked her head. This girl’s confidence was… unnerving. But pleasantly familiar. 

“Just you wait, Ms. Carlyle,” Beatrice smirked, pulling a small field notebook out from her pocket. “Just you wait.”

And damn, if those words hadn’t always made Lucy do anything.

— —

Lucy spent the next two hours talking to one Beatrice Cartwright. Here was a little girl, dropped from the heavens, with the confidence of one loved and never forgotten Anthony Lockwood. And they talked about everything.

Bea told Lucy about how she’d been dreaming of being an author since she was five years old. And Lucy supposed, when you were only eight, that did seem like a very long time. She wanted to tell stories like Lucy did, about little girls who ran away and did incredible things and had incredible gifts. Bea said she’d once seen a Visitor, so she must be a Seer, but there weren’t enough Visitors anymore for new children to be recruited as agents, so she didn’t really have a good sense of her own Talent. Lucy confessed that it was true that she’d heard the skull, that she knew Type Threes existed. She figured, if Bea did desperately want to tell someone, an eight year old girl wouldn’t be that big of a problem for her DEPRAC agreements. Lucy told Beatrice about how she went about writing books—the way she’d record everything that happened to her, drawing and writing and putting on cassettes everything she ever did and saw, and how, one day, she’d woken up and realized that there could be a story. That, maybe, even the simple things could be important in their own way.

“Anything can be important?”

“Anything,” Lucy said, squeezing the little girl’s hand softly. “Even this, you know.”

After an hour, Lucy ordered another tea for herself and a hot chocolate for Bea.

“Oh, no, I don’t need anything, Ms. Carlyle.”

“Nonsense. You’ve been here at least since the open mic started, that’s four and a half hours.”

Bea hung her head, wringing her hands nervously. “I don’t want… I didn’t bring enough money for anything like-“

And Lucy knew what was coming next. She’d said it herself so many times, and she never wanted to hear it again. Ever.

“I’m a bestselling author, Beatrice,” she said, putting up her hand to stop the little girl. “Let me get us a small treat, please.” 

Bea looked up, surprised. Lucy gave her a small smile, the best one she could muster, and Bea just nodded back, suddenly shy. As Lucy waved down one of the servers and ordered for them both, she remembered what it had been like after so many cases up North. She’d tell Norrie and Paul she wasn’t hungry because, unlike them, she didn’t keep any of her wages or get money from her mum to buy fries and a Shirley Temple. She’d walk home, away from the bright lights and warmth radiating from the pub, her stomach rumbling, but it was better than telling them everything. Norrie was her best friend, Paul was her team leader, that was her family, but there are some things that hurt too much to say. That she’d never even wanted to admit to herself.

Lucy tried hot chocolate for the first time right before her first Christmas in London. She had been walking around with Lockwood, peeking into various different shops for small gifts and decorations, and he’d bought them both a small paper cup of cheap cocoa sold by an old man with a cart. That powdery taste still sat heavy on the tip of her tongue whenever she thought about being home. Lucy regretted never telling Lockwood what it meant to her. She wondered if Bea would remember this coffeeshop’s shitty hot chocolate the same way. Part of her hoped so, while every other piece of her hoped… Well, she preferred not to dwell on it.

They kept talking until their drinks were well finished and the cups were cold. Lucy absent-mindedly glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering how on earth she’d stumbled onto this girl. Or rather, how this girl had stumbled upon her.

The clock!

Lucy looked back over again in disbelief. It couldn’t possibly be that late. “For heavens sake, Bea, tell me we haven’t been talking here for two hours!”

Bea chuckled. “Am I a good conversationalist or what?”

Lucy scoffed in response, impressed. “You might be the second best I’ve ever seen.”

“Who’s my competition,” she asked indignantly. “Because I’ll fight them! I will, head to head in a battle of- of… Of conversation!”

Lucy shook her head. “Second only to the great Anthony Lockwood himself.”

And, for once, as Lucy prepared to head into the cold night, she realized that name didn’t gut her to say as much as she’d thought it would. She and Bea put away their pencils and pens, and Lucy paid for their drinks, and she noticed that Bea wasn’t looking around for anyone. That Bea, the whole time Lucy had seen her, hadn’t been approached by a single adult, hadn’t gone to speak with anyone, hadn’t given any indication that there was someone looking out for her. Someone has to be…

“You aren’t about to get on the bus alone, are you?”

Bea finished zipping up her backpack, looking at Lucy confusedly. “Why not?”

Lucy scoffed. “It’s nine o’ clock at night! Just because curfew is lifted does not mean an eight year old should be taking the bus alone. Where’s your mother?”

“Oh,” Bea shifted between her feet. “She passed away a long time ago. But my pa’s at home, though! He never minds when I come to the performance nights, I promise he knows I’m here.” Bea started fiddling with the ends of her sleeves. “Really, Ms. Carlyle, I’m afraid I have to go now, or I might miss the next bus.” Lucy looked down at the small girl, her long dark plaits and nervous blue eyes and worn, too-thin coat. And she made a decision. 

“Fine then,” Lucy said, buttoning up her own coat. “Which bus are we getting on?”

“What?”

“Well, I’m not letting you make your way home alone this late at night,” she shrugged. “You shouldn’t even be out this late, you should be asleep. Heaven only knows why your father approves of it, but I’ll see you back, at least to your street.” Lucy finished buttoning her coat and bent down to help Beatrice’s fumbling fingers. “I don’t need to see quite exactly where you live or anything, I am a stranger after all, but-“

“What?! You aren’t a stranger at all!” Beatrice shouted. “You’re Lucy flippin’ Carlyle!”

Lucy froze. She quickly glanced behind her and cringed at the realization that everyone in the coffeeshop had, in fact, heard Beatrice’s bold declaration. She saw one couple in the back get a glint in their eyes and start going through their bags. Oh god.

“Well, now that you’ve graciously shared that with everyone, we’d best get on our way quickly. Come along now,” she whispered, holding out her hand for Bea to take. The little girl looked behind Lucy, and a determined expression crossed her face. She nodded and Lucy ushered her out just before the first person approached her for questions about the Problem or advice on agent life or, god forbid, an autograph, where Lucy was expected to write something sweet or sharp or witty or perfect.

She and Bea practically ran to the bus, barely making it on with their fares and stumbling to the seats. The two girls were laughing between each other, and Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she had genuinely smiled in months. She wanted to bottle up this feeling for her worst mornings, the ones that drove her to close her eyes until the next, or to hope there wouldn’t be another one at all.

Little Beatrice was a breath of fresh air. She asked about different types of pens to use for different things, if typewriters were as cool as they looked in films, if Mr. Doctor Karim was as smart as everyone said, and if human skulls really looked like they did in the pictures in Lucy’s book. And Lucy found herself almost sad when Beatrice said her house was at the next bus stop. She thanked the bus driver and helped Beatrice off onto the sidewalk, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Beatrice wrestled with her backpack, and Lucy helped her situate it on her shoulders properly. Finally, she turned around, kicking at invisible dust on the road. 

“Thanks for seeing me back, Ms. Carlyle. I’m real sorry, I know this is pretty far from Portland Row, but-“ 

“But nothing,” Lucy nodded. “It’s a rather pretty night, and there aren’t any ghostlamps out here. Means you can see the stars rather well, hmm?”

Beatrice looked up and smiled widely. “I guess you can, huh?” Lucy chuckled at that, something soft and fragile. “Ms. Carlyle, um…” Beatrice hesitated, playing with her sleeves once again.  I remember what it felt like to be that nervous. “Could we maybe meet up again? To talk about writing books and different types of stories and all that? I- I really do want to be an author someday and tell cool stories, and your stuff is just the absolute best, and you’re really fun in person too, and…” Beatrice shut her mouth quickly, almost looking like a frog, as though words had spilled out than she’d meant to. Lucy’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She didn’t realize she’d been so sad to see this strange little child go forever.

Lucy nodded, a small thing. “Why don’t you bring a story you wrote or something you like to read back to that cafe this Saturday around 2? Do you have anything else you have to do this Saturday?” Beatrice smiled and shook her head so fast that Lucy was afraid it would pop off her body. She chuckled again. “I’ll see you then.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Carlyle!” Beatrice reached and wrapped her arms tightly around Lucy’s waist, burying her face in her stomach. “I’ll be there, I promise!” 

Lucy was slightly taken aback. No one hugged her. Lockwood had, occasionally, but that wasn’t… It was different, really. George didn’t touch people, Holly was too prim for all that, Barnes was professional, and Kipps was… Well, he’s Kipps, and he was in Scotland, to complicate matters. Lucy hesitantly reached down, putting one are around Beatrice’s shoulders and her other hand on the little girl’s head. “Sounds perfect,” she whispered.

Bea finally let go, gave Lucy a blinding smile, and then bounded off down the street, her twin braids bouncing in time with her skip. Lucy stood on the curb, watching until Beatrice turned and gave a thumbs up. Lucy nodded and did the same before going back around the corner. She sat down at the bus stop. Less then fifteen minutes later, a different bus came by to take her in the complete opposite direction, back towards Portland Row. And, for once, Lucy wasn’t dreading being back in that house, that constantly cursing mausoleum. She wanted to be home.

Chapter Text

Holly was frozen in the entryway. She’d been standing there for five minutes at the least, which was entirely unreasonable, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. Vera would be rather proud.

“Holly?” She could distantly hear George’s voice as he made his way to the porch. “Bloody hell, why are you standing there with the door open?” Holly spun around quickly, whacking him lightly, trying to quiet him as he shoved her forward and closed the door. “What’s your problem today, Hol? I’m starving, and you’re never-“

“Do you hear it,” Holly whispered, leaning in close to George. “Listen.” George paused, curious. As the noice settled, soft notes came nervously peeking through the air.

He tilted his head at her, confused. “Did you leave the radio on or something the other night?”

Holly smiled, shaking her head. “No, George,” she said, hopeful wonder on her face. “I didn’t.”

He paused, tilting his head towards the quiet, muted sounds carried through the cracks of the house into the entryway. Holly saw a small glint in his eyes, the one familiar one he often got when he’d cracked a problem open, ready to explore it from the inside out. Often, it ended up with her in a hole or covered in mud or in some kind of crypt of the dead. But this time, well…

“Only one thing to do then, isn’t there?” George took a deep breath and slowly walked to the kitchen door. He carefully and quietly opened it to a sight Holly was afraid she was never going to see again.

There stood Lucy Carlyle at the kitchen sink, a small satellite radio playing softly next to her. She wasn’t humming, like she used to, or swinging around and dancing with Lockwood like they were oft known to do, but she was there nonetheless. She was there and the music was surrounding her as she carefully dried dishes, staring out the window.

George cleared his throat, and Lucy jumped in shock.

“Oh,” she softly said, turning around to see Holly and George piled next to each other in the doorway. “Morning, you two. I just finished washing the kettle, if you’re up for some tea.”

Act normal. Don’t say anything, don’t snap her out of it, don’t you dare put this in jeopardy. Just. Act. Normal.

“Course, Lucy,” George said, slightly less gruff than he’d been lately. “I guess even you can’t ruin a cup of Pitkins.”

Lucy softly chuckled, wiping down the bottom of the kettle down and filling it up. “Oh, don’t underestimate me, Georgie.” 

George sunk into his chair before glancing pointedly at Holly. Oh, right, I’m still standing! She realized that, somehow, George was being more normal about this than her. Who knew he could read people like that? She’d have to talk to Vera, see if she was slipping somehow.

Holly didn’t know what happened yesterday. She didn’t ask Lucy why she’d left the attic before early evening that day, didn’t ask what changed, didn’t pester her about anything. She didn’t ask about the music playing, not even asking if she could turn it up or down. Holly just let today go by, drinking tea and having a small breakfast, and just for a moment, she felt like things might actually be alright. Maybe not yet, but someday soon.

— —

The next morning, Lucy wasn’t awake by the time George arrived and she refused to come down for breakfast. She did, however, eat lunch and managed to make it all the way down to the basement. George even made chicken tikka masala for dinner, partly as a subliminal psychological reward. Holly could yell at him all she wanted for intentionally Pavlov-ing his former roommate, but she couldn’t say she didn’t understand why. And she certainly couldn’t say it wasn’t for the best.

Lucy hadn’t said thank you for forcing her to get out of the house. George was a little miffed at that, but at the end of the day, she wasn’t spending all of her time in that damned attic. Hell, Lucy never had to thank him for anything ever again if she would just promise to never scare him like that again.

He liked pretending he hadn’t been scared. George had taken to yelling at Holly and being more disagreeable than normal and stomping around his lab at the university, and everyone had assumed he was angry. He liked it that way. Angry was easier than scared. He had been scared that Lucy was gone forever. That the Lucy who Anthony Lockwood loved had died and George would never get to see his best friend again. He’d already grieved Lockwood. He couldn’t lose her too, not like this. Not all at once, not again.

But even though each day was different, even though some days she’d be up and around before he arrived and other days, she’d barely speak, just wandering down to the basement in silence, she was there. He could see a spark in her eyes that had gone out a long time ago, and it gave him hope. There was a piece of Lucy Carlyle still inside her, fighting to hold on.

George desperately needed that piece of her to win.

— —

Being in the basement felt like him.

It felt like smoke jets and smiles and things she had once thought would last forever.

It felt like her twentieth birthday, years ago, when he carefully led her downstairs after insisting on that damn blindfold to show her the brand new typewriter he’d bought her.

It felt like the way he’d pressed against her when she lost a round of fencing, or the way she pinned him every time they’d grapple.

It felt like her brute strength and bluntness and swinging fists and his light feet and charm and outstretched hands.

She found her way down there every day after meeting Beatrice. She ended up absentmindedly running through her old rapier forms or typing out a short poem or a memory or, more days than not, just crying. But that crushing grief didn’t feel as heavy quite as heavy anymore.

She met Beatrice Cartwright on a Saturday, and she had realized that, maybe, the world wasn’t completely dark without Anthony Lockwood in it. She realized that there might be a few things worth seeing, worth trying to stick around for, and she had to keep getting up to find them out.

On Tuesday afternoon, she wrote a poem about him. She didn’t show it to Holly and George, but she tacked it up on her mirror, next to that old polaroid of her and Norrie. 

On Thursday morning, she mentioned to Holly and George that she’d like to go buy some paints so she could do a mural on one of the attic room walls.

On Friday afternoon, she told Ms. Crowne that she would agree to a small book signing the next week, if only to placate the publishing company she’d been dodging emails from for moths.

On Saturday morning, she told Holly that she was going out, and she’d back later that evening. Holly had been beyond surprised. 

And, as Lucy took her first breath of fresh air in what seemed like an eternity, it felt a little something like hope.

— —

“You aren’t worried it’s too much too soon?” George said quietly, stirring a curry at the stove, careful in case Lucy was near enough to hear. “I mean, for all we know it could be some kind of depressive spiral resolving itself. You know how some suicidal people can tend to seem happier right before they take their own lives, don’t you? What if we should be more worried?”

Holly rolled her eyes. “Honestly, George, don’t be so pessimistic!” She paused for a moment, her voice soft. “Lucy wants to buy paints. People who are about to kill themselves don’t often plan out murals that take forever, I don’t think.”

He spun around, pointing the spoon like a vindicated superspy. “So you admit you were worried!”

She sighed, massaging her temples. “Not the point, George Karim!”

George huffed. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Hol. It seems like she’s getting out of the house a bit, of course that’s good. I just… I’m just not convinced that means she’s just doing better. For all we know, it could be some kind of cry for help. Hell, she could’ve met a drug dealer at that thing!” Holly shook her head. Leave it to George Karim to catastrophize like no one else. “God, of course! I force Lucy to leave the house and she gets addicted to drugs! Lockwood would have my head! If Barnes finds out, he’ll kill me himself!”

“She’s not addicted to drugs.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“George!”

They went back and forth, debating what to do with this shift in Lucy’s behavior. To be fair to her, it was never perfectly linear. But she was slowly getting better, they could both see it. George and Holly just couldn’t agree on whether or not it was because she was descending into madness or settling into reality.

— —

Bea wasn’t the reason Lucy was getting better.

But Bea made it easier to think about her books without thinking about how Lockwood used to be, and how he wasn’t anymore. How he wouldn’t ever be again. Bea made it easier to remember that, somewhere out there, there was still something good and small and innocent, with a cocky smile to boot.

Lucy wondered, as she walked back into that coffeeshop, why exactly she’d suggested this meeting. Maybe it was Bea’s confidence, the way she carried herself to demand respect at eight years old, insisting that she be treated like a miniature adult rather than a little girl. It reminded Lucy of Lockwood, the way he’d once walked around London as though he was already famous and larger than life, despite being nothing more than a scrawny seventeen year old with a dream.

God, she missed that scrawny seventeen year old.

As Lucy entered the coffeeshop, holding tightly to the strap of her messenger bag, a far cry from that old rucksack she carried everywhere—a hell of a lot quieter too—she saw a little girl with uneven pigtails sitting at a corner table, scribbling in a notebook.

She cleared her throat as she crossed the cafe, unwinding the Lockwood’s dark grey scarf from around her neck. He’d loaned to her the winter before the accident, and she’d sort of… never given it back. Nowadays, it felt like an extra piece of armor as she went out into the world. Bea’s head snapped up from her notebook.

“Ms. Carlyle!” She jumped out of her chair, running to give Lucy another hug. She still wasn’t used to it, but Lucy thought she did better responding this time, reciprocating faster. It was strange, but in a welcome way. Lucy figured she’d parse that out… later. She ordered them both some hot drinks and pulled out her own, black notebook.

They talked for likely even longer than last time. Bea wrote down every word Lucy said as she talked about editing her books and what it was like finding a publisher. Lucy even told her about the poem she’d written that week.

“What do you mean, big feelings?”

Lucy paused, trying to phrase it well. “Well, for me, at least, I don’t come up with a story from nowhere, obviously. And deep down, I don’t think anyone does. We all use pieces of the real world, our real lives, and we take events and people and all of our feelings around them, small, big, good, bad, complicated, and we basically just shout it out to other people.”

Bea’s pen took off, flying across the paper once again. “So, finding the big feelings.”

“Or people,” Lucy said softly. “The people who make you feel something very special.”

“Or something bad?”

Lucy couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “I suppose so.” A small smile broke out on her face. “Mr. Fairfax was in my book, after all.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bea hummed, pausing her constant scribbling. “So, good people, but then also people like Erin Heathers.” Lucy cocked her head, trying to recall that name… Maybe someone we once put away or solved a case for? She’d never had the best memory. “Erin’s a girl in my class at school,” Bea finally elaborated, nodding seriously. “She’s a right cunt.”

Lucy hadn’t been able to stop herself from laughing, scandalized. “Language, Beatrice!” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard, but she couldn’t very well help herself. “You absolutely cannot call second graders right cunts!”

“Even if they are?”

As they kept talking, and the subject devolved from stories to poems to Erin Heathers and all of the goings-on at Bea’s school and around Portland Row, Lucy noticed the hour getting late. She went up and ordered a slice of the chocolate pound cake for the two of them to split. Although chocolate had never quite been Lucy’s favorite, she’d noticed Bea’s curious glance at it. The little girl’s eyes as she asked Bea if she’d split it with her was definitely worth her own personal lack of lemon drizzle.

They continued, and Lucy ended up letting it slip that Ms. Crowne had booked her for an event that next week.

“A book signing,” Bea gasped, her eyes wide. “Wow, Ms. Carlyle, that must just be the coolest, sitting there and getting to meet all those people who love your books.” 

Lucy chuckled. “For some people, I’m sure.”

“Well, if I were an author, I’d love the attention,” Bea laughed, licking her cake fork. “I mean, all those people are there because they think you’re wonderful, and you get to meet all of them, and they all already love you. That sounds like a dream come true.”

And an idea popped into her head.

Lucy didn’t particularly want to do this book signing Crowne had set up for her. But if she had to be there, if there was something that made her actually want to show up instead of calling in, like she’d been doing for every event Crowne had pestered her about for months and months now.

“A dream come true, really?”  Bea nodded enthusiastically, like one of those statues Vera put on the dash of her car. It made Lucy want to laugh, just a little. “Well, the signing is going to be at the Lavender Wraith book shop, have you heard of it? It’s a small place, but it’s always been one of my favorites. I have to be there at 4pm this Wednesday so I can get ready, why don’t you join me? You’d get to see all of the backstage work and that kind of thing.”

Bea gasped. “Really?!” 

“You are my writing protege, after all.” Lucy smiled at her, a surprisingly real thing.

A smile split straight across Bea’s face, showing all of her sharp, glinting teeth. “Oh, Ms. Carlyle, that would be just the bestest thing ever!”

Chapter Text

The signing passed by faster than any of the ones before. Ms. Crowne had refused to let Bea sit at the table with Lucy, but she’d gotten to sit in a big, plush reading chair less than ten feet away, constantly in Lucy’s periphery.

There were more people than Lucy had ever believed could fit into a tiny bookstore. She’d done public appearances with Lockwood before, of course, but it had felt different. His hand had been a steady presence, holding onto hers underneath the table or settled lightly on her knee. He’d been there, grounding her, always sensing when she needed a break and helping pull her away. She had never done this without him. But this girl’s presence, over where Lucy could almost see if she tried, the simple fact of knowing that there was something at the other end of this tunnel, this swarm of people, and that her name was Beatrice, it held Lucy down in the same way. It kept her breath even and going steady, remembering that this, like everything else in the world, would end. It would end and she would be done with the signings and the questions and the everything else. She could handle it until it was over. Lucy was going to handle it. And when Lucy was known to be rather stubborn when she made up her mind about things.

Finally, more then twenty minutes after Ms. Crowne had promised the event would end Lucy signed the final book or poster or picture or god-knows-what. She should’ve cared, probably, but, by that point, she couldn’t help but feel anything other than relieved. It was over.

“Ms. Carlyle, that was wonderful!” Bea bounded up to her as the final people trailed out of the bookstore. “I mean it! It was so cool getting to see all of these things, and all those people were just absolutely delightful! Wasn’t it wonderful, Ms. Carlyle?”

“It’s just Lucy,” she muttered, resting her head on the cool silk tablecloth in front of her.

Bea let out a soft clicking sound. “Huh. You really don’t like being the center of attention, do you?” Lucy just groaned in response. “Don’t worry,” her bright voice laughed. “Next time you want to get out of one of these early, I’ll yell about something and do the hula while you escape.”

They both devolved into laughter at that, Ms. Crowne and the bookstore employees wondering where these two lunatics had come from. Where they’d even found each other. Lucy found herself wondering that same thing.

— —

After getting to go to a book signing as a VIP special guest and getting her own special chair to sit in and free juice boxes and magazines, Bea thought that this day couldn’t get any better.

And then Lucy Carlyle asked if she wanted to come back to 35 Portland Row itself for some tea and supper before taking the bus back home.

Obviously, the answer was yes. Well, yes and an ungodly amount of internal squealing in shock.

The famous Portland Row, Bea thought to herself, skipping next to Ms. Carlyle. Imagine her, Beatrice Cartwright, getting to visit 35 Portland Row, the home of Lucy Carlyle and Anthony Lockwood, where the Problem itself was solved. She had a thousand questions! Was the Thinking Cloth real? Would Lucy let her write on it? Could she see the Thinking Cloth Dr. Karim had written on when he discovered spirit gates? Did they ever figure out how the spirit gates existed in the first place? Was the library as big as she’d always imagined it? What did Dr. Karim’s chair really feel like? Was it actually that squishy, or was Ms. Carlyle exaggerating? She did say she exaggerated a lot, but she did admit to that the part about the talking skull was true, but Bea wasn’t allowed to tell anyone ever. 

Wait.

Will Ms. Carlyle let me see the Talking Skull?!

Bea managed to only spit out half of the questions that came to her head. The ones about the mysterious skull and the Thinking Cloth she decided to save for later. If she behaved very well this trip, maybe Ms. Carlyle would invite her back, and then, just maybe-

“Please, Beatrice. It’s just Lucy, really.” She smiled down at Bea, her warm blue-green eyes a good, grounding sense of comfort. They reminded Bea of pictures she saw of the ocean once, or maybe the puddles that she liked to pretend could be portals to another world. “Ms. Carlyle sounds like my mother, and if I’m anything, it’s not her, that I promised myself.”

London’s Darling herself asking me to call her by her name?!

Bea looked up at her with a smile, swinging their intertwined hands back and forth through the air. “Okay, Lucy.”

— —

As they get closer to Portland Row, Bea’s mouth seemed like it couldn’t stop running. Lucy knew she was conversational, but this level of rambling was something else. And, to be honest, she kind of enjoyed listening to it.

Bea gasped as yet another idea came into her head. “Will Dr. Mr. Karim be there? And Ms. Munro? And Mr. Lockwood?” Her eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh my goodness, I’ve always wanted to meet him, you know!” Lucy just shook her head. Even hearing his name, hearing this little girl saying his name… It still hurt. 

But Bea deserved better than her heartache.

“George and Holly will be home. Not Lockwood.” Lucy’s voice was colder than she meant it to be. But she couldn’t help it. She wished she could just help it, for once.

“Oh. Why not?” God, Lucy just wanted to cry at that.

“He just won’t,” she snapped instead, her words harsh and piercing and loud. She saw Bea recoil from the side of her eye. She instantly froze, taking a sharp breath in. “Bea, I- I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t… I wasn’t expecting you to ask, that’s all. I’m-”

“It’s okay.” Bea smiled, shoving her hands in her pockets. “It’s fine, Ms. Carlyle. I know I talk too much sometimes, and I ask questions I shouldn’t and- and I’m really, really sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

Lucy’s stomach dropped. She knew that rant. She’d worked so hard to stop doing that same thing years ago. “No, Bea,” she pulled her hands together in front of her. “No, Bea, don’t apologize for asking questions. That’s one of the most important things you can do,” she said, nodding her head. George had always said that, and she’d discovered that it was, unsurprisingly, rather true. Lucy bent down and put her hands out in front of her, palms up. Bea hesitantly put her tiny hands on Lucy’s palms, uneasy. Lucy took a deep breath.

“There are some things I don’t talk about. Right now, Lockwood,” Lucy paused, a piercing stab running through her chest. She took another deep breath. “He’s one of them. It- it doesn’t mean you were wrong to ask, it just means I don’t have a good answer for you right now. And sometimes, when adults don’t have good answers or are upset about things, we get snappy. That doesn’t mean it’s okay, it just means that life can be… difficult. Yeah?”

Bea nodded somberly.

“My mum passed away when I was little.” She shrugged at the ground. “I don’t talk about her. Sometimes, I don’t think about her at all, and it’s real easy but sometimes it’s really hard, and I can get sad and upset. Like Mother’s Day.” She looked up at Lucy through her long eyelashes, a silent question on her lips.

“Like Mother’s Day,” Lucy agreed, a melancholy smile hiding in the corners of her mouth. She slowly stood back up and offered her hand to Bea, who followed her to the iron gate itself. A strangely comfortable silence enveloped them as Lucy opened it, leading Bea up to the door of Portland Row itself, opening up for them both.

And Beatrice never asked Lucy Carlyle about Anthony Lockwood again. She didn’t want to make Lucy feel like Mother’s Day.

— —

The minute George opened the door to Portland Row, a hand grabbed his elbow, yanking him into the library. He’d tried to protest, but it was a tight iron grip. Someone shoved him against the doorframe, and it turns out that Holly was… deceivingly small, apparently. And significantly stronger than George had given her credit for, as he found himself pinned tightly. Her hand was was still clamped around his mouth as he tried to decipher the strange, awed look on her face.

“Okay, listen once and listen well, because here’s what’s going to happen” Holly said, like she was running the damn army. “You are going to go in the kitchen, and you are going to see something surprising, and then you are going to be nice and personable and more normal than you’ve ever been before because you are not going to mess this up, you got it?”

“Afternoon to you too, Hols,” he mumbled confusedly, his words muffled by her hand.

“I mean it, George Karim. Do not ruin this for us.”

Ruin what? He shook his head, batting her away with a scoff. “Hol, honestly, you’re scaring me a bit. What’s going on in there?”

She went to respond, but paused, opening and closing her mouth several times. “I… I don’t even know,” Holly chuckled, cracking a small smile. “You just have to go see for yourself.”

He shrugged her off, rolling his neck. He’d been doing more and more late nights at the university lately, and he could feel his spine aging. It seemed like his research was going in circles, and if his experiments kept going this way, he was going to have to resort to asking Lucy to help him illegally harvest ever-increasingly rare ectoplasm, given she was the only one of them with her Talent still intact. Really should’ve taken Barnes up on that offer to dismantle the spirit gates, if it got Lucy her Listening permanently. Of course, then again, that could always just be Lucy. She’d been an anomaly  since the first day she’d shown up at Portland Row, and that certainly hadn’t ever changed. George yawned, entering the kitchen quietly, hoping to not disturb whatever it was that spooked Holly so.

The first thing George noticed was Lucy was standing at the stove, stirring something. Lucy hasn’t cooked since Lockwood’s accident.

The second thing he noticed was that she was intermittently looking over her shoulder and nodding, turning back to the kitchen table with a bemused smile. Is that it? Lucy smiling? That’s Holly’s big surprise?

“So, what are those mask things hanging on the wall by the door?” a bright, young voice asked from the ether of the kitchen. He scrambled to look for where that strange sound had come from, and the evidence compiled in his head all at once. 

Holy fucking shit! There’s a CHILD in here!

“Well, you remember how I mentioned Celia and Donald Lockwood in my book, right?” Lucy started, both girls oblivious to his presence. A good thing, given that George’s brain, for the first time in his life, was not computing A. Single. Thing. The little girl turned a page in her notebook, scribbling furiously. “Well, they were these amazing anthropologists, and they traveled the world studying the occult.” The little girl tilted her head, her pencil stalling. “Occult is a fancy word for strange and mysterious things, like ghosts and magic and all sorts of supernatural things,” Lucy clarified, before continuing. “Those masks there are called spirit masks. I think Lockwood’s parents brought them here from some adventures in Central or Western Africa, if memory serves. I have scrapbooks of their adventures in the library somewhere, if you’d like to see them sometime.”

“That would be incredible!”

Lucy turned around, when her eyes caught on George. “Oh, hey Georgie, there you are,” She nodded at him, the spoon still in her hands. “Was wondering when you’d get home.” She was looking at him and smiling. Smiling!

The little girl looked over at him and gasped excitedly. He distantly recognized that he should wonder why, but all he could think was that Lucy was cooking for a little girl at their kitchen table. What the actual FUCK?!

“Now, Beatrice, meet Dr. George Karim.” Lucy gestured to him with the spoon, turning back to the stove. The girl gave a barely restrained wave, practically vibrating out of her chair. “George, this is-“

“Bloody hell, Lucy! Did you steal a child?!”

“George!” Holly’s alarmed shriek echoed from the entryway, filling up Portland Row.

Chapter Text

Bea’s visits to Portland Row only became increasingly frequent. She went to a grammar school rather far from her own house but quite close to Marylebourne, so she would finish her classes on weekdays and go straight there.

She followed Lucy around constantly, emulating everything she did. George, in fact, took to calling her Ducky, chuckling at the obvious comparison. Holly’d heard him say it to Beatrice once before, and she’d smacked him. Significantly harder than necessary, might he add. After that, he refrained from using the nickname when Holly and Lucy were in the room. It seemed to be safer for his health, and he was significantly more worried about brain damage now that he had his doctorate. And, of course, since, well…

As George got to know Bea, he had to agree that she was a rather pleasant child. She was rambunctious when she got excited, but she could pay attention well and kept track of details almost as well as he could. Maybe I’ll manage to make an academic out of this one. Lucy and Lockwood had always been lost causes in that regard.

Lockwood had always been too obsessed with his society papers or his regency-era Jane Austen works to consider any other materials. His parents were scientists and researchers, for crying out loud. Lockwood had read his parents’ papers and was obviously capable of understanding the same types of materials George himself enjoyed. He just… refused to buckle down and study to make sense of everything. Lockwood always said George didn’t understand his need to keep moving, to fight and such, rather than spend every waking moment in the Archives. George had told him to just confess his undying love for Lucy instead of rereading Pride and Prejudice again, and that might help him focus enough to read a damn textbook for once.

That hadn’t gone over well.

Lucy, on the other hand, had always been self-conscious about any type of schooling. She was a damn good writer and rather smart, George knew that much. But when it came to the idea of academics, Lucy had always shied away. He knew she’d been pulled out of school at eight to start her agency training, but she had a natural curiosity and mind for patterns that could’ve served his university quite well. But no-o-o. Of course, she’d insist she wasn’t smart enough and refuse, all while writing her future-bestselling novel. Because that made perfect sense.

Thus, George only became increasingly taken with Beatrice, this little girl constantly sketching and fascinated by the old(er) days of the Problem, asking questions that George couldn’t have been more thrilled to answer. And, George wasn’t the only one instantly smitten.

In less than a week, after Bea woke up from her unknown^th accidental nap on library couch, Holly insisted that Ms. Munro was far too formal, and had been given the moniker ‘Aunt Holly’. George lasted precisely six and a half days longer, at which point Doctor Karim became Uncle George. You have plenty of nieces and nephews already, he told himself. What’s one more?

He quickly determined that it was more logical to allow the name to stick than to try to change it back now. Ducky liked it, after all.

— —

Holly was still learning how to get used to this. When she would arrive at Portland Row in the mornings to check in on Lucy, she would not only be alive, but often downstairs preparing breakfast for the two of them and talking about her plans for the day. Holly frequently talked with Vera about how strange it was to see this shift. And, more often than not, discussing her crisis of conscience, as she wondered if her daily checking in was still helping Lucy or if she was just hurting her.

“You’re doing what you need to, love,” Vera had simply said, stroking Holly’s hair. Holly had just curled up closer to her, wanting to be held. Cradled, like something precious. Vera always held her together, when Holly fell apart taking care of the rest of the world. “If you feel like you need to be there, you go. If you feel like it’s too much, like it’s hurting you more than it helps, then I’ll stay home with you, and we’ll figure it out. Together, alright?”

Holly had ultimately decided she wanted to keep going, at least checking in each morning, rather than leaving Lucy to her own devices, alone in that empty house all the time. Lockwood would want her to keep an eye on Lucy. And at the end of the day, she felt like she owed it to him. Holly couldn’t bring herself to visit Lockwood anymore, with his body slowly wasting away into an unrecognizably still corpse. But when the guilt tried to eat her alive, she’d simply remind it that this is how she honored him instead: by taking care of Lucy, by not letting herself forget. And that was more significant than seeing the thing he was slowly turning into.

The hardest, most disconcerting day, though, was the morning that Holly walked in the front door to discover the Thinking Cloth had been changed.

She’d frozen at the kitchen door, expecting to see nothing different from the day before, only to be met with a blank expanse.

Lucy.

Her mind raced with concern for her first. The plain, white cloth hanging on the kitchen table surely would never allow for the Lucy she and George had ever-so slowly been getting used to. The breakfast she’d enjoyed splitting with Lucy over tea, the quiet electric violin music spilling into the hallway, the confirmed belief that things would be alright. Surely.

Holly slowly entered the kitchen fully and, somehow, there stood Lucy at the stove. Somehow, there stood one of her closest friends, upright in the morning with the last vestige of the love of her life put away god-knows-where. Somehow, there was still music playing and eggs on the stove and Holly wondered for a moment if George had been working on any experiments involving inter-dimensional travel, because this certainly didn’t make sense. Not in the world she lived in.

Lucy smiled at Holly, her eyes slightly red around the edges. “Mornin’,” she said, sliding eggs on top of a slice of toast. “Whole grain, before you get your knickers in a twist over the concept of measly old toast. Wasn’t up for making that tofu bacon stuff today.” Holly had just politely nodded, pouring herself a cup of tea and taking her usual seat at the table. The blank canvas beneath her cup was… anxiety-inducing, to say the least. Less for her own self than for her fear of when Lucy realized it had changed. Lucy had surely realized it changed, right?

“What is it?” Lucy’s small voice asked, the question tiptoeing through the air. Holly jumped, not realizing how long she’d been sitting in silence. A plate of breakfast slid between her hands as Lucy looked at her curiously.

“The Thinking Cloth,” is all Holly had said. Was all she had been able to think to say. How was she supposed to ask Lucy if she’d done it on purpose? If Lucy was okay with it? If they all had to be?

Lucy had just mustered a small smile, nodding at Holly. “It needed to be done,” she said softly. “Don’t worry, the old one is down in secure storage. I took it down this morning. I just… I realized there just wan’t any room for us to write down our lists or for Bea to keep sketching or anything like that.” She paused, her arms wrapping around herself nervously. “He wouldn’t want us to run out of room.”

Holly heard the barely-whispered words as they wound their way around her soul. She went to Lucy, wrapping the shorter woman up in a tight hug. Lucy froze, hard and unforgiving under her touch, just like she’d always been, but that was okay. That had never stopped Holly from reaching out before, and it wouldn’t now. Not ever. She’d decided that a long, long time ago. But this time, slowly but surely, Lucy hugged her back. Holly knew in that moment that they were going to be okay. 

She called George and let him know before he came over the next day. She’d cried while saying it, but the tears had felt good. It sounded like he’d cried too, but he vehemently denied it. And who was she to argue with Dr. George Karim? 

At the end of the day, all Holly knew was that the new Thinking Cloth wasn’t empty for long, and that everyone who’d ever lived under this roof would be thrilled about it.

— —

They were all settled around the kitchen table, Lucy absentmindedly chatting as she brought George and Holly their teas. She went back to the counter, fixing her own while listening to Holly, George, and Bea all talking about their days and adventures. 

George turned around to ask her about how she’d just submitted her second book’s manuscript to her editor. She started talking about the submission process, having to take all of the papers across town via the tube, making the tea purely through route memory. He watched as she slowly started preparing a second cup of tea, her hands unhesitating in their routine. The first, blue cup was overloaded with sugar, no milk. Then, he couldn’t help but stare as she pulled another mug down, thoughtlessly splashing a dollop of milk in the tea. As Lucy complained, she unthinkingly rose to her toes, getting some of the untouchable honey from the high cabinet, stirring a small spoonful into the cup and leaving the spoon in. So Lockwood could keep stirring it himself. 

He couldn’t watch this. He couldn’t look away.

The last time Lucy had accidentally made Lockwood a cup of tea was during the fifth week of his coma. She hadn’t spoken again for days. The next week, she’d stopped eating almost entirely. He’d started making those meal replacement shakes after the first time he couldn’t remember the last meal she’d agreed to eat and kept down.

George watched as Lucy carried both cups to the table, laughing with Holly as she came up behind her chair. She set the sugared tea down in front of her chair and then leaned over to pass Lockwood his, and George saw her eyes land on Beatrice instead, her tiny body sketching away, blissfully unaware.

And Lucy blanched.

Holly noticed Lucy’s hand freeze mid-air, and shot a panicked look back at George, silently asking what happened. Lucy just kept staring down at Bea, her eyes beginning to glaze over.

What do we do?! Holly seemed to silently scream, looking just as terrified as George felt. She’d been doing so much better. Lucy couldn’t break down, not right now, especially not with Ducky here. And George couldn’t handle Lucy retreating back into herself like that, not now that he’d finally had her back. He and Holly couldn’t manage it again.

“Ooh, is that mine?” 

George looked away from Holly to see Bea no longer sketching, but instead taking the mug from Lucy’s barely trembling hand. “You’re the best, Lucy,” she said, blowing softly to cool her tea. Lucy just slowly sank into her chair. She looked like she was a thousand different places in her mind, her mouth hanging just slightly open. Bea took a careful sip from the mug and set it down as she went to sketch again. Suddenly, she froze and looked back at the cup. 

Shit shit shit shit.

“Lucy, did you put something else in the tea today?”

Lucy’s face got even whiter, if that was possible, but Holly covered for her seamlessly. “Nice catch, Bea,” she smiled forcefully, her voice slightly higher than normal. “It’s got some milk and perhaps a bit of honey in it. Isn’t that right, Lucy?” Lucy nodded dumbly, and George noticed her starting to pick at the skin around her nails and fingertips. Damnnit.

“Well, then,” Bea smiled widely, “I think that tea with milk and honey might just be my new favorite thing ever.” She giggled, taking another big sip, and Lucy’s head snapped up at her. “I think I could drink this every day and forever, it’s so good.”

George swore his heart skipped a beat. Of course, that was logically unsound. If his heart actually skipped a beat, he would certainly get immediate medical attention for the slight arrhythmia. However, in every way that mattered, he felt something in his chest snap—or maybe heal—as Bea kept drinking from her little lavender mug. 

As they watched her drink this previously unmentionable, forbidden tea, Bea slowly looked around suspiciously. “What? Do I have something on my face? Is something wrong?”

“No, lovely” Lucy quickly said, resting one of her hands on Beatrice’s. “Not at all. It’s just…” she paused, releasing a small breath. “I can make your tea like that from now on, if you’d like.”

Bea nodded enthusiastically. “That would be absolutely wonderful.”

She quickly went back to drawing on the Thinking Cloth, completely oblivious to what had transpired among the adults surrounding her. George could almost hear Lockwood’s laugh. If he were here, he’d be thrilled that Bea preferred tea with honey instead of sugar, joking with Lucy about honey “clearly being the superior method of tea sweetening” and something about “from the mouths of babes”. It was one of their arguments that always ended up being too annoying for George to stomach, as they bantered like an old married couple. For a moment, George could almost see Lockwood jotting down thoughts and lists around Bea’s works, probably saying something about how they should cut and frame her sketches from the Thinking Cloth now that they didn’t have to keep them intact for DEPRAC’s case notes.

Lockwood, one time years ago, had told George that he’d always wanted a kid. George had proceeded to smack him upside the head, and spent the next week badgering Lockwood with facts about the dangers of teenage pregnancy (“For the last time, I didn’t mean with Lucy! Hell, we’re not even-“ “Just shut up and take the condoms, Lockwood!”). To be fair, they had been barely nineteen, less than few months done with the Fittes House fiasco. They had a lot to figure out still.

It had been the night DEPRAC raided one of the last major relic auctions with active sources, and Barnes had asked Lucy to come in to assist them with cataloguing. If only things turned out how they were supposed to. No, instead, Lockwood spent the whole night staring at Lucy, as she ended up sitting on the floor, surrounded by the nine young Canaries who’d been taken from their captors at the auction. As each of the children took turns speaking with the social worker, Lucy regaled the rest with tales of Lockwood and Co’s adventures in disturbing DEPRAC. Slowly, but sure, the children had opened up just a bit more, relaxed a bit more, breathed a bit more. They had realized they were safe. As much as Lucy said she was horrible with children, George couldn’t help but think that those kids would certainly disagree. Lockwood too, what with his stupid, stupid grin and unwavering lovestruck stare. Hell, a bomb probably could’ve gone off in the DEPRAC lobby and Lockwood would’ve been none the wiser, as long as Lucy and those children were safe.

To this day, George maintained his correctness in saying that it had been the most inappropriate time to bring up that kind of thing. Not even to mention how they had been far too young to think about kids. He had plenty of nieces and nephews from his older siblings, thank you very much, and he’d had no inclination to deal with whatever junior criminal a Carlyle-Lockwood would almost certainly be. Not back then. But in this new era of Portland Row, though? George could kind of see what Lockwood had meant.

He just wished Lockwood were there to see it too.

— —

It was Bea’s turn to bring an adult chaperone for a class field trip. She’d never heard of a teacher doing this before, making each student have one of their parents volunteer at least once per year. It seemed horrible, to make every child find an adult who would be willing to spend a whole day with their class. Isn’t that what teachers were for? So adults didn’t have to deal with kids? Nevertheless, despite all her excuses and desperate pleas, Bea’s teacher had stayed firm. Her pa would be absolutely furious with her for having that kind of teacher and she wouldn’t be able to do anything about it on either side, and didn’t her teacher understand the predicament she was putting her in? And, on top of everything, her teacher said that, because of all of Bea’s begging, she would report Bea truant if she tried to call in sick the day of the trip! Can you believe that?! What if she actually got sick? What then?! Honestly, it was unconscionable!

Bea had been recounting all of this, pacing around the Portland Row kitchen, with a rather delicious thing called a ChocoLeibniz in her mouth that made all her vowels come out slightly garbled. She’d not had this kind of biscuit before today, and it was quite quickly growing on her. Aunt Holly had pulled it out from the uppermost cabinet and said it was for special emotional emergencies, and Bea believed she was very right. The chocolate almost made the bitterness of her teacher disappear. Almost. Only when she paused her dramatic and woeful tale for long enough to grab her third biscuit did she notice Uncle George and Aunt Holly staring at Lucy. And it all clicked into place. 

Maybe she wouldn’t have to ask her pa about this after all…

— —

Barnes sighed, watching the giant group off second graders enter the DEPRAC building. He’d been sent a memo about this trip, that he was supposed to give a quick little speech to them when they came by his office, explain how he’d helped make the Problem better, and send them along their way. He wasn’t a big fan of children, personally, but he could stomach them for long enough to manage, he was sure. However, as he stood at the top of the stairs, watching all of these children filter in, he saw a familiar mop of copper and silver hair. There’s no way…

He slowly made his way down the stairs, and each passing meter just confirmed that Lucy Carlyle was, for some godforsaken reason, chaperoning a second grade field trip to DEPRAC. A field trip that was apparently about the history of The Problem. What are they doing here? Carlyle could just teach the damn lecture herself instead of badgering me and my department about it.

He hadn’t seen her since he last visited Lockwood in the hospital months ago. No one had. Lucy Carlyle had practically disappeared from the face of the earth. But there she stood, in the back of this mass of kids running rampant through his lobby. What on earth are you planning, Carlyle?

The teacher corralled the children into a small group, reciting rules about touching things, proper care around potentially psychical objects, the importance of not interrupting official DEPRAC work, all that jazz. And Carlyle was just… standing at the back of the group, pointing chatty children back towards the teacher, redirecting them to pay attention. Barnes was well and thoroughly confused. He stood at the base of the stairs, observing with barely restrained apprehension, as he noticed an anxious, young officer fixing papers to a clipboard, straightening his tie, and glancing repeatedly at the group of young children. As he watched this young man steeling himself for this field trip, Barnes felt deep in his soul that Carlyle would absolutely eat that poor boy alive. As much as he hated dealing with Lockwood and Co. (Lockwood and Carlyle, to be specific. Karim and Munro were… tolerable), they were his disasters, not anyone else’s. And if anyone knew how to handle them, it was him. God knows he’d been doing it for far too long.

He stopped the young man as he approached the group of students, physically placing his hand on his shoulder. He stepped back, obviously taken aback. Barnes only interfered with things when necessary, and this obviously, to some untrained child of a DEPRAC officer, would seem too trivial for his expertise. But with Carlyle, nothing was trivial, no matter how she tried to make it seem. He’d learned this the hard way. Barnes glanced down at the boy’s nametag. “Go on, Keith, I’ll handle this group.”

“Really, sir? I thought you said never to-“

“I said what I said,” he huffed, puffing out his chest and grabbing the younger man’s clipboard. “Now is when you listen, not argue, got it?” Keith quickly scurried elsewhere. Anyone in DEPRAC would, faced with Barnes’ famed deathstare. A long-suffering sigh came out of Carlyle’s mouth as he took the place of their assigned guide.

“Mornin’, Carlyle. Good to see you.” She simply nodded at him with a grimace from the back of the group. This was the quietest she’d ever been inside of DEPRAC headquarters. He was trying to bait her, but she was just silently nodding, as though she was a real chaperone, avoiding looking anyone in the office directly in the eye. Suddenly, it dawned on him. They don’t know who she is.

A wonderfully horrid plan started developing in his mind.

He saw the second she realized he understood, and her eyes widened with fear. She gave a subtle shake of her head, and Barnes chuckled. He had a plan, and for once, Lucy Carlyle couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him. Barnes cleared his throat, gathering the attention of the small group. “Good morning, class.” The teacher looked at the students, gesturing to them. A half-hearted, tiny ‘good morning, sir’ was repeated back at him. 

“First things first, my name is Senior Inspector Montagu Barnes. I actually was one of the supervisors on the project to take down all of the spirit gates that helped keep Visitors here. That means I helped a lot of the old ghosts go away.” The teacher smiled widely, politely clapping. She looked pointed at the students, who all started doing something similar, although, Barnes was rather sure only half of them had well-enough developed motor skills to be effectively clapping. Carlyle herself finally joined in, feeling spirited enough to roll her eyes as she slowly clapped as well. He smirked at her as the clapping died back down. “Oh, thank you all very much, that’s very sweet of you. But, did you all know that we actually have one more very special guest here today?” Carlyle’s face turned a horrified shade of red. He’d been waiting for this kind of opportunity for a long time, and he was going to make the most of it. “Well, you group of kids are very lucky today, and do you know why?” They all shook their heads. “Can anyone in this class tell me who exactly your chaperone is for this field trip?” The kids looked at each other confusedly. Barnes pointed directly at Carlyle, who looked as though she wanted to murder him, be swallowed by the floor, or maybe both all at once. That would certainly be a sight to see.

“That young woman right there is Lucy Carlyle. Have your parents ever talked about someone called London’s Darling?” Tiny gasps of recognition erupted across the small crowd. “Ms. Carlyle there led the charge to dismantle all of the old spirit gates and personally saw to it that, now, we are almost completely safe from Visitors. She rarely goes and meets people, but she’s here with all of you today, isn’t that just amazing?” Barnes threw some extra excitement on that last phrase, just to torment her a little bit more. I’ll have to tell my therapist about this. It’s wonderfully cathartic.

“Wait a moment!” the straight-laced woman with the lanyard and clipboard gasped, turning around. “You’re that Lucy Carlyle?!”

This woman’s a teacher?

The children all turned around, whispering to each other, focusing on one little dark-haired girl in the crowd. The teacher was too awestruck at Carlyle to even begin roping them back together. Barnes smiled in triumph as Carlyle sighed, rubbing her temples with one hand. He couldn’t help the cruel chuckle that escaped his mouth. If only she knew how many times she’d made him feel the exact same way. Once he’d had enough fun, maybe he’d be nice and offer her the migraine medicine he’d been able to retire since he stopped dealing with Lockwood and Co.’s bullshit.

— —

And in this way, for the next month, Beatrice Cartwright spent every single day at Portland Row. She took the bus straight from her school after class and poetry club and would stay until right after dinner, when she and Lucy would go on the bus together and she’d run along down her street. On the weekends, she’d get up, do chores around the house, and run out at the perfect time to have some of whatever Uncle George or Lucy had cooked for lunch, and she couldn’t imagine that she could be happier.

And in this way, for the next month, everything at Portland Row was wonderful.

Chapter Text

Of course, nothing lasts forever. That’s what Lucy reminded herself as she forced herself to keep getting up, despite Beatrice’s sudden disappearance. As she reminded herself that she was getting better on her own, not just for someone else. That she just wanted to be able to be strong enough to be there for Bea if she needed someone to lean on. Still, the bad days seemed worse, somehow, not knowing if that crazy little girl would be running around the kitchen and thumbing through Lockwood’s old favorite books in the library.

Holly and George had been asking where Bea was. To go from visits every single day to complete radio silence was… unnerving, to say the least. Lucy counted the nights in her head: Thursday, Friday, Saturday, now Sunday too… Lucy wasn’t her parent, she couldn’t very well go file a missing persons report for a child she couldn’t necessarily expect to see everyday. Even though you have. It wasn’t exactly a long-term disappearance, nothing worth being too worried about. If something were really concerning, surely Bea’s father would’ve reached out, he would know. But thinking back to how Bea’s elbows poked sharply from her skin, her tiny stature, the way that no one else had seemed to think a little girl should be walked home instead of using the bus system alone, Lucy couldn’t help but wonder.

When a little girl shows up out of nowhere and loves you so much and eats at your house like she’s never had a home-cooked meal before and falls asleep anywhere she deems safe enough, you start to ask questions. You wonder who else out there cares that she has a safe place to rest and dinners to eat and people who love her with that same damn determination. And then you wonder where the hell she is, if she’s not there with you. 

— —

Knock, knock, knock.

“Beatrice!” a drunken voice echoed throughout the bones of the tiny house, down the hallway to her tiny room. “Answer the fuckin’ door, will ya?”

She just ignored it, leaning back against her headboard. Whoever was at the door would go away eventually. Everyone always did. Whenever Bea was here, she liked ignoring everything, opting to pour over her notebook instead. She’d collected so many stories from Lucy and Uncle George and Aunt Holly that she liked rereading, and even a few sketches of Lucy’s that she’d copied from the Thinking Cloth before it had gotten changed out. Bea had almost perfected Uncle George’s handwriting by now. She had traced and practiced this one, lovely phrase she’d seen when she’d first come around visiting: “Has the fucking egomaniacal dickwad seen the dishes yet??” It was such a wonderful insult, she hoped to be able to use it herself someday. Egomaniacal Dickwad just had such a lovely ring to it. 

But there was one more phrase she’d copied, while no one was looking, a small quote underneath it in handwriting she still couldn’t place. “While much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination - Jane Austen, Persuasion”. More insults were traded after that quote, but it was still unbelievably lovely. She wondered what this person’s view of the world was like. Bea was positive she’d like that world a whole lot more than her own, especially if it was anything like magical Portland Row. 

She lost herself in her imagination, letting herself dream about that quote, about that mystery person, until another set of knocks echoed through the house, much louder than the first.

“Oi! Get your arse down here, you lazy git! I told you to answer the damn door, now do it before I come and make you!”

Bea slammed her book shut and shoved it in deep in her pillowcase before hurrying out of her room, hands shaking. She hated the days like this. Weekends when she couldn’t escape to school and poetry club and the library and Portland Row, but her father still sat at home, drinking. Nights when he’d drink until he passed out or worse, the nights when he’d run out of beer, and then get mad that she couldn’t go and get more. But it wasn’t her fault! The old cashier at the corner store had understood, selling it to her with a look of disgusted pity. The new cashier just flat-out refused, no matter how many times Bea said it was for her pa. It never mattered. And now, because of them, if she went anywhere today, people would ask questions. Questions she couldn’t answer.

She’d seen her face in the mirror for the past few days. When it had first happened, her cheek was mostly just really red, and her sight had been a little fuzzy at first. Then, her eye had turned a nasty bloody color and stayed like that almost until this morning. A dark purple ring formed around her eye, but it was quickly starting to fade. Bea had hoped that, by this Sunday, it might be faded enough for her to visit Portland Row and have no one notice. But it was already two in the afternoon, and the bruise was still a grimy green and yellow color at the edges. She just prayed it would be gone by Tuesday, because Uncle George always made ghormesh sabzi on Tuesdays. And ghormesh sabzi was her favorite.

But, for now, Bea was stuck here, hiding in her room and trying to write down every story idea that came into her head. But the stories didn’t like coming to her now. They never liked coming to this house.

Bea raced downstairs to the door, hoping that the determined visitors had left by now, She slowly turned the doorknob, cracking the door open enough to peek her stronger eye out. “Hullo?”

“Bea, lovely?” A familiar voice asked, her grey-blue eyes peering inside. “There you are.”

Bea slammed the door closed, locking it back up. There was a reason she hadn’t gone over to Portland Row since Wednesday. Because she didn’t want to lose it, didn’t want them to see her like this. Her heart was ramming itself against her ribcage as she pressed her back to the door. Lucy knocked again, the dull thud echoing through to the back of Bea’s skull. 

“Beatrice? I can tell you’re in there, you know. Could you open the door for me?”

“Maybe she just doesn’t feel well,” a softer voice said.

“Hol.”

Bea scrambled for some semblance of a solution, going through her Pa’s coat pockets to find his sunnies. She slipped them on, wincing as their oversized frame grazed her bruised nose, and then she unlatched the door chain. “Lucy, Aunt Holly! Hi!” The brightness of her voice sounded fake, even to her. She hated this. She hated it more than she’d hated anything before.

“There you are, Bea,” Aunt Holly said, a smile on her face. She came up to the stoop and pulled Bea into a tight hug. “We’ve missed you, little miss.” Aunt Holly chuckled and ruffled her hair. Bea leaned into the touch, wanting to soak up each second of it. She looked up at Lucy’s fond smile and her heart felt like it could settle, just a little.

“Who the fuck’s there, Beatrice?!” A booming voice called again from the living room. Her heart rate spiked again, panic flooding through her. Bea quickly shut the door, unconsciously backing into Lucy’s knees. A familiar hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“That your father?” Lucy asked softly, glancing slowly between Bea and the door. She paused. “He seems-”

“Sorry, I haven’t been able to visit lately,” Bea quickly interrupted. “It- it’s been a long week. I meant to call or something, but…”

“It’s alright,” Aunt Holly smiled. “You never have to come by if you don’t want. We just wanted to stop by because we were rather worried about you.”

“Me?”

“Of course,” Lucy said, looking down at Bea. She knelt down in front of her, taking Bea’s shoulders. “Now, Bea, you’ve been alright the past few days? You’ve been eating dinner and sleeping plenty and getting to school and all those things, right?” 

She nodded in response, crossing her arms.  “I’m not helpless, you know,” she huffed defensively. “I can take care of myself just fine.”

“You’re eight,” Lucy said, soft and unwavering. 

“And three-quarters,” she mumbled.

Lucy smiled at that, tucking Bea’s unbrushed hair behind her ear. “Eight and three quarters,” she conceded, nodding. “That still doesn’t mean you’re supposed to do everything on your own, Bea.”

Logically, she knew that already. Bea had learned, being at Portland Row, that adults were supposed to be able to make their own dinners—real dinners, not just things that came from cans or went in the microwave. Adults could drink tea instead of bottles upon bottles of beer, and they told each other about their days and adventures and plans while they sat together in the evenings. They read books, even with the telly pulled out, and everyone split the responsibilities instead of kids being responsible for everything. And some adults really did laugh and smile, just like those photos in the picture frames at the store. 

When Bea fell asleep at Portland Row on accident, she’d wake up with a pillow under her head and a blanket around her shoulders, and she liked it like that. She liked it a lot. Because, as it turned out, some adults did take care of children. 

Just not here.

“You weren’t wearing those glasses a minute ago,” Lucy added. Her voice was softer now, if that was possible. She was talking to Bea like she was an animal that would bolt at any minute. She couldn’t decide if that should make her angry or comforted. Bea settled on both. “I’m going to take them off now, alright?”

Bea saw Lucy’s hands approaching the frames, and she quickly grabbed the edges, holding them to her face . She couldn’t let them see this. 

“Bea,” Lucy repeated, her hands taking the smaller ones inside them. “Can I take off your sunglasses?” Her voice was gentle, but insistent. And Bea couldn’t help but slowly nod. Lucy let Bea control both of their hands as Bea nervously eased the glasses off her face, wincing at the pressure on her nose.

She knew how obvious the bruise still was when Aunt Holly gasped loudly. “Goodness, Beatrice, what happened?!”

“Holly,” Lucy’s scolded. her head whipping around. Aunt Holly took a step back, covering her mouth. She just kept staring at Beatrice, a horrified look on her face, and Bea just looked away, her face heating up in shame.

“It- it’s not bad,” Bea started. “It just looks like it. I- I fell on a wall.” That sounds stupid. “I mean, not fell, walked into.” That sounds stupider. “I mean…” She didn’t have a good answer. She mostly wore long sleeved shirts and built up a reputation for being accident prone, but her pa’d never done something like this before. She didn’t have a good lie yet.

Bea kept staring at her feet, terrified. She didn’t want to look up again. She didn’t want to see the inevitable pity or anger or disgust that would be in Lucy’s eyes. Her hero’s eyes. Her favorite person. There’s no way they’d want her around Portland Row anymore, not broken like this. She’d finally lost everything, Bea thought, steeling herself for the inevitable. It was too good to last long.

Lucy used one hand to carefully the glasses down on the porch and lightly squeezed Bea’s hands. “Beatrice, it’s okay. Bea, can you look at me right now?”

She didn’t want to. She couldn’t help but do it.

And, as she apprehensively met Lucy’s eyes, Bea was shocked. There was no disappointment, no righteous fury, no accusation, not even pity. Lucy’s eyes were soft, patient. Maybe even understanding, in a way.

“Did your father do that you?” Bea just stared back at Lucy. She could feel a hot tear making its way down her cheek, and she used hers and Lucy’s intertwined fingers to rub it away. She hated this feeling. Hated admitting that she was so small and stupid and useless. She didn’t feel like any of those things, not when she was with Lucy and Aunt Holly and Uncle George.

“Bea, it’s okay. You can tell me the truth.” She looked Lucy in the eyes again, taking a shuddering breath as she gave a small nod.

A sharp, high pitched sound came out of Aunt Holly’s mouth, only slightly muffled by both of her hands. Bea glanced at her, Aunt Holly’s eyes full of tears and sadness. Not disgust? Bea looked back at Lucy, who simply nodded at her. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Lucy smiled, rubbing her thumbs across the backs of Bea’s hands. “I know how hard that can be.”

Bea stuttered. “I- it’s- I’m too slow doing things and I try really hard, but I-“ Lucy shook her head quickly, squeezing Bea’s hands. 

“No, lovely. This is not your fault, do you understand me?” Bea looked at the ground, distantly realizing how much she’d started crying. “This has never been your fault.” 

Bea just cried harder, her nose running and face aching and heart racing loudly in her ears. She didn’t want it to be her fault. Didn’t her pa know that she tried to be good? Didn’t everyone know that she’d always tried so hard?

“Do you trust me, Beatrice?” Bea nodded, but glanced back at the door. She didn’t want her pa to come out here right now, didn’t want him taking Lucy away. Taking any of them away from her. “Bea,” Lucy said, gentle but insistent. “Don’t look for him back there. Look at me, right now, just look at me, that’s all you have to do.” Lucy smiled as Bea looked back in her eyes. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Bea, I don’t think this is a safe place for you, is it?”

Bea just shook her head before bursting into tears, falling into Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy immediately wrapped both arms around her small frame, one hand coming up to cradle her head, hugging Bea tighter than she’d ever been hugged before. But she didn’t mind. Deep down, Bea knew she was doing the same thing right back. She sobbed and sobbed, holding tightly to Lucy’s shirt and letting Lucy’s arms hold her together. She felt like, if she let go, she’d split into a million pieces. But right there, Bea was safe. She felt so safe.

“Hol,” Bea could feel Lucy’s voice vibrating through her chest. Her voice sounded different now, more like how doctors sounded when they thought she couldn’t hear them. “I need you to come and take Bea home, please.”

“Wha’,” Bea asked, hiccuping through her tears, pulling back from Lucy. “Whaddare you-“

Lucy took Bea by the shoulders. “Holly’s going to take you back to Portland Row, and I’ll come meet you there very soon, alright?”

Bea just shook her head, crying harder. She didn’t want to go anywhere. Her face hurt and she was so tired and she was scared enough already and she didn’t want to go anywhere without Lucy. Distantly, Bea felt arms wrap around her middle and carry her to the car and she could vaguely remember Lucy’s frosty tone as she said something about handling things, but at that moment, all Bea could focus on was trying to breathe through the sobs wrecking her body and fighting Aunt Holly as she wrestled her into the car. She didn’t want to leave with Aunt Holly, she wanted to stay with Lucy. That’s all she kept yelling, that she wanted to stay with her, that she wasn’t going anywhere without Lucy. Lucy was safe, Lucy took care of her, she wanted Lucy. She just wanted Lucy.

— —

When later asked about the events of this day, Lucy Carlyle would say that it wasn’t worth speaking of. She’d say that she stayed back for a moment to sort things out quickly with Mr. Cartwright, and all that mattered now was that Bea was okay.

Holly Munro would say that Lucy Carlyle had never looked more terrifying in her life. She hadn’t known what that girl could really do and was now rather grateful that they made up all those years ago.

George Karim would say that Lucy Carlyle has never had an ounce of self-preservation and had always been known to throw herself into a fight. And that he was sick of patching her up afterwards, even if he did wish he’d gotten the chance to throw a punch or two.

And Montagu Barnes, well… He just had one word to summarize it all.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Shit.

Barnes sighed, looking through the one way mirror into the interrogation room. Last time Lucy Carlyle had been on that side of the glass, she was 19 years old, just barely a month or two shy of 20. He’d had to take her off some newbie’s hands after she was arrested for harboring illegal sources. Apparently, her best friend, a young Mr. Karim, needed the antiques for experimentation, but he hadn’t secured the appropriate insurance registrations needed. Instead of just waiting for the papers to go through, he went ahead with experimenting the unfinished basement of a residential building, damnit! So, Carlyle had willingly taken the fall for Lockwood and Co, given she’d been the only member for whom it would be their first major strike and lead to no real charges. It had gone on her record, but it was the only thing in her non-psychical DEPRAC file post-Battle of Fittes. 

Apparently, she’d felt the need to change that.

Now, Lucy Carlyle was a grand old 23 years of age and looked like she’d just gone to hell, fought every demon she could find, and crawled her way back to Earth victorious. And based on Miss Munro’s preliminary testimony, that sounds about like what happened.

From what Barnes had gathered from all parties involved, including the bruised and bloodied burly man currently whining to various DEPRAC medical officials, Carlyle had recently befriended a little girl by the name of Beatrice Cartwright. Karim and Munro said that, since meeting this girl, she’d been the most like her old self since Lockwood’s accident. She wasn’t the same, but she’d been better, brighter. And that wonderful, renewed, fiery brightness Barnes was used to seeing at two in the morning with arson accusations had flared up beautifully when young Ms. Cartwright had disappeared from Portland Row without explanation. Carlyle and Munro had gone to check in on her, only to find the girl sporting some, one might say, unnatural injuries. Munro left with the girl, leaving Carlyle alone at the Cartwright house, and that was all the prim young woman was able to say about the situation. Mr. Cartwright, on the other hand, had some other opinions.

“I told her to give that little cunt of a kid back, and the bitch stabbed me! The hell else do you need to know?!”

The giant, balding man in DEPRAC’s medical facility still somehow reeked of alcohol. Barnes was almost pleased with Carlyle for stabbing him. If anyone deserved the force of her fury, he seemed like a rather good candidate. Not to mention, the starkly visible marks on Carlyle’s face, arms, throat, and knuckles indicated that much more happened than Mr. Cartwright wanted to admit, all before she pulled out her rapier. Barnes was more than looking forward to dismissing any charges against Carlyle as self-defense. In fact, he was rather sure that would be easy. What he knew would be hard was whatever Carlyle wanted to do next. He could see in her eyes that she knew exactly what she’d gotten herself into and how far she was planning to go.

If only I knew too. He sighed and pushed open the door. Her eyes locked on his, and she smiled widely. Of course, she’d look so roughed up and smile like it was nothing. To her, it probably had been.

“Barnes,” Carlyle said brightly, kicking one of her legs over the other and swinging her foot languidly, as though it didn’t hurt in spite of the documented injuries to her ribs and knees. “How can I help you today?”

“Damnit, Carlyle,” Barnes groaned. “Would it kill you to be just a little less cheery? I know you’re thrilled that you finally got the chance to stab a man, but you’re making it rather difficult for me to feel sorry for you.”

Carlyle shook her head, a smile on her face. “Nah, Barnes. Not just any man.” She cocked her head before sitting straight at the table, looking him dead in the eyes. She took a deep breath, and something new welled up in her eyes. Something haunted. Something vindicated. This was a different Carlyle than the one two seconds before. This was a woman who knew something and would kill for it. Who almost had.

She sized him up, a challenging and cold look on her face. This time, though, it almost had a tinge of pity. This was the face Lucy wore when she was about to say something she knew no one wanted to hear. Her voice was soft, hesitant.

“I ever tell you about my mother, Inspector Barnes? Why I was so desperate to get to London?”

— —

Lockwood and Co. — Non-Psychical Case Files — Lead Investigator: Montagu Barnes

Case No. 24097.68

Lockwood and Company Senior Field Agent Lucy Carlyle was acquainted with Child for about one month and two weeks prior to the incident. Lockwood and Company Agents George Karim and Holly Munro confirm suspicions of neglect at home for approximately one month prior to the altercation. Child’s unexpected disappearance from regular activities prompted a necessary wellness visit. During the wellness visit, obvious signs of physical abuse were discovered and confirmed to be from Suspect. After removing Child from the premises, Agt. Carlyle confronted Suspect and was verbally threatened prior to being physically struck by Suspect. Upon being struck by Suspect, Agt. Carlyle defended herself appropriately without the use of any weaponry. After significant escalation, resulting in attempted manual strangulation by Suspect, Agt. Carlyle deemed the threat to her safety was extremely significant and utilized her personal rapier [appropriately authorized and insured through DEPRAC: see attached documented Agent Grade 4]. The rapier struck Suspect in the arm and leg, requiring some medical attention onsite. After being struck, Suspect dialed 999, and police were dispatched while the confrontation continued, with little additional physical escalation. Agt. Lucy Carlyle also received medical attention when emergency services arrived on-site, and both she and Suspect were held in handcuffs to prevent any further altercations. Upon identification confirmation of Agt. Lucy Carlyle, the case was transferred to DEPRAC’s oversight. The Child is currently being placed in government care until further notice, with DEPRAC recommending daily visiting privileges to 35 Portland Row. All medical records and photos from the incident are attached for Agt. Carlyle, Child, and Suspect on pages 4 through 38.

As he re-read his words, Barnes wanted to pat himself on the back. He didn’t think he could make Lucy sound any better than he had in the case summary, and that was solely because he wasn’t allowed to call Beatrice Cartwright’s father a drunken piece of trash and Lucy Carlyle an avenging Valkyrie with wings to match her sword. Looking at the injuries on Mr. Cartwright, Barnes was quite confident that Lucy had given as good as she or young Ms. Cartwright had ever gotten. And he couldn’t help but be so incredibly proud of the scared, stubborn 16 year old he once knew.

— —

Of course, as he talked with Lucy Carlyle about the next steps of a case, it turned out that she did, in fact, have a big plan to make a mess. Like fucking always. 

“She’s not going into foster care, and she’s not going back with him.” 

The tone in her voice was the same as when she told Barnes she wouldn’t sign DEPRAC’s NDA, when she told Lockwood she was joining the Other Side project to dismantle the spirit gates, and when she’d told Barnes she was never going back to Cheviot Hills all those years ago. 

“Then where do you suggest she goes, Lucy,” he sighed. Just because he knew what she wanted didn’t mean he wasn’t going to make her say it out loud. Lucy leaned back in her chair, giving him a good view of the darkening fingerprints around her neck. Dear fucking god. It had been less than two full days since her knock-down drag out, and here she was, back in his office, as demanding and stubborn as ever.

“She’ll live with me in Portland Row.” Barnes just nodded, exhausted, knowing there was no convincing her otherwise. Not when she’d made up her mind like this. “It’s a big house, you know, and since Lockwood,” Lucy paused for a moment, voice hitching on his name. “It’s been empty. Bea needs a space to stay, and she is a wonderful girl. And I love her.”

He looked up at that. Lucy Carlyle admitting to feeling something?

She swallowed thickly, not meeting his eyes. “I love her so damn much, Barnes. I mean, hell, I stabbed a man because of it.” Lucy let out a watery chuckle at that, looking back at him. “That little girl deserves more. If anyone understands what she’s been through, it’s me, and if anyone wants to take care of her like she needs, it’s me. And I am willing to do whatever it takes to make it happen. Anything.” She paused. “Everything.”

“You know it’s going to be a fight,” he said, trying to soften the blow. “It’s going to take a while, and it won’t be pretty. And I can do my best, but I cannot promise anything, Lucy.”

Lucy just nodded and smiled a familiar, smug smirk. His familiar, smug smirk. “Who was it that once said I didn’t know when to quit?”

— —

Turns out, at the end of the day, when you had London’s Darling and a famous Senior DEPRAC Inspector working together, it only took about one month, with seven meetings with a judge and one “accidental” paperwork slip, to make things happen.

Barnes would never do anything illegal with paperwork. Not even to help Lucy Carlyle get custody of a little girl when a judge said that single mother adoption was bastardization and he wouldn’t sign off on it. The very idea of falsifying records like that was too out of character for the one and only Montagu Barnes, DEPRAC’s notorious tightass. It would be entirely preposterous, he’d thought, as he signed his name on the witness line.

It was more preposterous for the judge to accept it, but it solidified in Barnes’ mind that it was right. Everything was right in his heart and in the world. And, according to the British government, everything was right with those papers as well.

The day after the final approval was filed, a soft, familiar knock echoed through his notably open office door. 

“Enter.”

In walked one Lucy Carlyle: Listener Extraordinaire, London’s Darling, Bestselling Author, and, now, Parent to one little girl previously known as Beatrice Cartwright. Lucy was leaning against the door framed, amusedly, her hands stuffed in the pockets of that damn shiny, blue bomber jacket of hers. She’d gotten it around the same time Lockwood had gotten that new trench coat. Barnes remembered it specifically because, for months, it had been impossible to keep Lockwood’s attention for more than five minutes if Lucy was wearing it. Damn kids.

“Come on, Barnes. All we’ve been through, and that’s all I get?”

He chuckled, not bothering to look up from his papers. “Can’t imagine that you’re here to stay long. You rarely even stay for a cuppa unless I have you in handcuffs. Tell me you didn’t use my name to get out of being arrested for something else now.”

She clicked her tongue. “You see right through me,” Lucy smiled, fiddling with her hands. “No, I, um… I just wanted to swing by and visit you. Bea’s officially moving into Portland Row from the group home this afternoon, and I just…” She paused, coming fully into his office. “Barnes, I truly can’t thank you enough for-“

He just put his hand up, stopping her. “I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t the right thing to do.” And he meant that. Their fight with the London legal system couldn’t have been more worth it, not when he saw the look on little Beatrice’s face as Lucy finished signing the papers. Every moment he’d spent arguing with social workers, vouching as a character witness for each member of Lockwood and Co, sitting in that stuffy judge’s personal chambers, fighting for two little girls’ right to be happy was more than he’d ever bargained for in just the right way. Barnes had never felt more like he was doing what he was meant to. “Was that all, Ms. Carlyle?”

Lucy smiled up at him, nodding once. “See you next time I’m arrested, then?”

He chuckled. “Try to make it Thursday, I’m hoping to get that night free next week. Someone else can deal with your arse for once.”

“You bet, Barnes.” She chuckled, tossing him a small, sarcastic salute as she went to leave his office. His heart panged with the casual familiarity of it. There was that little girl somewhere peeking out from inside this constantly shocking woman.

“Lucy?” She turned back to look at him, confused. He couldn’t stop seeing it, not now: the kid that had deserved more from him. “I’m… I’m sorry.” 

“For what?”

“I would’ve done anything to send you back.” 

They both knew what he was talking about.

Barnes had never said it quite as plainly before, even if he’d never been subtle about it. But it weighed on him. Especially now. “When you first showed up in London, I was going to send you back to the Cheviots if it was the last thing I ever did. I told you all the time to go home, told myself you’d be safer there, insisted you were just some stupid kid with a rebellious streak.” 

To be honest, his mind was still struggling to reconcile the stories Lucy had told him with the strong woman standing in front of him. She explained her history to him and the judge, talking about the fading scars on her shoulders and the old cigarette burns she covered and the too-human nightmares she still had. Barnes didn’t know how that terrified little girl she described could possibly be the same girl who had looked DEPRAC in the eyes and flipped them off daily, who had stood up to Marissa Fittes herself, who had walked unflinchingly into the Other Side time and time and time again. The woman who had dragged herself through whatever she had to, miraculously surviving time and time again.

Maybe because she’s that terrified little girl.

He hated that thought. That Lucy Carlyle was this version of herself, this stubborn of a woman, this insightful of a writer, this threatening of a fighter, this skilled of a survivor because she’d had to be. Because every damn adult in her life hadn’t given her another choice. He hated himself for being one of them.

“I didn’t think and I didn’t ask and I never once imagined that I’d know an agent who was… I didn’t know,” he said, words failing him. “I didn’t know, and I’m sorry.”

Lucy nodded at that, setting her hand softly on his arm. “No one knew. But I’m here now. And so is Bea.” She looked up and smiled through never-falling tears. “You did that for us. That means more than you could ever know.” Barnes saw that light in her eyes, and he knew she was right.

— —

And so, in the middle of Lockwood’s ninth month in a coma, Lucy Carlyle’s daughter moves into 35 Portland Row, and Lucy and Bea call it home.

Chapter Text

The whole day had been a whirlwind. 

Lucy had made breakfast and quickly disappeared, saying she had a short errand to run before going off to pick up Bea and bring her straight to Portland Row.

For good, this time.

And with that, Holly and George had rushed into a frenzy, finishing up the small touches they’d planned for Bea’s official first night at home.

Holly pulled the old dinosaur-patterned sheets she’d found in the bottom of the linen closet ages around out from the wash and dry, putting them on Bea’s bed alongside a bedspread she and George had picked out to go perfectly with the light purple of her room.

They hung a small banner up at the top of the entryway to the kitchen. Holly pulled out a chocolate cake from the fridge—and it had not taken any short amount of time to make, thank you very much—and George watched it like a cat watching a rather fat hamster rolling about in a wheel. As such, she’d refused to let him out of her sight until Bea came home.

“Just one bite? Please?” 

“Absolutely the fuck not!”

And that had settled it.

As they waited for Lucy and Bea, George rooted around in his laptop bag. After a moment, his hand had stilled, and Holly watched in horror as George triumphantly pulled out a stuffed, bright red monstrosity. 

“I knew I had it in here!”

Her eyes widened in terror. “George Karim, what on earth is that… thing?”

“It’s a cephalopod.”

“What… kind?”

George shrugged. “They didn’t have an anatomically correct squid or octopus or anything like that when I visited the university, and this color is to far off to be either anyways, so I suppose it must be its own species. It’s just… a cephalopod. Probably…”

Holly groaned, “George, you cannot give an eight year old girl that terrifying stuffed animal and just call it a cephalopod!”

But when George had presented it to Bea when she’d first walked in the door, she’d absolutely adored it, refusing to let it go through the whole night. Its unofficial name was Celly. So, as George was thrilled to shove back in her face, apparently one could just give an eight year old girl a firetruck red, seven-legged octo-squid with a pointy head and just call it a cephalopod. That is, as long is it was this eight year old girl. Their eight year old girl.

And Holly couldn’t even bring herself to mind.

— —

Lucy brought Bea up to the attic, and the little girl’s eyes had grown ten sizes wider. George, Holly, and Lucy all looked proudly at the refurbished room. George had found a small bookcase at the thrift store and brought it back before stocking it with all sorts of stories that an eight year old girl would just adore. He was rather proud of himself for it, and was looking forward to hearing all about the stories she’d read, and her own stories that they’d inspire.

Holly had strung fairy lights across the room and fished out one other item from storage. In the corner outlet, in the shape of two crossing rapiers, was a small nightlight that even had its own automatic timer. George supposed the Lockwoods had thought of everything for their son.

As always, George couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to him. Lockwood. What would he think if he were here today? He imagined he’d be impossible to deal with, maybe even worse than Holly, running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He’d have gotten Bea a much cooler stuffed animal, of that George was sure, something other than a cephalopod. Lockwood would’ve already gotten her a kid’s practice rapier, would’ve been tall enough to put glow stars or something all over the ceiling. Hell, he probably would’ve painted the bannister of the stairs purple for her. And Donald and Celia Lockwood as grandparents? George couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea of two aging researchers, bringing back strange objects for this strange little girl living in their old home. He wondered how they’d react to this amazing kid wandering around their home like it was her first time, letting it sink in that, this time, she wouldn’t have to leave. If they would be even hallways as happy as George was sure Lockwood would be, that would be enough.

If only.

Lucy showed Bea all around her room, where they’d gone ahead and put some of her clothes in the drawers and some other items in the dresser that she could try on and see if she liked or wanted to keep. Then, she’d brought Bea all the way to the corner of the mural she’d painted ages ago. It was a sweeping explosion of colors transparently layered over one another like glass, vaguely resembling a flower that, if knocked out of the wall, could just shatter. But it was suspended there, in time and place, eternally fragile and eternally unbreakable. Just like all of them.

She sat Bea down in the corner of that wall, with Holly and George standing behind them, and pulled out two small tins of paint: powder blue and lavender. She took Bea’s right hand and covered its face with the purple paint, and then covered her own with the blue. She slowly put her hand against the wall, pushing just slightly against it. Bea had carefully placed her lavender palm against the wall, right next to Lucy’s. Lucy used her left hand to push her painted palm slightly harder into the wall before reaching over to do the same to Bea’s. Slowly, they both lifted their hands, leaving behind perfect painted prints on Portland Row’s mural.

As George and Holly looked over their shoulders, watching the thin layer of paint dry, pride welled up in his chest. The little girl leaning into Lucy’s side was really here. No one was ever going to take her away, no one was going to hurt her. Never again.

“Welcome home, ducky,” George whispered, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. 

— —

Dinner was had, and laughs were exchanged, and Lucy’s palm ended up being dyed blue for two days straight, but none of them had felt this light and free in almost forever.

And as night came, it seemed as though Portland Row itself sighed in contentment. Like everything was just almost right with the world.

Chapter Text

Bea usually had a hard time going to sleep. With her pa, the telly was always on until so, so late, and the noisy shows kept her up if his yelling didn’t. When she’d had to stay at the group home, the snoring of all the other girls had always been too much. She’d been too overstimulated by the sounds and smells and how it seemed like the beds weren’t even owned by anyone, as everyone came and went so quickly. 

But at Portland Row, she fell asleep everywhere. And she meant everywhere. In the kitchen on Thinking Cloth that bled one of her drawings onto her face, the couch where she always woke up with an old afghan wrapped around her, and then there was even that one time on the stairs. And, since moving away from her pa, Bea had spent afternoons after school fast asleep on the couch until dinner, and then she and Lucy and Aunt Holly and Uncle George would talk and play games together until Uncle George had to drive her back to drop her off where she was supposed to go to bed. That’s really all she thought of it as. Lucy had promised that she wouldn’t be there for long, and although it was a lot longer than she’d thought it would be, she’d made it. They’d all made it.

And now, she was tucked in tightly in her own, big bed with her own bright red Celly. Her very own name was painted brightly above the headboard in her favorite color, an old, rapier-shaped nightlight shone in the corner of the room, and Lucy said to come and wake her up for anything, even if it was just because Bea wanted to. She wanted to remember this moment forever, hold onto it, as the bright flowers on the other side of the attic watched over her carefully. This was exactly what the stories meant when they talked about children getting tucked into bed. This exact, warm feeling that had her feeling just a little bit hazy. She didn’t want to fall asleep, lose it. She wanted to hold it until the sunrise came back up through the attic window.

But tonight, Bea fell asleep faster than she ever had before, and she slept soundly the whole night through.

— —

Lucy stood outside that door in front of the stairs for so much longer than she’d ever care to admit, fingers clasped tightly around the handle and her heartbeat pounding erratically in her ears. Turning it, opening this door tonight meant something she couldn’t take back. Meant something so much more than she was even sure she understood.

“Come on, Luce.” She could practically hear the deep timbre of his voice in her ear. “It’s not as if anyone else is using it.” 

Not to mention, it wouldn’t even be the first time she’d stayed in here.

“Luce,” Lockwood had murmured questioningly after Lucy had knocked, a scared, barely audible thing. “Luce, ‘s that you?”

She had been shaking, shivering as she creaked open the door. Coming back from the Other Side was difficult on everyone, but Lucy had almost died there. She’d almost died, and he’d saved her, and she’d been so cold, but Lockwood felt like life. He always made her feel alive. And Lucy desperately needed that. 

“Have a nightmare?” Lucy had nodded, unable to form words. Lockwood squinted at her and moved over in his bed, pulling the bedspread off one corner invitingly. As she stood there, confused and unmoving, Lockwood yawned and sat up slightly. “It’s four in the morning, and for once in my life, I’m exhausted. You need sleep too, I’m not making you tea that’ll keep you up. C’mon.”

And so she had crawled into his bed, between his sheets. Lucy, still reeling from her nightmare—at least, that’s what she told herself—had burrowed in Lockwood’s arms and let him hold her the whole night through. And, for once, the nightmares had gone away.

As Lucy stood in the middle of Anthony Lockwood’s room, she felt like she was in some strange space between a nightmare and a dream, between reality and a fantasy. A fantasy where this was theirs, where she was invited, where they were sharing this space in such a different way than they were now.

But they weren’t.

And she wasn’t.

After the siege of Portland Row all those years ago, Lockwood had decided not to turn Jessica’s room back into a bedroom. Her old bedframe had been twisted so badly it had hurt all of them to see, and they’d instead turned it into a storage room-slash-office of sorts. To be fair, they had spoken before about whether or not they should turn it into a guest room, but it had always just fallen by the wayside. George, if he ever was over and tired, would sleep in his old room-slash-new office, Holly and Vera always just took the car home, and Kipps… Scotland was a bit of a trek for him and his family. Lucy had spent a long time—and she meant a long time—debating whether it was time to clear out Jessica’s room and move in there. But, at the end of the day, she couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t her choice to make. And, something about Lockwood’s room had just felt… right. 

Aside from having shifted Lockwood’s clothes slightly to empty out about half of the space, Lucy had generally left his room as he’d had it. She pushed his suits closer together to hang up everything from her closet, and had even tried to follow Lockwood’s drawer organization as she added her things to his. 

This is what it would’ve looked like if it was ours, isn’t it?

Her heart was breaking. But something warm was coming out of it, something bright, diffusing through her body with every breath. She had no idea what to do with it.

Although she’d moved her things in, Lucy hadn’t fully committed yet. The night before, even, she’d slept in her attic, still reeling from the swiftly approaching reality that was now hitting her square in the face. But here she was, standing in Lockwood’s room, alone, in completely uncharted territory, fitting herself into this comforting mausoleum seamlessly. She had expected to panic more, but something inside her felt as though it finally had peace as she carefully pulled back the green bedspread on the right side of the bed. The side she’d slept on before. The side that wasn’t Lockwood’s and maybe could’ve been mine.

Part of Lucy cursed Lockwood for making her do this alone. She didn’t know how to raise a kid. He’d always known how to help her when she felt unprepared and nervous, and god was she feeling both of those things. They’d done everything together for so long, and now she was supposed to keep putting herself together every day, all on her own.

Another part of Lucy was grateful. She didn’t know exactly when Lockwood had done it, but almost everything had gone in her name. When his solicitor had come by, he’d informed Lucy that ownership of Lockwood and Co. was split evenly between George and Lucy, but all his accounts, Lockwood’s still-untouchable trust fund, and 35 Portland Row itself were in her name and her name alone. Without Lockwood, she wouldn’t have had this place to take care of Bea. In fact, she wouldn’t have even met her.

Lucy had never gone to that coffeeshop until George made her. It was as though Lockwood himself had been looking out from somewhere, bringing her Beatrice and making sure they’d be taken care of forever because he wasn’t there to do it himself. She lost Lockwood in so many ways, but she’d gotten this incredible little girl.

But, just for a moment as she breathed in the cologne wafting off of his old pillow, all Lucy wished was that she could have both. And she couldn’t help but cry.

Chapter Text

Strangely, Lucy thought, very few things changed after she adopted Beatrice.

Of course, there was the fact that she had to get another person ready and out the door in the mornings, which was significantly easier than she thought it should’ve been, as Bea almost walked out without eating breakfast, planning to taking the bus alone. It had certainly been a process that first morning, explaining to Bea that taking the bus alone when at all avoidable was certainly out for the next few years. At the very least, until she taught Bea how to properly protect herself. 

One of the few perks of never officially shutting down the agency in terms of paperwork was that Lucy and Holly both, despite not having any agents or taking on any more cases, were still classified as an adult supervisor. So, Lucy was able to teach Bea how to use a rapier over the weekends, and Holly would be able to sign off on her grades as she earned them. And earn them she would.

Vera’s laugh cracked through the room, playing a board game with Bea, Lucy, and Holly. “Of course you lot are going to teach her how to use a sword. It’s practically a requirement for anyone who wants to join this damn family.”

“Language, Vera,” Lucy said evenly, a small smile on her face. She put a piece down on the board. “And that’s two hundred dollars in rent for me, so pay up.”

“Oh, fuck off, Carlyle!”

And so, en masse, things went well as time passed with Bea and Lucy situating themselves inside Portland Row’s protective walls. Bea’s birthday came and went with the biggest fanfare their little house had ever seen, with treats and presents galore. George and Holly had laughed about spoiling her, but even Kipps had sent a gift down from him and his family up in Scotland, with a card reminding Bea that she was technically a Northerner now too. They’d all lost it at that, and Bea had tried out the worst Northern accent any of them had heard since the last impressionist of Portland Row.

Lucy’s birthday was very soon after, with it’s own, much smaller, celebration and a slightly bittersweet taste that lingered in everyone’s mouths. After everyone had left, Lucy had pulled Bea into her lap in the living room and told her story after story after story about her and Lockwood, all the things that were normally too painful to talk about. And it had all been okay.

The world kept turning, as Beatrice and Lucy kept finding their way and living through each and every day. And they were happy. Of course, that is, until things went tits up, as things are so oft known to do. That long, dreadful night found Beatrice and Lucy engaged in a heated argument in the library.

“Bea, do you have any idea how terrified I was?! I went to get you after poetry club, and you just weren’t there! Your school couldn’t tell me where you’d gone, your teachers just said you disappeared onto a bus, they didn’t even remember the number!”

“I used to take the bus by myself all the time!”

“Yes, Beatrice! Used to!” Lucy sighed, pacing around the library. “Do you know how many people still want to kill me over my work? Hell, Beatrice, I had a stalker after my first book came out, and you think that you can wander around London alone with your last name?!”

Bea just shrugged uncomfortably. She knows she’s lost this fight, that’s what’s going on, Lucy thought, still shaking with unbridled fury. With unhinged terror. 

When she’d gotten to Bea’s school and hadn’t seen her, it was like when Lockwood had walked out that door all over again. She had just seen her. She’d dropped her off at school that morning, for heaven’s sake, she had seen her, she had been okay. Lucy’s mind had gone to ten thousand dark, terrifying places all at once. Leopold Winkman still had people on the outside of his prison walls, there were still unknown Orpheus Society members who had tried themselves, on several occasions even recently, to kidnap Lucy herself. Not to mention the fanatics who read her book, or any of the thousands of people she’d accidentally pissed off. Or any of the random strangers who picked children at random off the streets. She hadn’t remembered calling Barnes, just that his voice had somehow appeared in her ear as she sprinted back to Portland Row, her mind thinking about the last time she’d made this desperate of a run to Portland Row’s doors, praying to anything and anyone that might be out there that Beatrice would just be safe, please, just safe. When she’d arrived, Bea had been sat out on the front steps with a juice box, surrounded by five different top-ranking DEPRAC officials. Lucy hadn’t been able to think straight until she’d held Bea tightly in her arms, Barnes slowly talking her through the tail end of her panic attack.

“Beatrice, do you understand me?! God, tell me this is getting through to you! Tell me that you understand!”

Bea had just sat stubbornly on the couch, staring at the carpet beneath her socked feet, her arms tucked securely to each other. Lucy sighed, wishing for the thousandth time that someone, anyone (Lockwood) was there, helping her figure out what the hell to do.

“Do I have to leave now?” That soft voice shocked Lucy out of her terrified, furious spiral. She looked up, astonished. “Since I messed up so bad?”

All the wind rushed out of her. Lucy’s heart fractured as she stopped, slowly coming up to Bea. The closer she got, the more she saw—the fresh, red scratch marks around the inside of Bea’s arms, the tensed, protective hug of her own shoulders, the way Bea was obviously holding herself almost perfectly, perfectly still. Like she was trying to be invisible.

“Beatrice,” Lucy whispered, kneeling down. She put one hand down on Bea’s knee, and she flinched slightly. She reached up with her other hand, ever so slowly, putting her hand over Bea’s small, scratching fingers. Bea let her, tiny hands slowly stilling. Lucy bent down, struggling to meet Bea’s gaze through her messy hair. “Bea, would you look at me?”

Bea finally looked up at her, eyes rimmed with red. “Bea, where is all of this coming from?”

“What?” Bea’s voice was thin and shaking. Lucy supposed hers would’ve been too. She thought back to the night she left Portland Row in the middle of night, curfew and safety be damned, alone and freezing and scared in the middle of the road, with no idea where else she had to go—only that she had no other choice. Only that she was alone, and it was all her own fault.

That would never be her daughter.

“Bea, you don’t-” Lucy sighed, shaking her head. “You made a mistake. A dangerous mistake, of course, but a mistake. And even if it wasn’t, you would never have to leave. I would never do that to you, do you understand?”

Bea sighed, looking away. “We read a book in class last week. One of the girls in the story who was taken in by someone, she- she got sent back because her new family said she was too much work to take care of.” A big tear rolled down the side of her tiny face. “I don’t want to be too much work. I- I like it here, Lucy, I don’t want-“ she erupted into sobs after that, completely unintelligible. Lucy just leaned forward, pulling Bea into a hug. Bea collapsed into her arms, holding tightly around her neck. And Lucy couldn’t find it in her heart to be angry at her a second longer. At her teacher, though… Well, that’s a problem for tomorrow.

Lucy held back tears as she let Bea cry into her shoulder. Her heart fractured into pieces at the full-body sobs erupting out of this tiny little girl. “I’m sorry for getting so worried,” she whispered into her ear. “I was so worried about you. I was absolutely terrified that someone had tried to take you away from me.”

Bea slowly looked at her, with her large bright eyes. “You were?”

Lucy nodded, wiping away Bea’s tears.. “Yeah,” she smiled, cradling Bea’s face between her hands. “Because I love you so very much, and never in a million years do I want anything to happen to you. I would do anything to keep you safe and here with me, Beatrice.” Bea’s breathing started to settle, and she even mustered a small, teary smile. “Anything. There is not a single world,” Lucy said softly, brushing Bea’s hair out of her face, “where I would ever want you to leave. Do you know that?”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what. Sweetheart, you never have to leave. Ever. This is your home, forever.” Bea hugged her again, throwing her arms around Lucy once more. “You will always be here with me. Even when I make silly mistakes, like getting angry instead of admitting I was scared, and you make silly mistakes right back, and even when everything falls apart, it won’t matter. You and I are going to mess up again and get confused, but that won’t change a thing. You are always, always going to be my girl,” Lucy smiled, rubbing circles into her back. “Always.”

And they’d ordered pizza and eaten it in the library in front of the fireplace, Bea crawling into Lucy’s lap, them holding tightly to each other as they fell asleep against the back of the couch.

So, although things were slightly different, as Lucy reorganized her writing schedule and figured out how on earth to be a parent and Bea learned how parents were supposed to care, supposed to set rules to protect you, and supposed to love you no matter what, they managed. And through every day, somehow, they made it. Together.

Chapter Text

Sundays were always strange, and Beatrice didn’t understand why. 

Before she moved in to Portland Row, Bea would arrive straight after poetry club on school days and around one or two pm on the weekends. Her pa would normally wake up around noon, so she’d typically listen for him to get up, leave for the store, and then she’d sneak out of the house, grab the bus across the city, and walk straight in. She noticed that, most Sundays, Lucy wouldn’t be home until the late afternoon, but she’d assumed that she’d been running errands, and Bea enjoyed the time with Aunt Holly and Uncle George.

Now, though, Bea saw a pattern. Every Sunday morning at seven thirty, Aunt Holly would arrive, and Lucy would leave. Aunt Holly would make breakfast and let Bea watch cartoons on the telly, and they’d talk about anything and everything. Sometimes, she’d even bring her wife, Aunt Vera, and they’d play card games. Aunt Vera was scary good at card games. She wouldn’t even take it easy and let Bea win like Aunt Holly did. Then, late in the afternoon, Lucy would get back home. She would make a cup of tea, take it upstairs to her room, and then, a little while later, she’d come downstairs and join in whatever they were up to. Aunt Holly would almost always stay for dinner, and then she’d leave Lucy and Bea to themselves for the rest of the night. Lucy was always quieter when she got home on Sundays, Bea noticed.

She always noticed. She just didn’t know why.

And that wasn’t the only mystery in this house. There was, of course, the mystery of London’s Swordsman, The Great Anthony Lockwood. Bea had so many questions about him. Like, an unimaginable number of questions. She’d been dreaming of meeting him since they’d skyrocketed to fame, and especially since she’d read Lucy’s book. Everyone wanted to meet Anthony Lockwood, but it was common knowledge that he didn’t really do meetings. Some people said he got sick of the spotlight, others said he was gravely disfigured on a case and now avoided the press, and a surprising number of people said he was enjoying the quiet life while secretly married to one Lucy Carlyle. Bea knew that, at least, that last theory was patently false. She’d know if Lucy was married. It would’ve made her adoption process a hell of a lot easier. But she didn’t know anything more about Anthony Lockwood than the average person, despite even living in his old house, his agency. Now that she was here, adopted by Lucy, living in Portland Row, surrounded by happiness and everything else, there was only one thing left in the world that she wanted: to know about Anthony Lockwood.

But Bea knew that Lucy didn’t talk about him. In fact, Lucy specifically avoided talking about him. She’d probably tell Bea if she asked, but she didn’t want to make Lucy upset. Not when she could ask someone else. Bea figured she could always ask Inspector Banes, he seemed to like her, but she didn’t know his telephone number. Aunt Holly cried the first time Bea called her Aunt Holly, she didn’t want to imagine the waterworks she’d be in for if she asked about Lockwood and Co.’s absent member. 

Bea needed the facts about Anthony Lockwood and Lucy’s Sundays, and there was only one person she knew who would give her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

— —

George sat at his old desk, polishing his spectacles. He knew she’d get curious enough at some point, but he figured someone else would tell her. That it wouldn’t have to be him.

“Please, Uncle George?” Bea pleaded, her legs kicking as she sat next to his work. “I just want to know, really. I won’t tell anyone, not even Lucy, I just need-“

“Just need to understand,” he sighed. “I know, ducky, I know.” The cheeky little bugger knew exactly what to say to make him fold every time. Honestly, she was just as bad as Lockwood, maybe worse, what with that ‘cute factor’ to fall back on. What was he supposed to say? No?

Never.

The next day, George picked Beatrice up from the house, grabbed a heavy, untouched file from the basement, and took her in to the library at the university. He figured he couldn’t very well have this conversation at home, didn’t want to risk the prying ears at the Archives, and rather enjoyed the way that everyone here was too preoccupied with their own work to care what he was doing. 

He showed her more than he should have, in hindsight, but she didn’t look away once. She was built of steel, metaphorically of course. Built of steel and prepared for anything.

The first thing he told her was that this was top-secret information. The second thing he told her was that her two questions—where did Lucy go on Sundays, and why did she never see Mr. Lockwood—were one and the same. Then, he showed her the copies of the NDAs each nurse that helped take care of Lockwood had been forced to sign, as additional insurance on top of the traditional health information protections, and the documents from Barnes that confirmed how DEPRAC would issue a singular statement on Anthony Lockwood: he was taking a small step back from active status for a short time to focus on reorganizing the agency. They made sure, the day he was moved to long-term care, that no one would find out about his accident. George’s heart was heavy with the secret, but it was for the best. Because he knew, deep down, that there was no way in hell Anthony Lockwood would want to be remembered like this.

Bea’s face had fallen after that. And he knew that he was crushing her heart, but she deserved to know the truth. George believed in the truth. Always had, even when it hurt.

Especially when it hurt.

He did ask Bea if she wanted to stop, though, and take some time to about all of this. He offered to let her look at everything and talk more about Lockwood on another day. She had just shaken her head and asked to see the rest of the papers George brought with him. He pulled out the papers documenting the sealed case against a drunk driver that Lockwood and Co had filed on Anthony Lockwood’s behalf. He and Bea carefully went through almost all the details, George adding in small bits and pieces as they went. He remembered it like yesterday.

They’d been out of practically everything. George had stopped by because it was Saturday morning, and usually Lockwood and Lucy would make breakfast for all of Lockwood and Co.’s old members as they talked about their week. Holly hadn’t been able to make it—she’d been out doing cake testing with Vera. Right after breakfast, Lockwood had jumped up and said he was going to run down to the store, not even a fifteen minute walk away. Lucy’d asked if she could go with him, but he’d told her to keep working on her book, and he’d be back before she’d even finish writing ten pages. They shook hands on their little bet—because of course they did—and George had left at the same time as Lockwood. They’d walked down to George’s bus stop together, Lockwood droning on about flower language and how he wanted to pick out some flowers to “spruce up the house” (ie. give to Lucy, his completely and totally platonic roommate who he was totally fine with staying that way, obviously George, get your head out of your arse). George had laughed at Lockwood’s playful scowl through the window of the bus, riding away into the distance. He loved riling his best friend up. And Lucy had been the easiest way to do it since he’d been sixteen years old.

That evening, after a rather grueling lab session, George had finally checked his phone. There was only one phone message—a voicemail. It had been Lucy in tears, almost incomprehensible, calling him from a phone at the hospital. All he’d been able to make out were the words “Lockwood”, “accident”, and “critical”. He’d rushed to the hospital, and Lucy hadn’t been the same since.

None of them had.

Lockwood had gone into the store and bought groceries for the next week. Then, less than a block away from home, a drunk driver had lost control of the wheel on a slight downhill incline. She’d veered off the road, hitting a cone, a tree sapling, Anthony Lockwood, and the wall of a building. In that order.

The rest was history.

Who the hell drives drunk at eleven in the morning on a Saturday, the voice in George’s head still yelled. It screamed about injustice, that he shouldn’t have gotten on that bus, that he should’ve gone with Lockwood to pick out Lucy’s damn flowers, that something, anything could’ve been different and maybe, just maybe, things would’ve turned out differently.

During Lockwood’s first surgery, George had sought out Barnes in the hospital. The inspector had confirmed that a small bouquet of blue harebells had been found with Lockwood. He’d held George as he sobbed in the hallway.

Beatrice had a lot of questions, and George forced himself to calmly and carefully answer every single one, hard as it was. He showed her everything she wanted to see. He let her look at old photos of him and Lockwood and Lucy together, Barnes’ write-up about the accident, the letter the driver had sent from her jail cell, anything. Anything but one item: Lucy’s voicemail. George still had the recording saved, but he hadn’t listened to it since. Nothing could make him do that.

George had been with Lucy through thick and thin, life and death, anything and everything. But he’d never heard her sound so completely broken. He didn’t think he could stomach hearing it again. That was the one thing he could never let Beatrice see.

By the end of the afternoon, George felt slightly frayed at the edges, but in the same way as a well-loved scarf. Warm and held and crumpled and ironed and tired in a way that spelled out love through its worn stitches. Like Bea, with her constant notation and unending well of questions, had scooped him out with a melon baller and put his inside back once again, just a little different this time. 

“So,” Bea paused her pencil’s endless scribbling. “If his brain is trying to get better from being hurt, then when will it be all healed? Do they know how much longer it’ll take until he wakes back up?”

And in that moment, George remembered why he agreed to answer these questions. His heart shattered like glass, filling his gut with the icy shrapnel, thinking about what he was about to have to say. A truth he didn’t even want to believe himself. Lucy may be better now, but she can’t do this.

He paused, wondering what exactly to say. How exactly to say something so horrific that would crush her just like it had him. So, like anything, he started at the beginning.

He told her how that Lockwood had been hurt so severely, and, although, it looked like he had healed almost perfectly, the human brain was so complicated that those scans didn’t really matter that much. It wouldn’t bring him back. In fact, anything could be the reason he was still comatose: something physical, something psychological, something science hadn’t yet been able to understand. It could be that he didn’t want to wake up, it could be that this was a result of his unexpectedly incredible Sight, or it could be that the brain waves showing up on the monitors were just flukes, and he’d been gone far longer than anyone thought.

“I’m sorry, ducky, but…” he paused, these words difficult even for him. “Lockwood isn’t waking up. It’s just the four of us now.” George struggled to finish, seeing at the heartbroken look on Beatrice’s face, the curious light in her eyes slowly disappearing. He reached over and took both of her small hands, forcing himself to continue. “But it’s okay,” he whispered through his own tears trying to escape, squeezing Bea’s fingers lightly.

“Because he would just love you, did you know that? Anthony Lockwood would love you so damn much.”

— —

“I want to meet Mr. Lockwood.”

Lucy would have just died if she’d heard those words so bluntly, of that Holly was certain. 

Holly froze, almost dropping her mug. She forced air back in lungs, trying to keep her brain working at a reasonable pace, despite being taken off guard. “Beatrice, you can’t just-“

“I want to meet him,” the little girl insisted. “And unless you can give me a really good reason why, then I’m not going to stop asking.”

Holly regretted every decision she’d made in her entire life that had led to this moment. She cursed the fact that Bea knew about Lockwood, cursed her own mother for raising Holly too polite to yell at anybody about it, cursed her entire bloodline for leading to her having to explain a long term coma to a nine year old. She took Beatrice into the kitchen with her, and Beatrice climbed up to sit next to the stove.

“I’m not going to drop it, you know. I’m stubborn like that,” she said, as Holly started going through the familiar motions of filling the kettle for tea.

“Do you want chocolate biscuits?” A quiet ‘yes, please,’ was the confused response. 

Bea let Holly finish making tea in relative silence, watching her hands curiously. By the time the tea was in their regular mugs and they had settled into their chairs around the Thinking Cloth, Holly felt… as prepared as she’d ever be.

“I mean it,” Bea said softly, stirring a dollop of honey into her tea. “I know he’s, um… Well, I forget the specific word, but I know he’s been asleep for a long time in a coma and he might not wake up, but I don’t care. I want to meet him anyways.”

Holly took a deep breath. “Who told you about Lockwood?”

Bea looked away. “I promised I wouldn’t tell.” George then. Holly nodded, stirring her tea again. “Please, Aunt Holly? You have to understand. I- I just want to meet him!”

She nodded slowly. “You know how I used to do a lot of medical work?” Bea nodded, and Holly could see her tiny fingers itching for her notebook and inkpen. “Well,” Holly sighed, “that means I saw a lot of agents with head injuries. A lot of people I knew ended up in comas at one point or another, and not all of them came out of it.” Holly took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. “A lot of the time, after a long time has passed, people don’t visit anymore. And that’s okay,” she added. “It’s okay to not go, Beatrice. Just because you live here doesn’t mean-“

“Lucy goes and sees him on Sundays.” Bea’s eyes were flinty and determined. “Even though he might not wake up, she goes and sees him on Sundays, and I want to go too.” The little girl softened for a moment, curling slightly in on herself. “I really want to meet him, Aunt Holly. Even though he might not wake up, I still want to. And it’s okay to want to, right?”

Holly couldn’t very well argue with that.  “It’s not pretty, Beatrice,” she said, setting her hand on the little girl’s. “And Lucy has a very hard time there. It’s almost like she’s a different person. It’s why George and I can’t go anymore. We can’t watch it, either of them. Not like this, not when they aren’t really them anymore. And that’s alright, it is. You don’t have to feel like you have to go. It’s alright for it to be too hard.”

Bea simply squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and looked Holly right back in the eyes. “Lucy’s my mum. And I’m very strong, like her. I can do it.”

— —

That next Sunday, when Lucy was putting on her jacket, Holly walked Bea to the entryway. Bea had a small backpack on with her notebook, five pens, Lucy’s old copy of Anne of Green Gables, and a collection of lavender flowers Holly had tucked in the side pocket. She had everything she needed. She was ready. Holly had done everything she could for this lovely, stubborn little girl.

Lucy stared at them both, a questioning look in here eyes. She never spoke before her visits, Holly knew that. She bit her tongue as she wanted to tell Lucy to just go alone, that she’d hold Bea back from following. She wished the other woman would just cry or scream or actually ask the question Holly could see simmering under the surface. That she’d do anything to prove that Bea’s hairebrained hopes might turn out okay. But Holly couldn’t stop this. Bea didn’t want her to, and maybe, just maybe, this might be… good? Maybe.

Holly reminded herself of her promise to Bea, despite everything inside her screaming to stop, to pull Bea tight against her and never let go. At least, not on Sundays. But she took a breath, holding herself together.

“She wants to go,” Holly stated evenly, her hands on Bea’s shoulders. She glanced down at Bea’s determined hands, clutching her backpack straps like it was the first day of school. Holly saw that familiar, stubborn tilt of her chin that reminded her of someone with just as many wild schemes that miraculously turned out alright. For a moment, her nerves settled. “She says she can do it,” Holly continued, looking back up at Lucy’s confused eyes.

“She says she can do it. And I believe her.”

Chapter Text

Bea wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel.

As they walked through the painfully cold and impersonal hallways, she knew she was probably too old to be holding onto Lucy’s hand like this—she was nine now, after all, but something about this place felt strange. She hadn’t been to the hospital since she’d broken her wrist when she was seven.

Well, since her pa’d broken her wrist. Bea was slowly learning that it was okay to think about it like that if she wanted to. Ever since Lucy’d told her a little bit more about her past too.

She certainly hadn’t put those stories in her book.

The hospital was oddly bright and full of strange noises, all of them caught up in curtains and door hinges and the sweep of busy nurses. But, as she and Lucy silently exited the elevator on the seventh floor, Bea noticed the nurses there falling quiet as they passed. They would turn and watch the two of them, whispering behind their clipboards. She knew that Lucy had seen them too.

“They look at me like that because, normally, it’s only spouses and family members who come in.”

Bea jumped at the words. Lucy hadn’t spoken the whole way there, not to anyone. Not to tell Bea it was okay to come with, not to tell the bus driver good morning, not even to check in at the front desk. Lucy’s voice was cold and detached, the same way it had been when she’d had Aunt Holly take Bea home so long ago. She knew some people thought that meant Lucy didn’t care, but Bea knew now that voice meant that Lucy cared more than she could ever express.

“They wonder why I’m here because Lockwood and I aren’t related or married.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Related?” Lucy finally looked down at Bea, a sad but entertained smile on her face. “That’s rather obvious, isn’t it?”

Bea shook her head. “No. Married.” Lucy’s hand tensed in Bea’s grasp, becoming uncomfortably hard. She didn’t skip a step, but her feet fell harder. Crud. Bea hurried to make it better, to fix whatever she’d said wrong. “See, it’s just… Uncle George and Aunt Holly talk about how things used to be sometimes and… Well, it would make sense if you were, wouldn’t it?”

Lucy froze.

Bea slowly looked up at her, buzzing with nerves. Lucy just stared back down at her, a strange look in her eyes that Bea just couldn’t quite understand.

“This room here,” Lucy whispered, unblinking. Then she turned, suddenly, pushing into a room on the right.

Bea stepped through the white door and immediately, her eyes landed on a tall man in a hospital bed. He sat at the center of the wall, his head propped up slightly by a pillow and his legs covered with a blanket.

The famous Anthony Lockwood himself.

Bea had seen him before. Of course she had. She’d collected everything she could find about Lockwood and Co.’s daring exploits, she’d had a poster of him like everybody else who’d ever bought a copy of Lucy’s books. Although she wanted to be a writer, like the great Lucy Carlyle, she knew that everyone else in London wanted to be Anthony Lockwood. He was the best fencer in the whole world, the most Talented Seer anyone had seen, the youngest Psychical Agency head in history, and the biggest asset to Lucy Carlyle as she took down Penelope Fittes.

He was a myth, a legend, a dream. He was a national hero, second only to London’s Darling herself.

He was right in front of her.

Bea had expected tubes or big machines or something else keeping him to the bed. But it was just him, a couple of beeping screens, and Lucy. She was sitting in a chair next to his bedside, his hand clasped in hers, holding on tightly like he could disappear at any moment. Bea felt like she was watching something on television that she knew she wasn’t supposed to. Like the time she once saw Uncle George hug Aunt Holly while she was crying while they thought she was asleep.

“Hi, Lockwood,” a soft voice whispered. For a moment, Bea wondered if she’d imagined it. “I know it’s normally just me, but I brought someone today. Her name’s Beatrice.” Lucy looked up at her, finally. Her eyes seemed dull, her voice weak. “Do you want to say hello, Beatrice?”

Bea slowly nodded, and Lucy lifted one hand to beckon her over. She slowly approached the bed, slowly walking all the way around it.

It was strange, seeing Mr. Lockwood like this. She’d watched him on the telly before, and all the photos she’d seen of him were with his rapier, constantly moving. Almost blurry. Did Lucy think it was strange, seeing him laying down here? To Bea, she thought it reminded her of what it would be like to see Uncle George fight someone or Aunt Holly walk through mud. Something didn’t feel right, meeting Mr. Lockwood like this. But she would meet him regardless.

Lucy is my mum and I am strong like her. I can do this.

She made her way to Lucy’s side, sitting in the chair next to her. Bea pulled her knees up into her chest as she looked between Lucy and Mr. Lockwood.

“Beatrice lives in Portland Row now, your old room. But I told you that already, I think,” Lucy mumbled, her eyes struck on Mr. Lockwood’s still face. “Today she wanted to come with me to see you.” Lucy continued in her soft droning tone, summarizing their week in just a few sentences. Then, she fell back into silence, running her hands over Lockwood’s, tracing his knuckles.

Slowly, but surely, Bea got used to it. It was strange, seeing this iconic figure lying limp in a hospital bed. It was stranger still to see Lucy being so… frozen. She’d seen Lucy quiet and soft, like when they read together in the library or while she was drawing in the backyard or telling a bedtime story. But Lucy was still always moving. Her toes were tapping, her pencil was scratching, her face was constantly changing expression. But right now, right here, Lucy’s only movement was the soft motion of her fingers over Mr. Lockwood’s. 

Bea carefully unwound her arm from around her knees and let herself lean into Lucy’s side. Bea didn’t expect anything, didn’t want anything. But she was there with Lucy, and it was nice. It was strange, but it was peaceful in its own, cold and unforgiving way. Maybe people like she and Lucy were built for this kind of place. Even though it sometimes hurt.

“Lockwood’s sister, Jessica, passed away when he was just about your age.” Bea looked up. Lucy’s eyes were still trained on Lockwood, but they looked softer now. More alive. “She was fifteen. Her favorite color was pink, he always said, but lavender was her favorite flower,” Lucy smiled, squeezing Lockwood’s hand.

“You know, Mr. Lockwood,” Bea added softly. “Lavender is my favorite color. Isn’t that a nice coincidence?” Lucy just nodded, silently agreeing.

Aunt Holly was right. This Lucy was different than the one at home. But the longer they sat here, Beatrice found that she really didn’t mind.

— —

The next Sunday seemed easier. Aunt Holly didn’t come early and help Bea get ready, but she trudged down to the entryway herself, completely prepared this time.

“Coming again?” Lucy asked, putting on her coat. Bea nodded, surprised, and Lucy swept down to button the girl’s jacket. “Best be off then, hmm?”

Bea smiled and nodded, turning to pick her backpack up off the floor. Lucy opened the door to a shocked Aunt Holly, her perfectly manicured hand already poised to knock.

“Lucy? Bea?”

Lucy smiled and nodded her head. “Thanks for coming by, Hol, but I’ve got Bea today. She’s coming with me again.”

Bea hurried after Lucy, sparing a quick glance at Aunt Holly, who seemed to still be frozen on the porch. She giggled at that, before squeezing next to Lucy to catch the soon-departing bus.

That Sunday, Lucy wasn’t silent the whole bus ride over and Bea didn’t freeze at the door. In fact, Lucy even lifted Bea up to sit on the bed, next to Lockwood’s legs. Bea read him some of the poems she’d been writing, doing fun voices as Lucy watched and even smiled. Bea liked the way her legs hung so high off the ground and she could swing them real far. Plus, she could hold onto his knee if she felt like she would fall off and he felt so real under her fingertips. After that, Bea understood why Lucy liked holding his hand. Sitting there, right next to him, Bea determined in her own mind that, if Lockwood could sit up and sweep her into his lap, he would definitely give the best hugs ever. She could tell.

— —

It became their habit, going to see him together. Bea would tell him stories and Lucy would talk about their week. Dramatic readings became commonplace, alongside the worst slow-dancing on earth after Bea found a small radio at the store one day and insisted on bringing it. That’s not to say that Sundays were always easy. Sometimes, Bea would still stop at the door, scared of Lockwood’s frozen, still body and she’d struggle to walk all the way inside, or she’d get so wrapped up in imagining what he would be like if he were awake that she’d start crying. Sometimes, Lucy would still have a hard time speaking all day long, or she wouldn’t be able to dance without tears of her own. But they always went back the next week, together.

Sundays were always strange, Bea knew. They needed extra tea in the afternoon and spent a lot of time sitting in the quiet and usually ended up ordering takeout for dinner, but it was always worth it.

Because Sundays are for visiting Anthony Lockwood.

Chapter Text

“Lucy,” Bea asked, scribbling away in her notebook. Lucy smiled as she watched her little girl sketching and inventing worlds in her mind. Her fingers were still running absentmindedly over Lockwood’s knuckles. She liked the way it grounded her. Something about these days were just a tad bit easier. Seeing Bea in there with the two of them, playing some of Lockwood’s old favorite records she’d once been too scared to listen to. It didn’t weigh on her quite as much anymore.

“What is it, lovely?” She replied airily, half-paying attention. Lucy wondered if they should turn on some music. She could feel like dancing today, if she tried. Might be nice.

“Have you ever been in love?”

And her thoughts came to a screeching halt. A screeching, screaming, frozen halt, like when a train is about to crash and time feels like taffy because it can’t be real, but you know it’s real, and maybe there’s enough time to get out, but it already happened. 

They hadn’t hit the brakes in time, and no matter what, they never would. And, somehow, that led here.

Panic crawled up the back of her throat, like Ghost Touch making its way to her heart.   How was she supposed to answer that question? Lucy had heard that kids were curious, that they asked lots of things, but she figured this wasn’t a question she’d ever have to respond to. Maybe, of course, it would come up later in life, but she had years, right? Or maybe she’d ask Holly, Holly was better at this romance stuff, hell, she’d figured it out well enough to get married, while George was… fooling around or whatever with Flo and Lucy… 

And Lucy what?

Had, somewhere along the line, signed her heart away on her employment papers?

“I,” Lucy paused, searching. No, not searching. That would imply she didn’t know the answer.  She wanted to get the words out. To be able to tell the truth, to be able to admit it. She wanted that for Beatrice. She wanted it for herself.

Lucy flashed back to Lockwood’s first night in the hospital. 

She’d just turned twenty three a few months earlier, and she and Lockwood had been joking lots about how old they were getting. But, sitting by his side in the hospital, she’d felt like she was seventeen again, watching her worst nightmare play out in front of her eyes. Like she the floor had caved out under her, and the future finally came to hunt her down.

“God, Lockwood,” she’d sobbed, holding onto his hand. “Lockwood, I swear you have to be okay. You- you can’t leave me.”

She’d sat by his bedside until well past visiting hours were over, but Barnes had told the nurses not to disturb her. The only time she saw anyone was when they would bring in a new medicated drip in for Lockwood, or when George and Holly would come by. Beyond that, she was alone. She had felt so very alone.

After Lockwood had been asleep for eleven days, the doctors had maintained there was nothing to be concerned about. The nurses, though, had started whispering, pulling the other members of Lockwood and Co. aside in the halls. It pissed Lucy off, how they didn’t think she could handle whatever it was. But then, while she’d been going to get a tea from the station outside, Lucy’d heard George whisper to Holly that he was afraid Lockwood wouldn’t wake up. Lucy had slapped him. They’d both left her alone in the hospital after that. She knew she’d deserved it. She’d also never apologized for it.

“Lockwood, please,” she’d begged, clinging to his hand like it was life itself. “Anthony, you can’t do this to me. You can’t leave me here, not now. Not like this.” She had been able to feel the tears running down her face, but she wouldn’t let go of him to wipe them away. She’d never let him go again.

“I love you too much, please.”

Lucy had never let herself say those words out loud before. Or since, really. It hurt too much to acknowledge.

But it hurts because it’s real.

Lucy slowly nodded, looking back up at Bea. “I have,” she finally forced out of her mouth with a small sob, trying her best to smile. A tear streaked down one side of her face, and she quickly wiped it away. “I have, Bea.”

Bea nodded, still looking at her notebook, although her pen had stalled. “I know,” she whispered, as though she was afraid of Lucy’s reaction. But Lucy couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Of course she knew. Everyone knew. Why would this little girl attached at her hip be any different? Bea looked up at her, fixing Lucy with a sympathetic stare. “Is that why we keep coming here every Sunday?”

Lucy carefully nodded again. She could feel more tears streaming down, more than she knew what to do with. Bea eyes widened in concern, before she rushed to climb into Lucy’s lap. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. 

“But it’s okay,” Lucy finally was able to muster out, despite her tear-ravaged throat. “It’s okay, Bea, and do you want to know why?” Bea looked up, nodding. Lucy smiled down, brushing Bea’s hair out of her face, cupping her cheek. “Because when you love someone,” her voice broke slightly, staring down at Bea’s bright blue eyes. “Then that never goes away, no matter what. See, I love you very, very much. And because love is special like that, no matter what happens, I’ll always be with you, and you’ll always be here with me.”

“And Lockwood too?” Bea’s small voice added.

Lucy nodded with a smile, another tear making its way down her cheek, comforting and grounding in its searing heat. “And Lockwood too.”

— —

A few days later, Ms. Crowne called Lucy with plans for her new book. Uncle George and Aunt Holly had been thrilled at dinner, when Lucy had explained that her publisher wanted her to go around the country for a whole month, talking about her old days as an agent and telling people about her book that would be coming out soon. It was dedicated to one Anthony Lockwood, and they were all ecstatic about this opportunity. Well, all except Beatrice.

Bea refused to let go of Lucy, not even to go to bed. She made Lucy come all the way up to the old attic, tell her stories of the agency that would likely end up in future manuscripts, and then, after all her failed attempts at stalling, Bea proceeded to attach herself to Lucy like an ancient barnacle, refusing to let her leave the bed that was much too small to fit a full grown adult and a little girl together. But Lucy hadn’t minded, not too much. She’d just pulled Bea in and they just sat there, holding each other. Lucy didn’t ask what prompted any of it. Bea knew that she knew anyways. She didn’t want Lucy to leave, didn’t want her to go anywhere, not now that she finally had her own little family. Uncle George had said move into Portland Row with her for the month Lucy would be gone, and Aunt Holly promised to spend every weekend here, but it wouldn’t be the same. Lucy was just different.

“Lucy?”

“Yes, lovely?” Lucy fingers kept carding through her hair, a pleasant and comforting touch. Aunt Holly wouldn’t hold her like this, and Uncle George certainly wouldn’t either. Bea didn’t want it to end. Not for a month, not ever.

She carefully weighed the words around in her mouth, wondering whether it was worth it to open her big fat mouth. But sometimes all the words in her head had to come out anyways, even if they did cock everything up. “You know, since- since you’re my mum and all, why couldn’t-” she hesitated, forcing the rest of her sentence out of her mouth,. “Why couldn’t I come with you instead of staying here?” 

Lucy’s hand stalled, her breath hitching tightly.

Bea knew she should’ve just kept her mouth shut. “I- I just mean, why not, you know? It’s not unheard of, mums bringing their kids with them when they go all these places, and then Uncle George and Aunt Holly wouldn’t have to worry about me either, and, well, I just thought it might-“

“Beatrice, you’re rambling again,” Lucy chuckled, and Bea could feel the vibration through her temple. It was comforting. Lucy starting sitting up, pulling Bea with her, but Bea just held on tighter. She didn’t want to see the look on Lucy’s face, not if it was bad. “Bea, look at me.” She did. Lucy seemed to be hesitating as well, a look in her eyes that she couldn’t quite place. “Is that something you’d like? To come on the tour with me?”

Really?!

Bea nodded as emphatically as she could, putting on her best puppy eyes. The ones Uncle George said got her into and out of enough trouble already. “I sincerely cannot think of anything I would like more than going with you,” she smiled hopefully.  

Lucy just nodded at her. “I’ll call my publisher tomorrow and get it sorted then.” Bea just smiled, hugging Lucy even tighter. She wondered if she could crack Lucy’s ribs like this, but she figured it would be okay. Lucy never minded.

So, there they sat, talking about what the tour would look like, all the places they’d see, and all the things they wanted to do until Bea finally started yawning and loosening her hold on Lucy. “Come on, lovely. I’d best get downstairs and call Ms. Crowne, and you look just about ready to drop.”

“I’m not-” A yawn swallowed Bea’s words. She slowly sank back into her pillow as Lucy climbed out of the attic bed. “I’m not tired,” she mumbled. Lucy slowly pulled the blankets around Bea, tucking her in nice and tight.

“Goodnight, Beatrice,” she smiled, brushing the hair out of Bea’s eyes. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Bea replied, closing her eyes. Bea took a deep breath, squeezing her little cephalopod tight. She distantly Lucy’s footsteps slowly going away, and the lights turned off. “You’re the best mum ever,” Bea whispered out into the attic, and then she was completely asleep.

— —

Bea was scurrying down the sidewalk behind Lucy as they wandered down towards the park. Suddenly, Lucy stopped and made a sharp left turn. What is even happening?!

Lucy hadn’t been feeling particularly chatty this morning, and Bea was rather peeved about it. She’d gone and woken Bea up in the attic with a piece of toast and tea and little other context. Bea had scrambled to get it up and run downstairs to see what was the matter. “We have to make a stop before we leave for the tour tomorrow,” is all Lucy had said. Then, she had picked up an old, rucksack that Bea had seen countless illustrations of, and off they’d gone. And Bea had still yet to get a full explanation!

Lucy suddenly came to a stop, Bea running into her. She peeked around Lucy, to see a tall, brick, ivy-covered wall slightly hidden from the street. 

“A wall.” Bea huffed incredulously. “You dragged me all the way out here for a wall?!”

“Now,” Lucy finally said, smiling down at Beatrice. “We have an option. I can run around and try to find another way in, or you can climb with me, and I promise I’ll catch you.”

“Catch me?!” Bea looked up at the ivy-covered wall next to the rusted gate. There’s no way she means…

Lucy just nodded. “Trust me, Beatrice?” Bea simply nodded in response, gaping up.

Normally, if Bea was trying to climb anything other than the apple tree in the backyard, Lucy would tell her to be careful, to watch herself, to make sure she was doing it in a smart manner, constantly reminding her to barely be just as reckless as the situation demanded, certainly nothing more. Bea’s opinion was that she’d broken her arm before, and she was positive she’d be fine even if she fell. Lucy, unsurprisingly, was not particularly swayed by that logic. But now, Lucy was telling her to climb up this rather tall, random wall in the middle of nowhere. She would be an idiot to waste this opportunity, however strange she might personally find it.

Lucy pointed out how to find the best vines to hold onto, helping brace Bea as she ascended the wall. “Go on, Bea, you’ve got this,” she’d said as she climbed up behind her. “I won’t let you fall, promise.” Then, she’d told Bea to get settled in a sitting position at the top. As Bea looked down, she realized it looked a lot farther down than she had climbed up. Can heights work that way?

Bea watched incredulously as Lucy climbed smoothly swung her legs over the top, before vaulting down to the other side, landing gracefully, with the rucksack falling in a heap next to her. She’d stood up after that, smiling at Beatrice with her arms outstretched. And when Lucy told her to jump? Of course she did.

Bea felt like she was flying. The rush of cold air and the bit of adrenaline that coursed through her system, culminating in landing in Lucy’s strong arms, being swung around in a circle a few times made her laugh uncontrollably.

“Have fun?” Lucy chuckled, bending down to Bea’s level. She just nodded in response, her wide smile taking over her face and soul. Lucy picked the rucksack back up and led Bea carefully through this strange, thickly-wooded place. As they kept walking through, Bea came to a slow realization.

Is this a cemetery?

No one came to cemeteries anymore. Although empty coffins were still buried and some people nowadays weren’t even getting their bodies burned, and doing ‘old-fashioned funerals’, the idea of visiting a grave was just so odd. It just didn’t happen, everyone knew that. But, of course, Lucy Carlyle of Lockwood and Co. would visit graves. Of course she would do what no one else was brave enough for. It suited her, oddly enough. But as much as she could theoretically understand it, Bea just couldn’t figure out the why.

Lucy looked up, a small smile on her face. She must’ve noticed Bea’s confusion as she started pulling a variety of tools out of her pack. “These are the Lockwoods, Beatrice.” she said simply. “They’ve heard lots about you before, so there’s no need to be shy.“

The Lockwoods?

Bea didn’t know what to say. She stared down at the barely-visible stones engraved with names she couldn’t quite read. If they really were who Lucy said, then Bea knew the words already, but to know those coffins and memories and fantastical lives were hidden here felt… strange. An uncomfortable weight settled in her chest. Bea was supposed to know these people. In another world, she probably did. But in this one, they were just graves with unreadable names. That didn’t seem right. She didn’t feel like she deserved to see them like this, instead of the smiling people in the scrapbooks. This felt like something much more special. Maybe even sacred.

Lucy passed her a tiny set of new gardening gloves. “You don’t have to help, but I figured you might like to do something while we’re here. And I wanted them to get to meet you in person before we leave Portland Row for so long.” Bea took the gloves and slipped them on carefully, looking at Lucy as she got started cutting away at leaves and vines with a small pocketknife.

This is my family… Bea thought, looking at the dusty headstones and weeds growing around them, obscuring the finer details of what she was sure were beautiful graves. She’d never visited her own mother’s grave, but she didn’t really mind that too much. She’d never known her, her pa’d never talked about her, so she’d never had a reason to miss her all that much nowadays It was as though she’d never really existed, and that idea made Bea sadder than anything else. But these people? Bea knew them. Lucy had shown her pictures of their lives and adventures, sharing every story she knew. Bea slept on sheets they’d once picked out, wrapped herself up in blankets that they’d once embroidered with silver threads and flowers, loved looking at the art and artifacts they’d collected from all around the world. She wanted to go to all those places too.

So, she decided, if this was her family, this was also her responsibility. She was part of something bigger, and it made her happier than she could’ve imagined. Bea tugged on the new, thick gloves and walked around to help Lucy clean things up with a soft smile on her face. They worked together in silence for a while, until all the weeds were gone and the encroaching thornbushes had been cut back and all the leaves had been brushed far away from these incredible, incredible people.

Bea took off her gloves and crawled up, tracing over the names with her tiny fingers. “Celia Lockwood,” she carefully said, letting the vowels fill out her mouth, deep and slow. “Donald Lockwood.”

“That’s right,” Lucy’s soft voice replied. Bea looked over to see her putting some lavender near the grey headstone. “Those are Lockwood’s parents. And this is his sister, Jessica.” Bea slowly made her way over, tucking herself carefully into Lucy’s side.

“I like coming to visit them when I can,” she whispered, resting her cheek on the top of Bea’s head. “Lockwood would come here all the time, back in the day. Brought me with him lots of times.” Her voice hitched in that way it always did when she’d talk about him. “He said that he wanted them to be proud of him. For them to know he thought of them every day. I’d like to think,” she paused, and Bea looked up at her. A small smile was on Lucy’s face in spite of her wet eyes. “I think it gives him some peace. Or, at least, it gives me peace for him.”

They’d sat like that, tucked tightly together in front of three Lockwoods and an empty grave, and Bea silently hoped—a tiny thing she would never tell Lucy—that Anthony Lockwood still wouldn’t end up there for a long, long time. After all, she still didn’t know if he was as good of a hugger as she wanted him to be. The second jump from the top of the wall was equally exhilarating as the first, as Lucy caught and spun her around once more and they made their way back to Portland Row for tea.

They’d left to start the tour the next day. And for the next week and a half of stories and adventures, everything had been perfectly normal.

Chapter Text

Outside of the grocer’s, he paused for just a moment to get another good look at the blue harebells in his hands. They weren’t much, but he still hoped Lucy would like them. Of course, they weren’t necessarily just for Lucy. Just because George disagreed (“I’m not stupid, Lockwood! Just admit already that you’re getting them for Lucy!” “I am not!”) didn’t mean he couldn’t do something nice for his house every once in a while. And if the other person living in his house happened to enjoy it, well then, that wasn’t his responsibility. His heart jumped at the thought of her smile when she’d see them.

Then everything had gone dark.

“Anthony, you can’t do this to me. You can’t leave me here, not now. Not like this.”

Like what? 

And his mind was blissfully blank and dark again.

— —

An unfamiliar humming filled the room. Lockwood was vaguely aware of someone touching him.

“Comfy, Mr. Lockwood? I hope you enjoy the new room. God knows DEPRAC made us sign too many papers for this shit. But hey, on the bright side, that girlfriend of yours’ll probably be back soon, you never know, and these chairs are a sight more comfortable than those other ones. Alright, now, someone’ll be back in a few hours to switch out that saline drip of yours, hope you don’t mind.”

Something was wrong, Lockwood knew that much. He just didn’t know what. He knew, sometimes things were less dark than normal, like the difference between that twilight of sleep and the nights when nothing could rouse him, though few and far between they were.

But he didn’t even question the darkness itself. What else would there be?

— —

“Sorry I’ve been gone a bit,” a soft voice whispered.

Lucy .

“I left without telling George and Holly this time. They hover now. I can’t blame them, not really. I feel guilty, but I can’t… They can’t handle me and I can’t handle them, and it’s none of our faults, not really. Not yours either. Can’t even be mad at you for this.” He could dimly feel something touching his hand. Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. And he was alone in an unconscious darkness again.

— —

Next time, there were more voices. There was a strange pressure on him… My knee?

For the first time since things went dark, Lockwood wondered where he was. He couldn’t move, open his eyes, latch onto the noises surrounding him, but he knew somehow, he knew something… someone was there.

This time felt different. These weren’t whispers. These were brighter sounds, things he could hold onto.

Come on, Lockwood, just hold on. Just hold the fuck on…

He was gone.

“And Erin’s birthday is coming up, and I don’t know whether or not I’d really like to go. I mean, she’s certainly gotten more tolerable, but we still aren’t friends or anything. I think she just invited me because you can’t invite anyone to parties at school without having to invite everyone in your homeroom. Although, I think that’s silly, and do you want to know why?”

And it slipped away again. Damnit!

“She’s sleeping now, Lockwood, but god,” a small strangled sob echoed in his brain. “It’s been such a long week, and she hasn’t been sleeping the best, and I hate her falling asleep in these chairs, but she looks so peaceful right now and… Lockwood, you would just love her. She caught our Georgie sneaking an extra biscuit the other morning, and it sounded just like one of your old arguments, I swear. Sometimes it’s too much, and other times, I… You would just adore her, I know it.”

No, Lucy! Lucy, come back!

But Lockwood had never been that lucky.

Stars shining bright above you / Night breezes seem to whisper I love you / Birds singing in the sycamore trees / Dream a little dream of me. 

Soft laughter punctuated the old familiar lyrics. He knew those lyrics. His parents would dance in the kitchen to that. When he got sentimental, he’d play it in the library. He and Lucy ended up dancing more times than not. He loved that song.

Lucy had said something once about her Listening. That, when she needed to know more about a spirit, she would lean into the sounds, let the emotions pull her away. Then, at the critical moment, she would reach out and pull right back. Back then, he’d told her to not get swept away in the first place, to get ahold of herself. But now, that plan was sounding better and better as he tried to keep himself from getting pulled under, drowning without even knowing.

So, somewhere in the darkness, Lockwood clung to that song. He clung to that song and the soft whispers around it with everything he had. He thought back to those nights in the library with Lucy, those nights in his room with Jessica, those nights in the kitchen with his parents, and he let those overwhelming feelings envelop him, clinging to them as they washed him away.

And then he pulled.

Chapter Text

Holly didn’t remember much after the hospital called her. She didn’t remember the drive to the hospital or seeing him herself or calling George. She did remember one thing, and that was her call to Lucy. And the call she immediately got back from Lucy’s publisher.

— —

Bea was sitting in the lobby of the tiny hotel she and Lucy were staying at, swinging her legs.

Lucy was right. Being on tour was either very boring or very demanding. Everyone always needed something from Lucy except for in the evenings, when she would take Bea to go do something nice in whatever town they found themselves in. They’d order takeout and watch silly movies, or sometimes Lucy would tell Bea stories about Lockwood. When she did that, it made Bea feel like they were back at Portland Row. Although Bea still didn’t really ask about Lockwood, Lucy herself had started telling stories about ghost hunting or how Lockwood made the best toast or any number of their adventures, both before and after the fall of the Fittes Agency (although Lucy still wouldn’t say much about that, something about Inspector Barnes and paperwork).  Bea hoped that Aunt Holly was visiting Lockwood for them while they were gone, like she promised, even though she hated seeing him like that. But, at the end of the day, in spite of everything she missed about normal dinners and big game nights and Sundays and her little attic room, Bea almost always preferred being here with Lucy.

Right now, though, all Bea could think about was how bored she was. The nice woman at the front desk had given her a juice box after Lucy had sent her out here, but it was starting to run empty. Lucy had said to go and wait, and she wouldn’t be more than ten or so minutes behind her. Bea looked at the clock on the wall. It had been past thirty by now. She closed her notebook and wondered if she should be worried. Then again, other girls at school talked all the time about how their mums would say they’d be very fast, and then it would take them forever to actually leave. It made Bea smile to think that hers was the same way. 

Still, though, she should probably check on her. Bea hopped off the plush couch, with her juice box in one hand and notebook in the other in search of her very own, running-late mum.

As she turned down the hall, she saw a large group of hotel workers clustered around a young woman sitting on the floor against the wall. It was loud down there. She seemed to be crying, and everyone was talking over each other.

I need to find my mum. Lucy would know exactly how to help this woman, she had experience with things like this. And it was obviously necessary, because it was clear as day that these people didn’t know how. As Bea got closer, she saw some of them reaching for her wrists, trying to pull the woman up, while others were putting their hands on her shoulder, pushing her down, everyone talking too loudly. Honestly, don’t adults know better? Bea heard bits and pieces of their conversations, meaning to disappear by after her mum, until-

“Lucy, pull yourself together, already! You have to breathe!”

“Lucy?” Bea gasped, realizing. She looked through the dense crowd of people, and it was. That was her Lucy. That was her mum, crying and hyperventilating on the floor. And these people are NOT helping.

“Get off of her! Get away from her, get away from my mum!” Bea started shoving and elbowing at hips and knees, pushing every adult she could reach until they made room. “Lucy!”

She looked bad. Her face was all red, her hair mussed. Lucy’s eyes were unfocused and she was audibly struggling to breathe or talk. Bea remembered that there was something in her book about panic attacks, what it had looked like on Lockwood, about how too many people, their unwelcome hands and noises, made it worse. It was too much. All these people around were hurting her, couldn’t they see that? Why were they hurting her?!

“Get away! Give her space! Get off of us, leave us alone!” Finally, the adults still standing stopped touching them both, stopped trying to pull Bea away. “Lucy? Lucy, can you hear me?” But Lucy just kept crying, shaking her head, curled in on herself. She was muttering under her breath, her face turning red. “What is it? What happened? Please, you have to talk to me.” She was getting desperate. This couldn’t happen now, there were too many people, she needed her to stay here, in this moment. “Mum, please!”

At that, Lucy raised her head.

“What?” she managed to rasp out.

“Mum,” Bea whispered. “They said you’ve got to breathe. That- that something’s wrong. What happened, what’s going on?”

Lucy stretched one hand out, taking Bea’s much smaller one. She forced gulps of air into her lungs, running her thumb over Bea’s knuckles. Bea could tell she was trying to be careful, but she could’ve squeezed as hard as she wanted, and Bea wouldn’t have made a peep. Not when Lucy was so obviously scared. Not when she was so obviously hurt.

“You’re okay, Mum. You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine, right?”

“I- I’m sorry,” she managed to stammer out. “I’m sorry, I just… I have to go back, but I can’t and it’s too much.” She took another deep breathe, using her free hand to wipe off her face. Lucy looked up at the older woman—Ms. Crowne, right?—with an unfamiliar hatred in her eyes. “Get out.”

“Lucy-“ The lady cooed, her long nails clicking on her bracelets. Those nails weird me out.

“Bea and I need a minute. Get the fuck out.” The old woman sighed loudly and stormed out of the room, obviously displeased at something or the other. Oh pooh on her. Bea wasn’t sure why Lucy had been so mean, but she was certain Ms. Crowne had done something to deserve it.

Maybe Lucy would be okay with me calling Ms. Crowne a right cunt, since she’s not a second grader.

Bea just tucked herself into Lucy’s side, her mum’s side, pulling one of Lucy’s free arms around her own shoulders. She felt safe like this, ready for whatever the world would throw at them. For a while, they just sat there in silence. Bea carefully listened to the sound of Lucy’s heartbeat and her breathing as it got steadier, deeper, more dependable. 

Finally, Lucy spoke. “I’m sorry, lovely. I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, her voice thick and roughened from her tears. “I forget sometimes that I… That it’s not just me I have to think about.”

Bea leaned to put her head on Lucy’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” Lucy shook her head.

“No,” Lucy continued, “I am your mum.” She smiled down at Bea, and Bea knew she’d heard her. She knew it was okay to say again. She knew it felt right for them both. “And that means we figure things out together sometimes, but you don’t have to take care of me. This kind of thing,” she paused, thinking. “This hasn’t happened in a long time. Because I haven’t been this upset in a long time. But things will be okay, you’re right. They will. Somehow.”

“What happened, Mum?” Bea asked, hesitantly. She didn’t want her spiraling again, but it was obviously important. It had scared her. That meant it was important. “Are Aunt Holly and Uncle George okay?”

Mum nodded, and another stray tear fell down her cheek. Bea reached up and wiped it away. “Thank you, lovely.” She shook her head and wiped her face one more time. “They’re fine, they’re both fine. Aunt Holly called me and…” She paused again, swallowing her tears. 

“Lockwood’s awake,” she breathed, like a prayer. A shudder ran through her body, and Bea just hugger her tighter. “He’s awake,” Mum chuckled, soft and disbelieving. “But-” her voice broke again, “but I can’t go.”

— —

“I’m going to kill that woman myself!”

George was genuinely afraid that Holly, in the throes of an hours long, alarmingly uncharacteristic, rage-fueled rant, might accidentally rip out Lockwood’s IVs. And that surely wouldn’t be good for his convalescence.

George, however, also didn’t feel safe trying to get close enough to the wild animal that had apparently taken over his friend’s body to try to protect Lockwood either.

“Can you believe that self-righteous hag? Claiming she’s doing this for Lucy’s good! I mean, honestly! Threatening Beatrice for Lucy’s good?!”

He’d better fix this before Holly ended up getting security called on herself. Or before she actually made good on her threat to dear Ms. Crowne. Whichever came first, at this point, she’d certainly be able to manage either one. “No one is threatening Bea, Hol, what are you on about?”

“Oh, she is though!” Holly exploded. “You know that twat knows if she has Lucy arrested for breach of contract, all the social workers we just got off our goddamn backs would descend again like the fucking Furies!” He’d never heard Holly curse this much. Maybe he really should be scared. “And Bea can’t very well go with Lucy to jail, so she’d be taken away, put back into the system for god knows how long or until one of us could go up there and get her! Or the courts could try to have Bea sent to Lucy’s mother or sisters, say that we aren’t a good next placement! And- and god knows her family’s as awful as Bea’s father was! Or they could try to declare Lucy an unfit parent and take her away forever! Then who knows what happens to our little girl! God, can you imagine threatening someone’s child for the sake of a fucking book?!”

Although, listening to Holly’s points, George couldn’t help but think he, as the most educated and even-tempered member of Lockwood and Co, might be best suited to getting away with murder. He still had some old sources lying about, and although fatal ghost touch was becoming rare, it wasn’t exactly unheard of. And he did have access to a variety of chemicals through some connections at the university. But that might leave a paper trail… Best to stick with the sources, just to be careful.

“George? George, are you even listening to me?!”

He snapped back to reality. “Yes, Hol, sorry. I just… I hate it too. And I hate that I can’t fix it, and I hate that Ms. Crowne is being so awful, but look around. We are in a hospital.” Holly finally paused, as though she was seeing the world around her for the first time. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing a group of nurses clustered outside Lockwood’s room, whispering to each other behind their clipboards as they watched her. She huffed and pulled the curtain closed, effectively shutting them out. “Too bad that doesn’t block noise,” he chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah, too bad, George,” Holly said, mockingly, as she slumped into a chair, crossing her arms. Slouching and cursing all at once, must be a big day for Holly-girl.

He sighed, leaning forward across Lockwood’s gangly legs. “Listen, Hol. There’s nothing we can do now. When Lucy gets back, we’ll go through everything, disentangle Crowne from all of Lucy’s books, get her blacklisted. You know we have that kind of influence nowadays.” Holly looked up at that, a slightly hopeful tint in her eyes. “Once Lucy’s home, we’ll make sure that woman suffers for this. But right now, we have to be here for Lockwood and trust Lucy and Bea to take care of themselves” George added, patting Lockwood’s leg. “She’ll be alright, somehow. Lucy always is.”

Holly sighed and nodded begrudgingly before sulking in her chair once more. He supposed she didn’t need to like the facts, but that didn’t change a thing. I wish it would though.

“Lucy?” a deep voice croaked out. Lockwood’s voice was hoarse from ages of disuse, and he blinked at the offending lights above him.

Of course her name would wake him back up again . Jesus fucking Christ.

“God, George would you turn off the big light? I like lamps for a reason, you know. And where’s Luce?”

George leaned over to Lockwood, carefully patting his hand. “Lucy isn’t here, Lockwood,” he sighed, offhandedly, shaking his head. He didn’t have time for Lockwood right now, not while Holly was in the process of bursting at the damn seams like never before.

“What?!” Lockwood’s breathing became shallow irregular. “No, I- I thought she came back.” He started sitting up, tearing at the IVs that were helping him recuperate. Fuck! George looked up at Holly in alarm.

“She- she came back and- and the cannibal and the skull and- and Marissa Fittes and- and she writes now and I hung up her art on the wall just last week. Don’t tell me I was dreaming, George, please, I thought she- I can’t remember-“ His face fell, a tear starting to fall down his face. “I made it all up… I made it all up in my head? She- she’s been gone this whole-”

“No, Lockwood,” Holly rushed to his other side, snapping into caretaker mode. Thank god.  “Lucy came back, that was real. She’s been back this whole time, you’re remembering right.”

“That was real?” Lockwood turned to George, his eyes wide and pleading. “You won’t lie to me, George. That was real?”

George slowly nodded. “Yeah, mate. Yeah, that’s all real.” Lockwood slowly took a deep breath and allowed himself to settle back into his pillow. “You’ve been platonic roommates with the love of your life for eight years now.” George paused. “Well, I guess seven. But Lucy’s spent so much time here at the hospital, I suppose you might as well count it all out,” he chuckled.

Lockwood turned his head and smiled. “She visited me? She hates hospitals.”

George laughed, amused at how oblivious Lockwood could still be. “Yeah, Lockwood, she did. She basically didn’t leave this place for months.” The more he thought about it, the more obviously and pathetically in love Lucy was. It was annoyingly sappy to him nowadays, even with his… complicated relationship with Flo, but back then, Lucy’s nature had been downright terrifying.

“So she didn’t leave me?” Lockwood asked smally. “Lucy… she stayed?”

“Yes, Lockwood, she stayed.” Lockwood’s smile got wider at that, if it was even possible. Good god, George hoped this man would never need opiates. If this is Lockwood at his normal level of repression, I never want to see him high.

Lockwood just nodded in response, unable to keep that grin off his face. “Good.”

“Agreed,” Holly huffed. “I don’t think I could handle another one of your Black Winter moods. You back then, Lucy for the past year, it’s all been too much! I can’t handle one of you going off the rails like that again, and I’m so pissed at Lucy’s publisher that if even one more thing happens, Vera’s going to have to bail my arse out of jail!”

“What?” Lockwood looked over at Holly confusedly. “What’s wrong with Lucy’s publisher?”

George sighed. He didn’t want to tell Lockwood this, but it seemed inevitable. This is going to break his heart.

”You know how you’ve been asleep for-“

“I know,” Lockwood’s voice was cold and sharp. “You- you and Holly said when you got here. Before I fell asleep again.” He paused, looking around the room. He was more lucid than he’d been when they’d first arrived. As happy as that made him, it also meant there were a lot of conversations that George, Holly, and Lucy had never expected to have. Especially not right now.

“Where is Lucy?” Lockwood carefully asked.

“Lucy’s publisher, Ms. Crowne, you remember her,” Holly started, sitting down next to Lockwood. “I- I don’t know how to say this, but she’s… Lucy had a tour for her new book that coming out soon, isn’t that exciting? And she’s traveling around the country right now, remember me and George telling you about that when you first woke up?” Lockwood shook his head, looking between her and George. George nodded in response, confirming Holly’s story. 

“Alright,” Lockwood slowly nodded. “And so…”

”So, well…” Holly paused. Lockwood’s expression grew increasingly confused as she hesitated. “Well, Lockwood, just see, it’s… Lucy is doing everything she possibly can, we all are, but I told you about her publishing company, and her direct publisher, Ms. Crowne, oh that woman! She is being horrid and awful and despicable and-“

George put his hand up, stopping Holly’s increasingly enraged adjectives. Dragging this out any longer wouldn’t make it better. This wasn’t the time for platitudes, this was time for the pure, harsh truth. And that, he could do.

“What Holly’s trying to say is that Lucy can’t come home, mate. Crowne won’t let her, and well… She’s stuck out there.”

— —

This was, so far, the longest week of Lockwood’s life.

Sure, the Black Winter was horrible. He used to say that was the worst time of his life, wondering what he’d done wrong, asking when everyone else would get sick of him driving them away too, praying deep in his soul to anyone listening that Lucy would just come home someday.

But this? This was a different kind of torture. Because Lockwood knew the answers to all of those questions. His friends loved him, there weren’t going anywhere. They hadn’t gone anywhere. They’d stayed by his side, even when he had nothing to offer them but pain and the sound of a heart monitor. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong to drive anyone away. George told him that the accident hadn’t been his fault. He’d been walking on the street, running the most mundane errands, and a drunk motorist had driven onto the sidewalk. Lockwood confessed to Lucy once that the reason he wouldn’t buy a car was because of his parents’ accident. But history seemed to do everything possible to try to repeat itself, in every aspect of Lockwood’s life. Even Lucy not being there with him.

This time, though, Lockwood knew exactly when his Lucy would be getting home. 

Lucy would be back home in one week and five days. Her train would get into London Station at 2pm. So, according to the tired clock on the wall of his hospital room, Lucy would be back home in one week, five days, and four hours. And thirteen minutes, but who was counting? He didn’t know exactly what time she’d be home, whether her train would be delayed or if she’d struggle with her luggage or if she’d have a hard time getting a cab or if there would be traffic on her way, but he knew she’d be coming home.

The difference between the Black Winter and now was that Lockwood knew exactly when Lucy would be coming home, and that made it entirely impossible to focus on anything else. He didn’t have his personal faults to agonize over, the cases to throw himself into as a distraction, the arguments with George and Holly to make him forget, even for a moment. He knew when Lucy would be coming home, and every bone in his body felt like it was vibrating just for her. Always for her. 

And here he was, stuck in this hospital bed, unable to do a damn thing about it. If he’d woken up sooner, he would’ve seen her before The Crowne Bitch stole her away across the country. If he was stronger, could stand up for more than the three hours per day allotted to him by the nurses and physical therapists at the hospital, he’d go and visit her himself. He tried to sneak out once, but George had managed to catch him. It was a fluke that George arrived early that day, but he’d practically manhandled Lockwood back to his bed. He said if he caught Lockwood trying to leave again before the doctors discharged him, he’d pick up the prettiest, sparkliest handcuffs at the sex store and leave Lockwood there without the key.

“You know,” George said, bringing in a cup of that shitty water the hospital tried to pass off as tea. “Holly’s been on and off the phone with our Lucy, and she’s as pissed as you are about this whole situation. Honestly, apparently it’s been a mess up there, her and Crowne.”

Lockwood scoffed, setting aside the small paper cup. How pissed off could she be? He was the one confined to a bed, upon threat of George using sex toys on him. Wait, no, that sounds wrong.

Not that he wanted anyone to be using sex toys on Lucy instead- Fuck, that sounds worse!

Point is! Lockwood just couldn’t imagine how Lucy could be more frustrated than he was when she at least got to run around the country like a celebrity—literally my dream, if anyone cares—while he wasn’t even allowed to leave his room.

“She’s been stressed about taking care of herself and- and all that stuff,” George said, haltingly. “Lucy’s under a lot of stress. Even more than she was when you first got hurt. And you should’ve seen her back then, Lockwood. See this scar?” He lifted up his shirt sleeve to reveal a bright white mark in the shape of a teardrop with a long tail sitting right above his elbow. “I helped Holly get Lucy out of the hospital after two weeks, and she bit me. That’s from one of her fucking teeth, Lockwood. One of the nurses had to sedate her, that’s how bad it went.” He covered it back up. “So don’t even try to act like she’s not cut up about this. Or like she’s not capable of losing her shit, because I’ll tell you, I’ve seen it. She was absolutely fucking feral.”

Lockwood chuckled, staring at where the scar would be under George’s sleeve. Of course she’d leave a scar. Of course she’d fight to stay. She promised she wouldn’t leave me.

“Oh, don’t look so damn pleased!” George huffed, offended. “She drew blood, mate! You aren’t supposed to be all ‘how cute, that’s my girl’ about it! How would you feel if Lucy bit you?!”

Huh…

“No, Lockwood! No, that’s not the- your eyes are glazing over! Stop imaging that shit, you fucking bastard! I can tell!”

— —

One week later, the longest week of Lockwood’s life, he was finally able to walk independently for long periods of time. He didn’t need help keeping his hands steady, he could get himself around in spite of the almost full year of disuse his body had suffered. And, although Lockwood was mad about Lucy being away, about how much muscle he’d lost, about how he couldn’t do everything he used to, and about how he looked like the teenage skeleton he thought he’d finally outgrown, he was unbelievably thrilled. Because one week after waking up, Anthony Lockwood finally got to go home.

Chapter Text

That is Lucy’s jumper.

All Lockwood had done was open his closet, looking for something comfortable, but nicer than the ratty pajamas George had brought him to change into at the hospital. So, he’d opened up this wardrobe, and there it was. It was just hanging there, getting small pieces of electric blue fuzz on the back of one of his suits. 

What is Lucy’s jumper doing in my closet? But, as Lockwood went to take it out and back up to the attic before she came back and noticed, he took another look at his closet, realizing something even stranger. 

What are ALL of Lucy’s jumpers doing in my closet?!

It wasn’t that Lockwood had never thought about him and Lucy. In fact, the last time he hadn’t thought about him and Lucy had been about the first five hours he’d known her. But, unless Lockwood was forgetting more than he realized, he and Lucy were still in very platonic territory. Not that he particularly preferred being there.

No, Lockwood had always desperately wanted Lucy’s dresses and jumpers hanging up next to his shoes, their toothbrushes together in the bathroom on the landing, their bodies together in his bed. He wanted it so badly that he didn’t know how to make the words make sense. But that wasn’t what was meant to be. At the very least, it wasn’t what Lucy wanted. He knew that for sure.

Lockwood thought back to the last night he was convinced he’d tell Lucy how he felt. They’d been in the viewing box at the furnaces, and he could’ve dropped on one knee right there and proposed, seeing how the light flickered on her hair, giving her the halo of some unearthly goddess. To him, she always had been one of them, just gracing earth for a short time. Someone so much greater than he could deserve. But, somewhere deep down, he thought that maybe, just maybe, she could care about him the same way. Maybe they could be happy together.

And then, just as he was finally ready to open his mouth, some dick name Robin Truitt came up and asked Lucy out for drinks.

Two years and a coma later, and Lockwood could still remember that arse’s name with perfect clarity. He could probably have drawn a sketch for the police of his weasely little nose, recognized his pinched voice, punched out one of his disgusting eyes that had been roaming over Lucy. My Lucy. Afterwards, Lockwood had proceeded to give Lucy the cold shoulder all night, even after her pleasant, but firm refusal of this stranger’s advances. Dickhead.

“Will you just tell me what’s wrong? I swear, you were just fine earlier, and now you’ve got this attitude-“

“Attitude?!”

“Yes, attitude!” Lucy had scoffed. “Honestly, you haven’t been this impossible since we were teenagers, Lockwood!”

No one’s asked you out in front of me since we were teenagers. Lockwood had petulantly sunk deeper into his chair. “ ’M not being impossible. And if you’re accusing me of acting like a teenager, then maybe you shouldn’t be flirting at the furnaces.” All of her anger had dissipated in a single moment, and she laughed louder than he’d heard in a long time. “What?”

“That’s what this is about?! You can’t get over the fact that some kid at the furnaces asked me out? That’s what you’re so pissed over?!”

Shit. 

“No," he lied poorly. Dug yourself a nice grave there, mate.

Instead of getting angrier or hitting him for such an obvious declaration of adoration, Lucy had just laughed. He hated that she was right, that he was so transparent, but god did he love her laugh. “Honestly, Lockwood, you can’t let it bother you. It happens all the time whenever you’re not around. It’s not unthinkable that people ask me out, you know.” No, it’s certainly not. “Don’t act like I was fawning all over him just because I didn’t ask you to jump up and defend my honor or something.” Lockwood had refused to respond to that, pulling a magazine off the table and opening it slightly harsher than necessary. Maybe. He wouldn’t look up, nervous that she’d see straight through him. Like she always did.

“Seriously,” Lucy added, softer. "It’s not a big deal, Lockwood. I wouldn’t have said yes to him, not even in a million years.” Lockwood had looked up at that, hopeful.

“You wouldn’t?”

This was it. This was the perfect moment, the second it would all come together, he'd known it. And then-

“Of course not! I mean, honestly, who could manage being an agent, starting a writing career, and dating someone all at once,” Lucy had chuckled, shrugging her shoulders. “Honestly, even if I had liked Roger or, um… No, Ronnie, I think- oh, whatever! I don’t, but even if I had, I wouldn’t have had time to go out with him.” Lucy sighed, shaking her head. “I like our library nights and working cases and writing and all that too much to ruin it by going out with someone. And, on top of that all, first dates are just the absolute worst. Wouldn't you agree?”

And Lockwood's heart sank.

That settled it. Lucy Carlyle was too busy for anything else. Anyone else. She wasn’t interested in dating at all, and Lockwood understood, in a way. Lucy deserved to soar as high as she wanted on her own, to achieve everything. She wouldn’t be able to do that while carrying someone else and their baggage. And Lockwood had a hell of a lot of it. He would never push her away and risk losing Lucy by asking her to sacrifice a single piece of herself for him. It would never be worth it, not as long as she lived a floor away and they shared breakfasts and dinners and late night reading sessions in the library. It was close enough to his imagined heaven to be content.

But this, waking up to memories of Lucy’s voice and strange mixtures of stories he couldn’t quite remember, only to find out that Lucy was all the way up near Scotland on a book tour? This was not anywhere near heaven. Part of him wishes he hadn’t woken up until she was back, not if this is what missing her so horribly felt like. Another part of him, though, was incredibly grateful that he had time to put himself back together before she saw him. Especially if her jumpers were in his closet. Because that meant he had time to figure out how to deal with the very obvious implication that she was staying in his room. Which begs its own question:

Why is Lucy Carlyle staying in my room?

“Oh, I forgot about all that,” George chuckled, stirring Lockwood’s favorite ghormesh sabzi. “Now that I think of it, I remember Holly saying something about refusing to move any of Lucy’s belongings, no matter what the doctor said. The girls really do get along just fine now, but I think Holly’s still worried Lucy could snap any day. I however, think that Lucy’s homicidal tendencies have decreased at least tenfold since she-“ he stopped himself suddenly. “Well, no bother about that right now.”

“George,” Lockwood ground out, knuckles white on the back of his chair. “That’s not an answer.” He had spent over a day and a half pacing around his room and had found countless remnants of Lucy lingering. It was like finding her old things during the Black Winter all over again. Somehow, that made the waiting all the more difficult as he counted down the days. Lockwood needed an answer though, especially after the embarrassing show he’d made, barely able to stammer out the question itself, desperate to understand what was going on.

“It’s not a big deal, Lockwood. It’s just… complicated,” George finally answered. “All you need to know is that Lucy had a plenty good reason for it. Now, the doctors said to just let you acclimatize to the house for a few days, rest and all that, so Holly and I are under strict instructions not to overwhelm you with information.”

“But Lucy moved into my room,” Lockwood whined pathetically. “And I wasn’t even in there!”

George let out a chuckle at that. “That’s kind of why she did it, mate. She needed the extra space.”

“For what?” George just shook his head in response.

“You’ll find out eventually. Listen, it would be overwhelming, just believe me,” he sighed. “Hell, it was almost overwhelming for me, and I was here for the whole damn mess. Just rest for a few more days, and once you’re a bit more recovered, Holly and I will catch you up on everything. I swear it.”

— —

The next day, Lockwood was able to slip out after George and Holly had left after breakfast. He felt like he could handle the short walk and little jaunt over a wall to visit his parents. After all, it had been a year since he’d been the hop, skip, and jump away to the cemetery.

Bloody hell, that was a rather stupid move.

Lockwood collapsed, laying down fully sideways across his parent’s graves, breathing more heavily than he had in years. That ‘little jaunt’ and bit of a brisk walk had been significantly harder than he’d expected. Then again, it has been a year. He took his time catching his breath, letting the oxygen flow into his exhausted lungs before carefully siting up to talk to Jess, as he always did first. But, as he sat up on the carefully trimmed grass, he noticed something.

Her grave was perfectly clean.

Lockwood had been expecting to walk into the cemetery and struggle in his search for his family’s exact gravestones, likely covered by ivy and thorns that he hadn’t been there to clear away. He’d come out here consumed by that guilt, needing them to know where he’d been for the past year, needing them to know that they were truly never forgotten. But it seemed as though, miraculously, they hadn’t been. Lavender sprigs filled the iron vase behind Jessica’s small, but perfectly exposed headstone. They looked remarkably fresh, given the circumstances.

“Jess,” he started, like he always did. “I, um… I was going to apologize for you being rather lonely these past few months, but um…” Lockwood couldn’t help the small, awed chuckle that came out of his mouth. “Christ’s sake, Jess, I’ve been in a damn coma and you somehow managed to get yourself flowers. Making friends without me now, is that right?” He reached forward and picked one of them out of the iron vase, twirling it in his fingers. “You always were the popular one.”

They were the exact same as the lavender that grew in the backyard of Portland Row. The lavender that had been in a vase next to his bed in the hospital. He couldn’t hide the smile that came over his face. Lockwood didn’t want to, not ever again.

His parents graves were equally well kept, a neat set of slightly-decaying roses tucked behind their headstone. 

“Mum, Dad,” Lockwood breathed, letting his finger trace over their names. He knew, if he looked down, he’d be sitting approximately where his father’s chest would be, but Donald Lockwood had never minded when a tinier Anthony had sat on him as he’d tried to sleep. He had simply grabbed him, tickling and smiling, and pulled him into bed tightly between him and Celia. And the world had felt so safe. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone for a rather long time. It wasn’t exactly intentional. I- I hear that…” his voice froze up, still struggling to talk about it himself. He’d lost a whole damn year of his life. How was Lockwood supposed to tell them when he could still barely comprehend it himself? “There was an accident of sorts. At least, that’s what George says. Everyone was quite worried about me, so at least I was still the center of attention.” He softly smiled. “You hoked about me enjoying being in the middle of things a bit too much. Can’t say that anyone I know would disagree with you. Especially not Barnes, for goodness’ sake.”

He stayed there for a long time, in the cleared out cove of his family’s plot amidst a sea of overgrown moss, ivy, and sharp bushes. He told them about how he’d been getting Lucy flowers, even if he’d argued with George about it, about how he wanted to give her his mother’s necklace when she got home and not chicken out like a scared teenager this time, and about all the things he wanted to do before he would someday join them. A long time from now. Because he didn’t really remember anything but darkness between his accident at the moment he miraculously woke up, and if that blink, this loss, was all that death was, he didn’t want that. And, to be completely honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted it for a very long time. Longer than he had really realized before this.

“I’ll see you eventually, you know,” he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s just so much out here. Has been for a while, even if I didn’t really think about it. Figure someone has to make the next set of wild Lockwood Family Scrapbooks, right?” He paused, considering. “I think Lucy would like to travel. I don’t know if I’ve ever seriously asked her about it, but I’d imagine she’d like to see lots of places. Bet I could convince her,” he laughed to himself. “But I’ve got more adventures, you know? Lots to do, to tell you about. But don’t worry, I’ll be visiting more regularly now, nothing like that whole mess again. I swear it.”

He sat for just a while longer, letting the small amount of sun filtering in through the clouds to hit his face, breathing in deeply before starting his trek back. George, after all, would be back around for dinner soon—he was the evening ‘is Lockwood still alive’ patrol. But as he worked to climb the wall and carefully descend the other side—not even Lockwood was stupid enough to try to jump in his still-addled state—his mind kept wandering back to his obviously cared for, obviously well-loved family, despite his absence.

Lockwood had only taken one person to his parent’s graves. There was just one person who could’ve done something like this. And he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He didn't think he ever would.

— —

As Lockwood collapsed back on his bed, rather winded by the exertion of such a previously easy ritual of his, Lucy’s perfume wafted up from the pillow next to him. She’d bought the scent quite a while ago now, telling Lockwood she wanted to get something nice for herself after her first book was officially released. He couldn’t remember what it was called now, but it was soft and warm, vaguely making him thing of something sweet, like cake, but undercut with a note of something bright. Maybe orange? Definitely something citrus-y. If he wanted to, he could probably find it around his—their?—room somewhere, but that felt dangerously close to snooping.

But this familiar smell of her, her, her made him think back to the first time Lucy had ever slept in his room.

He had awoken to a quiet knock on his door, barely audible. But years of being alone in this house and the strange hours of his usual hunt had made him a light sleeper.

“Luce,” he’d called, wondering if he might still be dreaming. Most of his dreams involved her in one way or the other, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to assume it could be not-reality. “Luce, is that you?”

His door has slowly creaked open, and Lucy had slowly walked in. The first thing he noticed is that she wasn’t speaking. Lucy might be a Listener, but she was always humming or mumbling or leaving some kind of noise in her wake. A silent Lucy was a terrified Lucy, a furious Lucy, a destroyed Lucy. Lockwood pushed himself up to get a better look at her.  “Have a nightmare?”

It was a rhetorical question. She was standing there in her oversized shirt and sleep shorts, trembling, and all Lockwood had wanted was to hug her. He wanted to hold her in his arms, like he could protect her from all the things inside her mind. Like he could hold her together and shield her from the storm if he just never let go.

And so, in his dazed and exhausted state, he’d told Lucy to just sleep with him.

Not in those words, of course, and not nearly as suggestively. At least, he didn’t remember doing or saying anything untoward. Lockwood told himself it was more of an accident than anything. He’d been busy around that time with paperwork and arguments with DEPRAC and a thousand things racing through his mind. It was just exhaustion that made him make such a brazen offer. He should’ve been wildly embarrassed. But, then again, Lucy had accepted. She’d practically jumped into his bed, snuggling into his chest. He’d wrapped his arms around her, and something had just felt right. She closed her eyes, burying her face in Lockwood’s shoulder, and he watched her slowly drift back to sleep, peace falling over her features. She looked so beautiful when she slept. So untouchable. Lockwood hadn’t been able to help himself from running his hands through her hair a few times, smiling at her contented, unconscious sighs, until he himself fell asleep too. She woke up before him that day and was gone before he opened his eyes, but her perfume had clung to his pillow, and a hair tie was on the left on the nightstand, proving it had been real. He should’ve given the hair tie back, but Luce had plenty. And if he didn’t let Holly wash his sheets that next day, like she normally did, that wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

This late-night occurrence repeated itself a few times afterwards, as they slowly settled into life after the Fittes House. Lockwood was going to tell her how he felt then, but doing so would’ve almost guaranteed that those visits would stop, even if they were just the product of nightmares. Of course, she eventually stopped coming down anyways as the dreams tapered off, so a fat lot of good his restraint had done him. He should’ve told her before that. But he couldn’t have very well told her after, she would’ve moved out, and by then, well… It was always just too early or too late. Maybe they’d missed their chance years ago. And, before Lockwood knew it, years had gone by without Lucy coming back to his room.

But apparently, she’d been sleeping in his bed again.

Without him.

Because fuck my life.

— —

Lockwood thumbed absentmindedly through one of his more recent magazines, fascinated by the ongoing gossip. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of juicy stories he’d missed while in the coma. He did his best not to imagine what he must’ve missed here at home, as hard as it was. A short article caught his attention. 

Problem Literature? Not in Our Eyes!

Bestselling author Lucy Carlyle, who writes fictional stories based on her experiences as an agent with the famed ghost-hunting agency LOCKWOOD & CO. is currently on tour to advertise her new book, coming out next month! Her book signing in Newcastle will be broadcast 6:30pm-7:30pm on BBC Three. See page 6 for a sneak peek at her new title, The Whispering Skull.

It was 7:18! He couldn’t believe his luck! If he hurried, he might just be able to get a tiny glimpse of her—how she was now rather than in his year-old memories. He’d get to see her, his Lucy Carlyle, even if it was only through a screen.

Lockwood scrambled downstairs as fast as he physically could—which wasn’t nearly as fast as he’d like—and turned on the box set television he’d convinced George to buy a few years ago. 

“Lockwood, slow down, mate! You’re going to hurt yourself!”

“Lucy,” was all Lockwood was able to manage, rummaging through everything in search for the clunky remote. A piece of dull plastic caught his eye. “Yes!” He quickly turned on the telly and started combing through the channels.

George chuckled. “Lucy mentioned they might end up broadcasting a few of the events. That’s all this is about?” Lockwood just nodded eagerly. George shook his head and took the remote from his shaking hands, muttering something about “lovestruck idiot” or something like it. Lockwood wasn’t really paying attention.

Because Lucy appeared.

God, I love her.

She looked stunning. She was sitting at a small table, her waved hair tucked behind her ears as she signed books for an excited line of fans.  Lockwood sat in front of the television, enraptured. There she was. His girl, out there in front of people, doing better in crowds than he’d ever imagined. His Lucy, succeeding just like he’d always known she would. 

Lockwood lost track of time as the camera stayed on Lucy, capturing the soft lilt of her words, her slight smile and bashful nature. He watched as she wrapped up a short speech about her next book, how everything was highly fictionalized (a necessary, unfortunate lie), and as she continued signing books and answering question after question seamlessly. He couldn’t be more proud. Lockwood had never be so in love, he thought, as he watched her, so far away and yet so close.

“Oi, Mum!” A frustrated young voice crackled through the television set. Lockwood watched as Lucy’s head jerked up immediately, scanning the bookstore before landing on… something?

The camera then panned to a young girl, certainly no older than ten, leaning against a bookshelf across the shop, her hands cupping her mouth to ensure she was heard.

Whose kid is that?

“Tell your fans that this event is over already! I’m starving, and you promised we’d leave straightaway for takeout!” 

The small child was quickly ushered away by someone with a bookstore lanyard, and the camera turned back to Lucy. Her face was red, the same way it used to get when he’d compliment her, and she was staring away from camera, where this girl had been, with a stunned but pleased look. Lucy suddenly cleared her throat, looking back to the fans crowding her table.

“I’m sorry about that, folks. But I’m afraid that Bea here is actually right, I’m afraid we do have to go.” She smiled softly, slinging a messenger bag over her shoulder. “Thank you all so much for having me, and have a wonderful night, really.”

Lucy stood up from her chair and slung a messenger bag over her shoulder. An older woman—probably The Crowne Bitch—kept trying to pull her back to the table, but she just shook her off and shot her one of her trademark Carlyle glares. It was quick and subtle and dark, and anyone but Lockwood probably missed it. He couldn’t have been more proud. People started clambering over each other to try to shake Lucy’s hand or get a final word, but Lockwood noticed her eyes as the camera followed her out of the bookstore. She wasn’t paying attention to the crowd, not anymore. No, he could tell she was looking for someone. Lucy suddenly smiled and stretched out her hand, and that little girl from before bounded up next to her, settling her shoulder comfortably into Lucy’s side. It was something familiar and practiced, as Lucy put her arm around the girl and they left the shop together. A pang of familiar longing pierced Lockwood’s heart. The channel went to advertisements quickly afterwards, and he felt himself wishing he could see just another frame of Lucy. He couldn’t watch anything else, not now, he thought, turning off the big box television set. Not in this strange, confused state. Not after he still wasn’t sure what he’d just seen.

Lucy’s… daughter?

It was Lucy, Lockwood knew that deep in his bones. But this version of Lucy, his Lucy with an excitable, dark-haired little girl taking her hand and running alongside her, seemed like a version of her that walked straight out of one of his teenage fantasies. Not one he’d ever actually see.

George chose that moment to walk in, carrying a small tray with biscuits and tea. “How was it? Lucy always tells us not to watch those things, says she hates being on camera and all the publicity. I was shocked she agreed to do the tour, but even I have to admit it’s good for her next book. I do hate all that about the cameras, though, you know Ms. Crowne probably didn’t even tell her which signings would be televised until the cameras were already rolling. It’s just so unfair to our Lucy, she deserves better. Then again, that’s why we’re getting her a new publisher as soon as she finishes this contract.” He knew George had been trying to get out of the habit of talking to him like he was still in a coma, and it wasn’t coming easy to any of them. But right now, Lockwood was more concerned with how much exactly had changed while he was gone. 

Lucy’s clothes in my room. Lucy’s perfume on my pillow. Lucy with a little girl.

“Lockwood? Look at me. Lockwood, mate, you feeling alright?” Lockwood just turned to George with a slightly dazed look.

“Who’s Bea?”

Chapter Text

Bea was so fucking thrilled—excuse the language, Mum—that she could barely hold herself together. 

Because Lockwood woke up.

Lockwood woke up.

Lockwood woke up.

LOCKWOOD WOKE UP !!!

She could hardly believe it. Seriously, she really could hardly believe it--it seemed more like some fantasy than a real thing. He almost didn't seem real.

Bea had met Mr. Lockwood, of course. She’d visited him with Lucy every Sunday. She’d gone to visit his family at the cemetery. She learned all of his favorite songs from his records, read some of his favorite books. Uncle George had even told her that stash of chocolate biscuits she’d eaten once had been part of his old stash. Apparently he’d had quite the taste for chocolate too.

Bea hoped he’d be willing to keep sharing his biscuits after she and Mum got back.

And Mum! Mum had been telling even stories about Lockwood since the big news. Aunt Holly called every night with a short report of how he’d been, and it was always the biggest event of the night. She and Mum would huddle around whatever type of phone the hotel room had and would listen carefully, monitoring Lockwood from so far away, no matter what. Once, they’d even had to cluster near a phone in the middle of the hotel lobby, and Bea had discovered that, if you’re Mum, with her signature scowl and grand claim to fame, it really doesn’t matter how silly things seem at first.

She and Mum sat together in their hotel rooms, counting down the nights until they’d be home. They'd talk about how excited they were to go home, how incredible it was that he’d be there when they got back to, how, despite horrid Ms. Crowne and the throngs of fans and the hundreds of miles between them, Lockwood would know they were coming and be there waiting for them, the good of Portland Row always there. Always, always there.

“And there was this one time,” Mum chuckled, “that Lockwood fell out a window during a case.”

“A window?!” Bea looked up, shocked. “I thought he was coordinated.”

“Well,” she sighed. “I say he fell out the window. Lockwood, however, always says something about how he didn't technically fall, what with me throwing that hot water bottle at him with my salt bomb arm and all.” They had erupted into laughter after that. “Don’t worry, he climbed back in,” Mum eventually added, before starting on another story about Lockwood. One about some trip to the furnaces or another, going on about his coat in the wind and him defending her with his rapier. Or another tale in the halls of Portland Row, where he would go on and on about themes in one of his old books where people basically spent hundreds of pages walking between each others' houses. To each his own, I guess?

As the days got closer and closer, each night seemed longer and longer. Bea and Mum would stay up later and later, talking about all of their plans. There was a new greenhouse at the park that Lockwood would love, Bea was dying to visit the zoo, Mum wanted to take them all through a watercolors exhibit that was arriving soon. They had so many things to do, so many places to go. As a family this time. A big, full, real one.

Bea was fucking thrilled.

— —

Just two more days.

He’d been studying. Over 2 weeks since he’d woken up. Over 1 week since he’d been home. And 3 full days since he’d found out about Beatrice Carlyle. Lucy’s daughter. He wanted to scream. He wanted to meet her. He wanted to kiss Lucy. He wanted to ask how she’d managed to get her hands on a whole damn child. He wanted to pick them both up, hold them close, pretend that it was real. He wanted to get on his knees and make them his family, in every way, no matter what. Until forever and beyond. Lockwood and Lucy knew just how possible that was.

At least, that’s what he liked to imagine in his head. Obviously, he couldn’t actually do that. Bea hadn’t even met him. He couldn’t very well terrify the girl the first time he met her. He couldn’t terrify her ever. He hadn’t even met Bea, and he already wanted to take care of her, just like he always tried to do for Lucy. He wanted to protect her, make her feel safe, just like he and Lucy had always wanted someone to do for them.

But, more than anything, Lockwood just wanted to see Lucy again. He wanted to see every piece of her he’d missed in the past year. He wanted to see the teenager she’d been and the woman she’d become. He wanted to go and read her books, if she’d finally agree to let him, and he wanted to get to know the little girl who was so obviously a part of her, and he wanted to understand Lucy as intimately as he felt understood by her, a single look of hers taking a sledgehammer to every wall he’d ever built. He wanted to hold her close, and he wanted her to hold him, and he knew that if he had that, for just a moment, he’d finally feel like he could breathe.

God, he just wanted Lucy.

— —

Just one more day.

When Lockwood asked about Bea for the first time, George had taken him up to the attic. Lockwood had been stunned. This room that had once been Lucy’s, filled with salt bombs and sketchbooks, was now covered in toys and blankets and chapter books. The bed was made up with his own old dinosaur sheets, and ‘B E A’ was painted in curving, lavender letters above the headboard. Then, George had turned Lockwood to show him the delicate mural that Lucy had painted after going to that coffee shop the first time. He said that he had thought Lucy was going mad, but Holly had somehow been right. It was Lucy’s first step towards coming back to herself after losing Lockwood.

And that was true, even if he didn’t want it to be. Lucy had lost him. And she’d had to live with it. Better me than her, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t have come back out of it, not if it was the other way around. But, when Lockwood had said that to George, the other man had just scoffed and rolled his eyes.

George’s mutters sounded something a whole lot like “stupid, oblivious arsehole”. However, that was denied when Lockwood asked.

Lockwood made his way back up to the attic, nervously anticipating their arrival the next day. He sat down carefully at the bottom right corner, where two handprints were painted on the wall. Holly told him about how Lucy and Bea had added them on the first night the girl moved in. She said made the situation feel real for all of them.

He placed his hand over Lucy’s blue mark, watching it disappear under his cold hand. Lockwood could almost feel her heat radiating off of it, connecting them through time and space. He slowly lifted his hand off, wishing it was really her, desperately wishing she were already here. He slowly shifted his fingers to trace the other handprint, a tiny light purple thing. He knew, if he put his hand fully over it, it would almost fit squarely in his palm alone. George had said Bea was rather small for her age, likely due to the abuse and neglect she suffered from before coming to them. Lockwood, however, looking at that handprint, didn’t feel sorry for her, didn’t worry. He just felt something in his heart, his gut, whatever you call it, telling him that he was going to love this little girl. He’d never met her, but he knew, seeing her handprint next to Lucy’s, her name above his bed, her soul in this room—a room where he’d always imagined having his own kids—that this had always been meant to be.

— —

Today’s the day.

Lockwood spent the final morning before Lucy and Bea were supposed to come home studying up on his notes. George was rather impressed, told Lockwood that he would've started teaching Lockwood about more random things if all it took was putting it in terms of Lucy and her daughter. George had proceeded to get smacked upside the head and then whine about it to Holly. Lockwood was unsympathetic, naturally, regardless of what Holly said about "patience" and "kindness" and "don't be a dick, Lockwood".

He ignored the both of them as they left the house, saying something about not wanting to intrude on the 'big reunion', in favor of pouring over The Notebook. Specifically, the notebook of every tidbit of information that George and Holly and Barnes had given him about this amazing little girl.

Bea wanted to be an author one day. Bea liked going to the park and visiting museums. Bea would sit at the attic window all the time, and then come down and tell stories she made up about all of the passerbys on the street. Bea was learning how to fence, but she wasn’t very good at it. Bea made George and Holly promise to never tell Lucy she thought it might be because Lucy is a not quite the absolute best fencer on earth. Bea loved absolutely anything chocolate flavored. 

Lockwood was hopelessly in love with an author. Lockwood enjoyed parks and museums too, and he had some old friends of his parents who could get him private access to some exhibits if Bea was interested. Lockwood enjoyed people watching too, even if he wasn’t quite as creative as Lucy and Bea, it seemed. Lockwood would take over teaching Bea how to fence, that seemed like a good way to build rapport and actually teach her some technique, instead of Lucy’s unpredictable strikes that sat somewhere between swordfighting and a pure, crazed tornado of boots and fists. And finally, Lockwood silently swore to stay stocked with plenty of his ChocoLeibniz, just to be safe. In case Bea liked them too.

He was going to find things in common with her. Lockwood was determined to.

George and Holly refused to talk about Bea’s adoption process, only saying that Barnes had helped immensely. Naturally, that warranted a visit to the old man himself. When Lockwood was finally able to drag himself down to DEPRAC, Barnes had agreed to let him see the only unsealed file about Beatrice’s adoption: the dismissed charges against Lucy Carlyle for battery and assault with a deadly weapon. Everything else was too wrapped up in red tape, according to the older man. Wrapped in red tape or not his story to tell. Whatever that fuck that means. Lockwood huffed as he started reading through the file.

Holy fucking shit.

Lockwood had had seen red. He knew exactly what it took for Lucy to hurt someone, and it was a hell of a lot. And she'd gone so far to pull out her rapier? Lucy hated fighting with her sword, she always said she was a better fighter with her hands. To warrant the stabbing, she would’ve had to have been exhausted, and this demon of a man would’ve had to have been huge. Attempted manual strangulation, what the hell?! The more he read, the angrier he got. Fifteen minutes of a physical fight, and that was well before the phone call to emergency services, and they had the audacity to put handcuffs on Lucy? His Lucy?! Barnes had refused to let Lockwood ;eave until he'd calmed down, probably out of fear for both Lockwood's health and whoever he'd run into next. It was likely necessary, Lockwood later conceded.

“Here’s the thing, son,” Barnes had eventually said, taking the file back from Lockwood’s shaking hands. “Lucy told me about her family. About her mother about everything up North. The whole truth, this time.”

Lockwood looked up at that, shocked. Lucy had only told him about her childhood once, when they had gotten wine drunk in the library after the release of her first book. Showed him the scars she kept covered, even pointed out where they’d had to put screws in her arm once. He couldn’t believe that she’d told Barnes. That she’d been able to speak of it in the light of day, all on her own. Because she didn’t have another choice.

 “I know that Lucy can handle this." Barnes nodded, putting the papers back away in his desk. "She knows exactly what she signed up for, and I helped her get there. But now, you’re back, at that little girl is living at Portland Row, and you need to understand what that means."

Lockwood paused, looking curiously at Barnes. Was this a... a shovel talk? From Barnes?!

"I know you lost your father young," he sighed. "And I never had any kids of my own. Hell, my hands were full enough with the lot of you, burning down houses and landing in the hospital and all, I'd have had a stroke." Barnes ran his fingers across the seams of his cuffs. "But I knew your mother, long time ago. Just in passing as agents. I knew of her might be a better way to describe it. And she was smart and Talented, and she would want someone to tell her son that right now, and I mean right now, you have to make a decision. Because Lucy and Beatrice will be coming home, and you get one chance to determine what that makes you as a man. You have to decide if you're going to stick around for her and Beatrice. Because if that little girl comes home and you decide to be there for her and Lucy, you do not get to change your mind later. They deserve that much." Barnes voice was quiet, but final. Harsher than he'd had ever heard it before. As though there would never be anything more serious than this moment, and Lockwood supposed that was true.

“Do you understand me, Mr. Lockwood?”

“Yes sir.”

Walking home from that meeting with Barnes, his hands still shaking, Lockwood made himself a promise. He swore that, no matter what happened, Bea would be happy. He was going to meet this little girl and take care of her and be there for her and Lucy in every way that they’d let him. Whatever Lucy would give, he’d take it, even if one day she’d move on and move out and leave him behind. Even then, he would still be there in every moment for Beatrice, because after all the shit she'd been through, this little girl was going to be loved. He was going to choose to love her, no matter what.

The day after Lockwood had first asked about Bea, Holly brought him a small photo of Lucy teaching Bea how to climb the apple tree in the backyard. It was already in his wallet. 

As he paced between the library and the basement and the attic, ensuring everything was clean and ready and perfect for Lucy’s arrival, Lockwood kept pausing to pull out that photo. George said Holly should’ve waited to give it to him, that he was going to wear it out if he carried on like that, but Lockwood didn’t care. He’d print another one. He’d print a thousand if he could keep staring at his girls like this. Bea was sitting in a branch just above Lucy, her dark hair tangled with leaves. Lucy was smiling up at her encouragingly, standing on one of the bottom branches, with one hand braced on its trunk.

He might not have met Bea yet, and he might need to get to know this version of Lucy after all this time. But looking at this photo, Lockwood knew they already felt like home.

Chapter Text

Lockwood was sitting in the library, his heart racing wildly. He felt like his bones could vibrate out of his skin. He’d checked the train schedule, and it looked as though they’d arrived on time to the station. They’d be home any minute now.

Lucy is almost home.

He was trying to read one of his magazines from the past year. They had started keeping the papers that came to Portland Row in a box, and when it started getting full, they had started a whole drawer in the file cabinet for him. George had guiltily admitted that he stopped visiting Lockwood after about five months, because he preferred remembering both him and Lucy like they used to be, not what who they were in that hospital room. Shadows and Shades, the both of them. However, he’d instead taken to reading to the society pages, like Lockwood had always begged him to do. Lockwood had laughed at that, surprisingly pleased that, if any good happened because of his accident, it was something that random and strange. George was right, society magazines had always brought him the most joy. Well, the most joy aside from Lucy.

And Lucy is almost home.

His brain wouldn’t stop echoing that on repeat. It was as though there were no other thoughts in his head. He’d been trying to read about the same scandal for over an hour, and Lockwood still didn’t know who Mrs. Isobel Green was purportedly seen at a cafe with despite her recent nuptials! At this point, his newfound lack of patience was really starting to grate on his nerves.

The soft click of a lock echoed through the house. 

Suddenly, Lockwood felt frozen. He didn’t feel on edge, that sense of anticipation. He just felt still. A strange sense of calm, like in the eye of a storm. Like the second before a Poltergeist starts up. Like the moment before all your dreams come true. The slow creak of the door opening was so soft, it lit his soul on fire.

She’s home.

“Finally,” a bright voice sighed loudly. Small thuds echoed from the entryway—her shoes. The tiny shoes of a little girl. Something inside of him just wanted to melt. “That train ride took for-flipping-ever!”

“You slept through more than half of it,” a familiar voice laughed, with a small yawn. “And don’t leave your boots strewn across the entryway or you’ll never be able to find them tomorrow.” A tiny huff followed, then the metallic chink of the shoe rack.

Lockwood felt his soul leave his body. He could barely breathe.

Lucy.

That was Lucy’s voice. That was his Lucy’s voice. She was standing in the entryway, scolding little Bea about her boots, with that Northern lilt of hers and deep laughter and everything he’d been dreaming about since the moment he’d woken up. She’d been the first thing he’d asked for and the only thing on his mind since.

“Where’s Lockwood,” that young voice—Beatrice, of course—asked. “Figured he’d be right here.”

Lockwood didn’t remember setting down his magazine.

He didn’t remember standing up out of his chair. He didn’t remember the feeling of the carpet under his sock-clad feet as he crossed the room. But then he was there in the doorway, carefully peering at the two blissfully unaware girls in his entryway.

Bea was turned away from him, watching Lucy, with her dark, dark hair hanging down straight behind her. George is right, she is rather small for her age. And then his eyes had caught on Lucy, and he couldn't have looked away if he tried.

She was wearing that blue jacket he’d bought for her ages ago—when you chickened out of giving her your mother’s necklace, you twit—and her hair was longer than he’d ever seen it. It was tied back in a ponytail pulled over her shoulder, the white streaks from their time on the Other Side brighter than ever. It was still his Lucy, standing right there at the door, focused on her determined fight with her old boots. He smiled through the tightness in his throat at seeing her again. Told her to buy the ones with zippers ages ago. “Well, Bea,” she huffed, struggling with her double-triple knots, “maybe he’s asleep. He is still recovering, you know.”

Bea scoffed. “He’s been asleep for a year, I think he’s rested plenty by now.” Lockwood silently laughed at that. I like her.

“Well, we didn’t exactly call before catching the cab,” Lucy said as her boot finally slipped off her foot. She sighed in relief, setting it down and unwrapping a grey scarf from around her neck. Is that mine?!

“No,” Bea insisted, passing a her tiny, firetruck red coat to Lucy. “You said he’d be here waiting when we got home. That he always just… knew.”

Something warm welled up in his chest at that. That Lucy had told Beatrice he'd be waiting up for her. That he always knew when she was coming home to him. Lockwood wanted nothing more than to keep being that man. To be that man forever, no matter what it took. He'd do anything for it. For them. Lockwood smiled and crossed his arms, taking their distraction to lean faux-casually into the doorframe. He'd practiced in his room with a mirror and had found it distracted from how much skinnier he'd gotten while in the hospital. Not that Lucy would care, but still. It had been a year since he'd seen her, after all.

He took a deep, steadying breath, preparing himself.

Hell, who could he fool? There was no preparing for Lucy Carlyle. He'd never been ready for her, never would be. And he couldn't be happier for it.

Lockwood cleared his throat loudly, through the wide grin on his face. Both of their heads snapped over to him. Lucy completely froze, silent as she drank him in. Bea’s gasp was audible as her eyes locked on his.

“Mr. Lockwood,” Bea practically whispered. “It’s really you.”

Lockwood smiled down at her. “And you’re Beatrice, I believe.” He knelt down to her level and extended one hand. “It’s quite the honor to finally meet you.” He glanced up quickly, to see a still-frozen Lucy, who seemed to be holding her breath. Lockwood couldn’t help but send her a quick wink, unable to stop from smiling at her. He could never stop smiling with her. He never wanted to.

“Your eyes are light brown,” Bea said simply, tilting her head. What? Lockwood simply nodded his head in response, his hand still out for her to take. What is she doing?

“When we visited the hospital,” she continued, “your eyes were closed, but I always imagined they’d be darker.” Bea observed him carefully, as though she was fitting him together like a puzzle. He wanted to squirm under her gaze, simultaneously familiar and disconcerting.

When Lockwood had first learned about Bea, he’d asked George and Holly whether or not she was adopted. It had been an obviously stupid question, but he blamed that on the coma. However, instead of making fun of his obvious idiocy, Holly had just burst out laughing. George had sighed long-sufferingly. “You know, Lockwood, sometimes I ask myself that very same question.” They had refused to elaborate.

But in this moment, finally seeing Beatrice in person like this, her dark, straight hair and blue, piercing eyes, unwaveringly confident in her muddy boots, Lockwood perfectly understood. 

Suddenly, and without warning, Bea launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck tightly. Lockwood released a shocked breath, freezing for just a second. 

No one hugged him. Not really. Lucy, of course, but that was... George didn't like physical contact of sorts, and his family had all passed. Lockwood had expected this little girl to be shocked and wary of him. If he were lucky, she'd be thrilled to meet a Hero of the Problem, closest confidant to London's Darling. But this? It hadn't been anything he'd imagined. Lockwood quickly relaxed, her cheek soft and warm on his shoulder. He carefully wound his own arms around her, with a stunned smile.

Somehow, with all he'd imagined, this was still better.

Eventually, Bea let go of him, taking a tiny step backwards. “I was right,” she nodded, smiling victoriously. “I just knew you’d give the best hugs.”

Lockwood’s heart was about to beat out of his chest. He’d known for years that Lucy was his whole world, but within less than two minutes, this little girl was making her own little space in it. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Well,” he softly said, “you just let me know, and you can have a hug whenever you’d like. Promise.” He extended his pinky out, and Bea took it in hers, shaking their hands together. She smiled widely at him, her teeth glinting sharply under the glow of the lamps. And that promise Lockwood had made himself, to choose this… It didn’t feel like there could ever have been another option.

He glanced up at Lucy, and she was still frozen, one hand covering her mouth. She was shaking, staring at him like he was a Visitor, like he could disappear at any moment. And, to be fair, he had. He’d walked out of that door, once upon a time, and then he’d been gone. But Lockwood was back now, back here with her, and he had no intention of going anywhere. Never again.

“You know what, Beatrice,” Lockwood looked back to her, whispering conspiratorially. “I heard Holly talking about baking some kind of cake yesterday… Now, is it true that you enjoy chocolate, or should it have been some other flavor? Because I wasn’t quite certain.”

Bea’s face lit up brighter than a Christmas tree. “No flipping way!” She pushed off of him and ran off, in search for the promised cake. Lockwood had seen it, and Holly had practically had to beat George back with a wooden spoon to keep it intact.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she,” Lockwood chuckled, slowly pushing off his knee to stand. He stared behind him, where that tiny wonder had just scrambled into his kitchen. “Where on earth did you find her?” He turned back to Lucy, who was still just kept staring at him, her deep blue eyes wide. He paused, nervous. It had been a year for her, after all.

What did she see now, looking at him? Did she see the child that used to live in Bea’s attic? The boy she still writes books about? The young man she put up with living alongside because finding housing in London was nigh impossible? A strange, withered version of someone she used to know?

A man she could imagine starting a life with?

“Luce?” His voice was soft, scared of startling her. A sound that was half shriek-half sigh, half human-half otherworldly came out of Lucy’s mouth as tears started falling from her eyes. Those beautiful, blue eyes.

And, like always, he couldn’t help himself from going to her.

Lockwood went and wrapped his arms around Lucy, pulling her tight to his chest, holding on tighter than he’d ever allowed himself before. “Lucy. Lucy, love, look at me. Lucy, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

“You’re really here,” her soft voice was muffled by his shirt and made raspy by her tears. If he had it his way, she’d never cry again. “God, Lockwood, you’re here.”

She sobbed into his shirt, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tightly. He could feel the pressure of her arms squeezing his ribs, but he didn’t care. It made him feel alive. She always did.They stayed there for who knows how long, as Lucy’s breathing slowly evened out.

“Lockwood,” she finally whispered. “Lockwood, please tell me I’m not dreaming. I’ve had too many dreams like this, please. Tell me this is real. That you’re real.”

“It is. I’m right here, I swear,” he croaked, voice thick with emotion. “You’ve just got to promise me I’m not dreaming either.”

Lucy took a deep breath and looked up at him, loosening her arms slightly. “You aren’t dreaming, Lockwood,” she said with her lovely little Northern lilt. One of Lucy’s hands came up and cupped the side of his face, and he unconsciously leaned into it. This was real. She was real, she was right here.

Lucy’s finally home.

He wanted to learn down and kiss her. God, how he wanted it. How he wanted to pull her tight against him and never let go, hold her forever.

“Mum!” a bright voice called from the kitchen. “I’m cutting myself a piece of Aunt Holly’s cake, do you want some?”

It hit him like a fucking freight train.

If Lucy was busy before, it could only be more true. And if she was content with how things had been back then, well... Everything he'd heard, everything he'd seen, Lucy seemed happier than he'd ever seen her before.

He’d been asleep for a year. And Lucy had kept going. She hadn’t had another choice, Lockwood reminded himself. But still, she moved out of the attic, she finished her second book, she even adopted a little girl.

Lockwood always knew that Lucy Carlyle didn't need him. He loved that about her, he loved everything about her. Back then, though, before his accident, he'd still felt important. But all of this? This, Lucy had done all on her own. She didn't need him getting in her way, ruining this life that she'd managed to carve out for herself. Once upon a time, he'd believed that he might be able to make himself worthy. But now, he couldn't give her anything but his baggage and more obstacles to overcome.

That didn’t change how much he wanted her. But Lockwood knew how to live with it. As long as Lucy stayed, it would be enough. He could pretend it was enough. Lockwood quickly stepped back, clearing his throat, forcing his arms back down to his sides. He'd had to, before he did something they'd both regret.

“We’ll be right in there, Bea,” he called over his shoulder, before offering Lucy his best practiced smile. He hoped it looked as easy and charming as it used to.

Something like disappointment flickered across Lucy’s face, but she smiled quickly, shutting him out, and entered the kitchen. Lockwood shook off the lingering feeling that he should’ve done something. Anything. That feeling needed to disappear. It was so wrong to want like this. Lucy’s daughter deserved better than some fucked-up twenty four- twenty five year old who harassed her mother on a daily basis. Lucy deserved better than worrying about whether her daughter’s home was dependent on whether she put up with him. They deserved so much better than that. He had to be better for them.

What the hell is wrong with me?

— —

What the hell is wrong with me?!

Lucy had meant to say something. Really, she had.

She had it all planned out She’d run into his arms as soon as she came in the door. She wouldn’t let go, not until she’d gotten her fill of him. His breath ghosting the top of her head, his strong arms wrapped about her, his cologne surrounding her—from him this time, rather than some stupid pillow she'd sprayed once (or twice or seven times) while feeling sad and alone. She would breathe him in, solid and alive and here with her, and once it truly felt real, she’d step back and tell him everything. She’d tell him about the nights she spent at the hospital until Holly unceremoniously dragged her out, looking much like a feral squirrel, according to George. She’d tell him how she’d been lost without him, how she’d sworn to herself that, if he’d only wake up, she’d tell him she loved him. That she loved him since that first moment they met, that she loved him ever moment she was gone, that she loved him even when she didn’t believe she’d get to look into his eyes again. The she would have loved him like that forever. She’d tell him how, before Bea, she didn’t know whether she’d be able to write about him again, but how she’d put herself back together and now there was this amazing little girl in their lives. She’d tell him that she wanted this to be their future—one life, one house, one family, everything she never thought she’d be able to have. Everything she didn’t believe she could deserve.

And it had gone to shit.

She had been more exhausted by the train ride than she’d anticipated (whoever said traveling alone with only one child was easy could go suck a dick) Bea had gotten inside first, and they’d gotten so caught up in their practiced motions of getting home that Lucy hadn’t even noticed Lockwood in the library door. Then, he had been so, so heart-wrenchingly sweet with Bea that Lucy’s knees buckled under her, and she swore all of her organs had just melted at the sight of them finally together. And then, of course, Lucy had started crying, and Lockwood had come and swept her into his arms in that soft way of his, and she’d barely been able to pull herself together. They pulled apart, finally, and Lucy thought, this is it. This is the moment. This is when it was all going to finally fall into place, with her in his arms and him staring down at her. For a second that felt like an eternity, she thought he’d kiss her. Even with her tear-stained cheeks and her stupid newfound freckles and messily pulled back hair. But he’d stepped away instead. She got to add another moment of stupid hopes and almosts to her grand collection. He'd pratcially run away from her and put up that stupid client smile she hadn't seen in years, and she hated it. It was like he was afraid of something. Like he needed to get away from something. 

Like he’d wanted to get away from her.

What was she supposed to do with that? Ask him?! Ask Anthony-bloody-Lockwood about his feelings? She wasn’t that stupid. Was she supposed to force him to love her because there was now a kid running rampant in his house—a kid he’d never met before? A kid he hadn’t actually said could stay. What if he wanted Lucy to move out now? That would certainly be a reasonable reaction to all this information. Even if he had wanted her once, she had a daughter now. That changed things, of course it did. Did Lockwood even want a family someday? George and Holly had obviously mentioned Bea to Lockwood, given how he’d recognized her, but did he know they’d been living here still? Maybe Lockwood wanted his space, didn’t want to be attached to the two of them. Maybe it wasn’t even about Bea at all, maybe he just didn’t want Lucy. Maybe he never had, and she’d made up this fictional longing in her head to cope with losing the love of her life.

Regardless.

Shit.

Lucy quickly pulled herself together and went down to the kitchen, finding Bea already having tucked in to Holly’s cake. She smiled at the chocolate frosting that had somehow ended up on Bea’s forehead, because of course it had. This girl was almost as messy as her. Finding her must’ve been fate, Lucy couldn’t help but think, a smile crossing her face.

I can be happy like this, Lucy thought to herself. If she and Bea could live in Portland Row still, if Holly and George were still Bea’s aunt and uncle, if there would still be good days and chocolate cakes and adorable stick figure sketches covering the Thinking Cloth, she could be happy. Even if she was just Lucy and he was just Lockwood, and she lived out her life still stuck in that strange, amazing orbit of his, she could be happy.

She would learn to be happy with it.

— —

Lockwood watched as Lucy and Bea walked through an obviously practiced routine in the kitchen. Bea had sat on the counter, talking absentmindedly with Lockwood as she passed Lucy ingredients from the cabinet. They’d put the casserole dish the oven, and the the next half hour was spent discussing Lucy’s tour and the old exploits of one Lockwood and Co. It seemed Bea was fascinated with stories from the Problem, and Lockwood was more than happy to soak up the attention, especially when it was from someone so very attached to Lucy herself. The more stories he told, though, the more he realized Bea knew the endings to almost every one.

“What, did you two talk about me while I was gone?” Lockwood laughed, wondering if he had any stories where the twist would surprise her.

“Only all the time!” Bea’s face was excited, if anything. Lockwood, slightly shocked, turned to Lucy. All the confirmation he needed was the slight pink flush peeking through her freckles.

She shrugged self-consciously. “I had to tell her something, didn’t I? And well,” she chuckled, “they’re rather interesting stories when you’re not actively dying because of them. The one with you falling out that window at the Lavender Lodge was a hit, you know.”

Lockwood didn’t have the faintest idea what look was plastered on his face. He knew they closed the agency since he’d been gone, which he had been planning on for a long time, but he’d assumed they they all had just moved on afterwards, especially Lucy. George had been much more involved with his university, Holly had gotten married to Vera, and Lucy had adopted a whole child without him. But despite all that, this girl, Lucy’s little girl, knew all his stories. What was he supposed to do with that?

Lucy spoke over her shoulder, a sense of habit to her words. “See now, lovely, I say Lockwood fell out the window, and then he always says something like-“

“I did not just fall! You’re the one who knocked me out of it, what with that arm of yours,” Lockwood chuckled. Lucy turned around at that, her mouth slightly agape. Bea smiled widely, looking between the two of them, but Lucy just kept staring, a soft, awed smile on her face. “What is it, Luce?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged. “You just… remembered.” He could’ve sworn she giggled as she tucked her hair back behind her ear. “Guess it’s just nice to not have to tell that story by myself.” She smiled at him, and his heart skipped a quick beat.

Lockwood smiled right back, the real one that Lucy always stole out of him. “Well now, that’s plenty about me.” Lucy looked at him confusedly, at these words that had never left his mouth before. “You really should’ve seen your mum back in the day, Bea. All heart and no fear. I have it on good authority that every last agent in London was either madly in love with her or absolutely terrified of her. Sometimes both.”

“Really?!” Bea excitedly asked. Lucy spun back around, scandalized. “Lockwood!”

“What?” He raised his hands in surrender, laughing louder than he had since first waking up. The Lucy Carlyle Effect in action. Lucy could scold him for lying all she wanted, but Lockwood maintained it was true. He was one among their many numbers, though he’d never say it. They all kept laughing, as Lockwood added his own spin to each of Lucy’s tales.

Lockwood helped Bea set out plates and glasses of water as Lucy pulled out a rather good-smelling pasta bake from the oven. As he and Lucy sat down in their regular chairs, Bea slid into the chair just opposite of him, where George used to sit. Lockwood was rather pleased someone was using it again.

“So,” Bea started, wresting with a large spoonful of pasta. Lucy eventually leaned over and helped her steady her hand. “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, Mum. So, Uncle George says that, until a few years ago, Mum couldn’t cook worth a damn. ‘S that true?”

“Language, Beatrice,” Lucy laughed, spooning out pasta onto Lockwood’s plate. “Go on, Lockwood, try it.”

He smiled at the two of them as he took Lucy’s plate out from under her hand, dishing out a plate from one of the corners, with slightly burnt edges. He knew she liked that part best. “I don’t know if I should, Luce. You were a rather dismal cook once upon a time,” he added, throwing a wink at little Bea. She laughed, a bright airy thing. 

“See, Mum? Even Lockwood says it’s true!” She smiled at Lucy, red pasta sauce smeared on the dimpled corners of her mouth.

Lucy just rolled her eyes as the took a bite of her food. “Eat, both of you.” She gestured between Lockwood and Bea with her spoon. Lockwood looked back at Bea with a smirk, and she sent him back a conspiratorial wink. “God, now that you’re together, you two are going to be the death of me,” Lucy groaned, but Lockwood could see the thrilled smile she tried to hide behind her glass.

Yeah. This would definitely be enough.

Chapter Text

Holy shit, this man is trying to kill me.

Lucy had always figured she could handle anything in life. She lived through hell as a child, fought a living ghost puppeteering a corpse as a teenager, and had crossed to the Other Side and back so many times that she could only see DEPRAC doctors when she got sick because being in the realm of the dead left so many unknown lingering effects. Even recently, she had stabbed a man, adopted a little girl, dealt with insane numbers of crazy people showing up to her book signings, and was in the process of suing one of the most famous publishing houses in London.

But Lockwood softly reading aloud in the library, his arm around a sleeping Beatrice, while wearing those new wire-framed glasses of his? 

Lucy was going to die. 

She stole the phone from the entryway hall and quickly ran up to the bathroom on the landing. She locked the door and climbed in the empty bathtub, fully clothed, pulling the shower curtain behind her. As if that’s going to do anything. Lucy dialed the only person who she knew would be sympathetic. Unfortunately, she didn’t answer the phone—her wife did.

“Well, Lucy, what the hell did you think was going to happen,” Vera groaned exhaustedly.

“I don’t know, but not this,” she hissed. “You’re not being very supportive, you know.”

Vera sighed. “Again, I. Am. Not. Holly. Me marrying her was not your carte blanche to involve me in all your bullsh- What, sweetheart?” Vera’s voice got distant on the phone, and Lucy could hear faint chuckling on the other end. “Here,” Vera’s light scoff echoed through the phone. “Hol’s up now, you can whine to her instead.”

“Lucy,” a sleepy voice asked through the phone. “What’s going on?”

“Holly, you’ve got to help me,” Lucy whined pathetically. “Lockwood’s in the library reading to Bea, and she fell asleep on him and he’s just holding her, still reading, and they just look so sweet, and I think I’m going to die,” she rambled, hugging her knees in the bathtub. “So I panicked and took the phone and called you.”

A muffled chuckle crackled through the phone. “No, Holly, that’s not even the worst part!” Lucy added, her voice cracking. “To top it all off, he’s wearing those new glasses of his, and they’re just, fucking hell, I can’t do this!”

”Because of his glasses,” Holly asked, suspicious.”

“Oh, she means the silver fox fuckable glasses,” Vera’s voice asked distantly.

“Vera,” Holly laughed, scandalized. “You cannot call them that!” A small pause. “But yes, probably.”

Lucy groaned, leaning her burning head against the cool tiles of the shower wall. Everything inside her felt like it was on fire. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d just burn strange through the ground and into hell or whoever people like her went. “Holly, what am I supposed to do?! I’m literally dying here!”

“Just fuck him already!” Vera yelled, laughing. The two women started laughing and whispering on the other end of the line. Lucy thumped her head into the shower wall, willing this torture to end. Lockwood was bad enough before, but with Bea and the glasses and how domestic everything felt all the time? And now, Holly’s wife was making fun of her for it. Just perfect.

“Lockwood was never going to just ignore Bea’s existence,” Holly calmly said. “You wouldn’t be this in love with him if he were that kind of person.”

Lucy froze. She knew it was true, had even said it aloud in the hospital—something she’d never allowed herself before—but Holly didn’t normally call her out this bluntly. Then again, Lucy didn’t normally call Holly randomly in the night either.

“Lucy? Lucy, you there?”

“Uh, yeah,” she quickly responded, trying to cover for herself. “Just… bad signal. Lots of, um… concrete here.”

“Concrete?” Holly asked confusedly. “Where are you calling from? This is the number for the home phone, isn’t it?”

“Yes…”

Holly’s long-suffering sigh echoed through the phone. “Lucy, tell me you’re calling me from a reasonable place.” Lucy looked around at the ineffective shower curtain and the old caulking, wondering what Holly would see if she walked in. It made for a rather pathetic mental picture. 

“I… may or may not be hiding in the bathtub on the landing.” Vera’s laugh cracked like a whip through the phone. “Tell your wife to be nice to me,” Lucy cried, more than a little embarrassed. “I’m having a crisis!”

Holly chuckled softly, having a quiet conversation with Vera on the other end. “Lucy, dear,” she sighed over the phone. “This is par for the course. I could’ve told you that this was going to end up happening the second Lockwood found out about Bea. You should’ve seen him before the two of you arrived. Honestly, the fact that he didn’t try to propose the second you came home still baffles me.” Lucy could hear Vera’s grunt of agreement from next to Holly. She wanted to shrivel up and die in a hole. She’d gotten damn close a few times, back in Lockwood and Co.’s heyday. Hell, she’d fought a weird ghost-corpse-thing and a Type Three, which by all accounts should’ve killed her. But no! She was going to die in a bathtub, fawning over a man she couldn’t fucking have! 

“Lockwood doesn’t think of me like that. God, especially not now with Bea and everything, could you imagine?” Lucy couldn’t stop thinking back to how he’d pulled away when she’d almost kissed him at the door, how he so obviously didn’t want any part of her. But Bea liked him, and he seemed to really care about her, and that was good enough for Lucy.

She was managing. She was handling it. She was… calling Holly from a bathtub.

Fuck.

“No, he just… He probably just likes the fact that Bea is always around the house. It’s one thing for him to like her as a kid who’s just around but, he wouldn’t want… Lockwood wasn’t in love with me before, and he certainly isn’t now. The fact that he likes Beatrice doesn’t change that.”

Lucy swore she could hear a muffled string of curses coming from the other side of the phone. 

“God, Lucy, you know what?! At this point, I’m siding with Vera!”

“What?!” Lucy asked, at the same time as Vera’s bright whoop of victory. “Finally!”

“I mean it!” Holly scolded, the full force of her, albeit small, rage released. “You are twenty four damn years old, and I’ve put up with this Austenian pining nonsense for long enough! Vera’s right! Stop calling me in the middle of the night! Just fuck him already, Lucy!” Lucy was stunned silent. Austenian pining? “Oh, and good night,” Holly politely added. Then the line went dead. 

Lucy thumped her head against the tile again, staring at the phone in her hands. Her mind drifted back down to Lockwood and Bea downstairs, and how she was supposed to act like everything was normal. God, this is exactly why she called Holly!

Fucking traitors.

— —

“Lockwood!”

He had just started putting water in the kettle for breakfast when he heard Lucy‘s rushed voice. “Yeah, Luce?” He poked his head out of the kitchen, seeing her pulling on her boots in the entryway. Always the boots with her. 

“Lockwood, where-“ she stumbled, trying to see him. Adorable. “Oh, Lockwood, there you are,” she smiled in relief, leaning down to fix her laces. He couldn’t help but stare at her arse as she did. And then hate himself for staring at her arse. But it wasn’t hurting anyone, he told himself, still staring at her arse. It couldn’t be that bad. It’s definitely that bad. Lucy stood back up, and Lockwood looked down at the carpet, praying his face didn’t have his guilt written all over it. You wouldn’t have guilt if you just stopped staring at her arse. “Do you think you could run Bea to school this morning? I just got a call from George, there’s some sort of emergency with relics at the lab that he needs me to come take care of.”

“Emergency?” Lucy shrugged, pulling out one of the rapiers from the umbrella stand, testing the old weight in her hands. “Think he accidentally released another Visitor while going through those relics people send him?” 

“I sure hope so, if he’s calling it an emergency,” she huffed. “If he just wants me to pop in and say hello to his students or something, then I’m not answering his phone calls for a week, minimum.”

Lockwood chuckled, opening the small cabinet in their entryway. He pulled out her old rapier belt and passed it to her. “You sure you’re going to be able to find the source?”

Lucy took the belt and started wrapping it around her wait, a coy smile on her lips. “Please, Lockwood. Nowadays, I think I could find a source in broad daylight, with a blindfold on and my hands tied behind my back. Seriously, I think if Skull came back tomorrow, he’d send me to the hospital, with how rare psychic pressure has become.” Lockwood just nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from Lucy’s small fingers fumbling quickly as they tried to fasten her belt, and  he didn’t even have the presence of mind to feel bad about it. “Damn,” she muttered under her breath after her third try, “I’m out of habit.”

“Here,” Lockwood said, barely thinking, reaching for her waist. Could he even think anymore? He wasn’t totally sure. That seemed like it should be a concern for him.

Aren’t hormones supposed to even out at some point?

He pulled Lucy closer by her belt loops, before reaching for the soft leather end. As he fed it through the buckle carefully, Lockwood felt all too aware of her proximity. The way her breath hitched when he’d pulled her closer echoed in the empty cavern that was now his brain, everything essential apparently having vanished the moment he’d seen her that morning. Hell, probably the first day he’d met her. Explains the hell out of the Hope House. He carefully finished securing the belt across her hips, his hands lingering on her waist.

“All better?” he asked, his voice rough. He’d finished helping her, Lockwood distantly recognized. He could let go of Lucy and step away now. He probably should. He definitely should. But the way her eyes had locked on his wouldn’t let him move a muscle. They were pressed a lot closer than Lockwood has intended. But he couldn’t mind any less. Really, it would be more of a slip than a choice if he were to just lean down and-

“Mornin’,” a voice behind them slowly drawled. Lockwood and Lucy sprang apart like embarrassed teenagers. A too-amused-for-this-hour Beatrice stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at the two adults in the entryway. “Everything alright here?” She was smirking.

Lockwood glanced over at Lucy, noticing the hint of pink dusting over her cheeks. He smugly hoped that had something to do with him. She quickly cleared her throat and started putting on her jacket.

“Lockwood’s taking you to school today, Georgie’s got an emergency. I’ll pick you up after poetry club, alright?” Her voice was high pitched and shaky.

“Mm-hmm…” Bea hummed, smirking as she watched Lucy fumble for her sleeve. “Should be fun.”

Lockwood leaned over and held Lucy’s electric blue sleeve out for her. She glanced up at him before quickly turning away and shoving her arm through. He thought he heard a softly muttered thanks, but he didn’t want to push it. Not right now, at least. He kept watching as she tried to line up the zipper teeth, but for some reason, her hands were shaking so badly that she kept missing

“Do you need any help with the-“ 

“Got it, Lockwood, bye.” Lucy practically sprinted out the door, her bag haphazardly thrown on her shoulder and her jacket still undone. But she’ll get cold outside…

The door slammed, leaving a baffled Lockwood alone in the entryway. Bea chuckled, descending the stairs.  “So, Tony,” she hummed, drawing out his name. “Fancy some toast before we have to go?”

“Toast before huh?” he dumbly mumbled, dazed, still staring at the hastily closed door. Bea patted his arm and went into the kitchen, laughing quietly to herself.

“Wait a second!” His brain finally caught up to speed, and he turned and ran into the kitchen after her. “Tony?!”

Bea didn’t stop laughing the whole walk to school.

— —

“What are you making?”

Lucy’s soft voice floated in from the doorway. Lockwood turned around from the stove to see her leaning in the doorway, smiling at him.

He loved the evenings like this. The evenings when Lucy would emerge from the basement or the library after an intense session of writing, soft and pliant and open after thinking back on their old adventures. When he could lean through the window and see Beatrice basking in the sunset in the leaves of the apple tree. When, somehow, in spite of it all, Lockwood was the most normal man in London, making dinner like they were one happy family. Because, on the evenings like this, that’s exactly how he felt.

“How’s the paperwork going for the new studio?”

Lockwood smiled. He’d mentioned to Lucy that he’d wanted to start a private fencing academy a few months before his accident. Although he’d started looking into it back then, he’d figured he had plenty of time to make all the decisions and start on it. Now, though, he was desperate to get as much time as he could. And if that looked like making that academy, or “The Studio” as Lucy called it, a reality, that’s what it meant. And if he was hoping for the paperwork to also help distract him from Lucy’s hips every time she entered a room or the way he, Lucy, and Bea fit together on the couch, that wasn’t anyone else’s business, was it?

“Shockingly well. Then again,” he smirked, brandishing the dirty spoon, “If I could manage to handle DEPRAC agency regulations on my own at fifteen, I can’t imagine why you’d ever doubt the two of us doing this together.”

“Oh, no,” Lucy laughed. “I told you, I will not be working at that place. I have taught Bea some a tiny bit of sword work, but that does not change how awful I am at fencing. You know I don’t fight like that. Once you are fully back on your feet, I am hanging my rapier up for good.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Yes,” she huffed, lightly swatting at his arm. “You absolutely will.” They laughed, continuing  to talk about his fencing studio and plans, and Lucy’s next manuscript and different publishers’ bids. Eventually, in a lull in the conversation, Lucy leaned over the pot, nodded as she smelled it. Suddenly, she reached in, sticking her little finger in and catching a dab of the sauce.

“Lucy!”

“What?” She smirked at him, daring him to say something else. But he found that he couldn’t make a sound. Lockwood watched, entranced, as she slowly brought her finger up to her mouth. Her tongue flicked out to taste the sauce, before Lucy wrapped her lips around it, her eyes falling closed. All of the air in Lockwood’s lungs was punched out of him. She made a soft sound of appreciation, and he would’ve sworn the room got significantly warmer in those half seconds.

“Mm,” she hummed, licking her lips. God, her lips. “Could use some more salt.”

Fucking hell.

He was pretty sure his brain left the building. It left the building, hopped in a cab, and took a train to god knows where. Hell, it might’ve even taken an airplane across the Atlantic, for all the good it was doing him now. 

It was only when Lockwood’s thoughts finally came back to him that he realized he’d been staring at Lucy for far too long. And she’d been talking. Saying something, probably something rather important. He’d been busy thinking about her lips and her hips and… other things. Lockwood just pursed his kips and nodded, hoping that was an acceptable response to whatever important thing it was he’d missed. Fuck… Lucy just smiled back at him, a look of suspicion barely crossing her face before she turned and left the kitchen. Lockwood tried to help himself, he really did, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from raking over her as she walked away. He wanted to imprint the memory on his brain. He wanted to douse his eyes with bleach as a punishment. He wanted to stare at her forever. He wanted to throw himself off a cliff for not being able to stop. 

Luckily enough for his self-preservation, Lucy disappeared out the back door. Lockwood finished dinner, setting it on the back burner of his ancient gas stove to cool down before serving. He could just wait in the kitchen. That’s what any self-respecting roommate would do, just wait in the kitchen, maybe even go ahead and make everyone a plate, if they were feeling especially nice. Of course, that’s not what Lockwood did. Oh, no, of course not. Against his will and better judgement,  Lockwood found his feet following in Lucy’s footsteps, towards the back door. And there she was, his girl, leaning on the doorframe of the back door, arms crossed as she stared up at the vibrant apple tree.

“Careful now, Beatrice,” she called. “You’re up real high. Remember-”

“I know, I know,” Bea yelled back, peeking her head out from high in the tree. “Just reckless enough, don’t worry, Mum!”

Lucy laughed and shook her head. “Lockwood’s almost done with dinner, so you’d better come in and wash up here in a few.” Bea just gave a small thumbs up before disappearing once more. Lockwood couldn’t help the small chuckle from deep in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” Lucy smiled, turning to see Lockwood behind her. “What’re you doing? Should I be worried that something’s on fire in the kitchen?”

“I wouldn’t be this calm if I had set something ablaze.”

She chuckled. “I’ve seen you calmer after committing arson.”

Lockwood just shook his head, smiling down at her. He glanced up at Bea, who had successfully disappeared into the boughs of the old apple tree. Sometimes he swore it was Jess out there. Other times, he was transported back to the moments of hiding up there himself while his parents tried to coax him back inside. He smiled down at Lucy, praying she couldn’t hear the wild, erratic beating of his heart. “So, just reckless enough, huh?”

Lucy’s face flushed a bright scarlet. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, determinedly not looking at him. “Yes, well, you try raising a nine year old. I’m overprotective, naturally, and she’ll run headfirst into anything. Had to say something to keep her out of the worst of the trouble. Honestly, sometimes it’s like I’m following around a smaller version of you.”

He could tell she meant it as a joke. 

Obviously she meant it as a joke.

It was a joke.

That did not stop both of them from turning even darker shades of red. Lockwood could feel the tips of his ears heating up at the thought, and Lucy’s eyes widened in shock at her own words.

“I… I’m going to go set the table, if you’ll get Bea.” She practically sprinted away toward the kitchen, and Lockwood was left on his own outside. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, feeling the bright flush on his cheeks and ears that must’ve been so painfully obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to mind, not really. Not when he was still grinning like an idiot.

“Bea! Come on, dinner’s ready! Your mum’s waiting for us inside!” 

And as she scampered down the tree and came sprinting in, her hair wild and free, with leaves sticking all in it, Lockwood couldn’t help but think that Bea was really just a smaller version of his Lucy. 

But maybe he just saw her everywhere. He couldn’t very well be blamed if that were the truth.

— —

I could get used to this.

When she’d first moved to Portland Row, Bea had thought that nothing would ever be able to compare. But now? It was even better than it had been.

Or funnier, to be honest, when one factored in all the stupid things Mum would accidentally say or run into around Lockwood, or the way Lockwood forgot what he was saying half the time when Mum would ask him a question.

Bea had never grown up with two parents. Logically, she knew her pa must’ve been different before her mum died—her real mum, of sorts, although calling her ‘real’ didn’t quite seem right… Not anymore exactly. Bea didn’t remember her at all, though. No one had ever talked about her, and Bea figured that, somewhere out there, there must be the spirit of a pretty woman who’s very sad that no one knows who she is.

But then she’d met Mum, and Mum made everything so much better. Bea had discovered 35 Portland Row, for real instead of through distant pages, and had wormed her way into Lockwood and Co. itself. Still though, it had been her and Mum, alone. Of course, Bea didn’t really mind that. It was easy to balance both of their schedules, they could do anything they liked on a random whim. There weren’t a thousand people around if Bea wanted silence, but then again, there weren’t people around when she wanted to play or draw or have adventures while Mum was busy writing downstairs (which, although rare, did still happen). 

The first few weeks of living with Mum had been strange. Bea was still getting used to not taking the bus alone, of giving up some of those freedoms that, as she was learning, weren’t normal. She supposed that was the price of being loved.

But then Lockwood had woken up. Although she and Mum had practically been halfway across the country, Mum had started acting different almost immediately. Their dance parties in hotel rooms lasted forever, and her stories were brighter, happier. She smiled even more, was constantly telling Bea about how Lockwood was going to be so excited to meet her, all the things they’d do when they were finally back together.

Boy was she right.

Lockwood had to be the coolest father anyone had ever had. Sincerely. 

Bea had never known what a mum was supposed to do. She wondered often whether her mum was similar to other mums, and typically figured that she was… well, she was normal enough, right? But she had known her pa. 

She had figured for a long time that everyone’s fathers were like hers. That is, until she was six or seven, and she’d stayed at her friend Amanda’s house, and her dad hadn’t been anything like Bea’s. Since then, she’d realized her life wasn’t the most normal, and then, even after being adopted by mum, had resigned herself to the fact that she’d just have to get used to not having a dad like the other girls at school. 

But then Lockwood woke up. And he did everything that those dads did and more. He read her stories in the library and carried her up to bed when she fell asleep and let her paint his nails and helped her with her homework. He helped make dinner and wash the dishes and tucked her in at night and was there to take her to school or to the park or almost anything Bea asked him to.

And on top of that, she knew Mum loved Lockwood, just like mums loved dads. Honestly, Bea found it hilarious on occasion. Anytime Lockwood did something silly or told her stories from his perspective, Mum almost always got silly. She’d drop something or stumble over her words or just stammer and duck out of the room. Bea figured she knew why already. She’d seen films before, and she’d read Mum’s books, and Mum had even told her once that she loved Lockwood. Bea just couldn’t figure out why they weren’t married and all that already.

“That’s the age old question,” Aunt Vera had sighed, shaking her head. “Your mum and Lockwood, they… How would you describe it, love?”

Aunt Holly had leaned forward in her chair, carefully weighing her words. Bea waited excitedly for whatever sage answer Aunt Holly had. Aunt Holly was one of the smartest people she knew, after all. She was on the edge of her seat.

“They’re idiots,” Aunt Holly finally said, simply. Then, she purse shed her lips before nodding once more. “Yes, I think that’s the right word for it. They are simply idiots.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Aunt Vera smiled, placing a full house down on the Thinking Cloth. Dangit! “Now, fork over those chocolate biscuits you owe me, little miss.” Bea was pretty sure Aunt Vera cheated at cards. 

And that had been the big conversation. Apparently her aunts both thought Mum and Lockwood were idiots, and Bea wondered occasionally what that made her by association. But as much as Bea wanted to involve herself with Mum and Lockwood, be like those meddling kids she saw in the films and fix everything, she didn’t exactly… want to. Not deep down.

Bea considered herself to be rather smart. And she knew that Mum got silly when Lockwood was around. And she had discovered through much trial and error (most of it involving bribery and ice cream) that Lockwood almost never said no to her. So, after a while, one realizes something:

If Mum gets all stupid around Lockwood, and Lockwood always says yes to me… then I can get almost anything I want.

What nine year old girl in her right mind would ever intentionally give that up?

Plus, at the end of the day, Bea was happy enough as is. Because she had Mum, who always sat on the left side of her bed to tell stories and was stronger than anyone else in the world and loved her more than anything else in the world, and Bea also had Lockwood, who would sit on her other side to put away the books after bedtime and was the coolest person in the universe and would use his rapier to fight the whole world to keep her safe. Maybe they didn’t look the exact same as everyone else’s family, and Bea sometimes forgot she wasn’t supposed to call Lockwood Dad, but it was okay. It’s still quite amazing like this, she figured, looking over at her nightstand, where a small, worn picture sat.

The day after she and Mum came home from the tour (and home to Lockwood), Uncle George and Aunt Holly came over to celebrate. Aunt Holly had taken photos all night, talking about scrapbooks and memories all things like that. Bea had been frustrated then, telling Aunt Holly that she didn’t care about the photos, she just wanted to play her next flipping turn at the board game! But then, a week later, Uncle George had visited to check on Lockwood’s vitals and such (“You aren’t a real doctor, you know.” “And yet you used to make me do stitches on both of you.” “It’s fine, Luce, really.”) and he’d slipped Bea a tiny envelope. 

“Your Aunt Vera developed that in her studio for you, so be real careful with it alright?” Uncle George had passed it to her with a wink, while Mum and Lockwood were in the library. “And don’t you dare tell Lucy about it. Last time any of us did something like this, I’m pretty sure Holly got soaked.”

“Soaked?”

“To the bone, with the backyard hose,” he’d nodded somberly, before telling Mum and Lockwood that he was headed back off into town. 

Bea put it in her pocket all through dinner before racing up to the attic to tear the paper envelope open like her last meal. She pulled out the small, shiny photo Aunt Vera had printed for her. 

It’s us.

It was a picture of her on Lockwood’s lap, laughing loudly. Mum was sitting next to them, where she’d tossing balled-up pieces of napkins at Lockwood who, to be fair, had deserved it for cheating terribly at Monopoly. Bea had been being used as a human shield, and it had ended with all three of them all falling into a big heap, tangled up in each other. In the photo, you couldn’t really see Lockwood’s face, as he ducked behind Bea, and Mum’s pretty speckly freckles were all blurred, but Bea liked it nonetheless. They looked happy.

She tucked it carefully into the side of the big mirror in her room, making sure to keep it nice and flat. She wanted to see it every morning when she woke up, and every night before she went to bed, and every second that she didn’t see her own family herself.

Because, finally, Bea had a picture that looked like it belonged in the frames at the store.

Perfect.

Chapter Text

Movie night at Portland Row had been wonderful back when they were teenagers, but now, it was his absolute favorite. Lockwood joked about Bea and Lucy ganging up on him to play Cinderella, how Lucy was just lucky there was a little girl around to blame for suggesting it, but they both knew he’d have played it anyways. That he’d let her do anything she ever wanted. So, at the end of the day, playing Cinderella was nothing compared to what he’d be willing to agree to. The three of them piled together in the living room, Bea practically sitting in his lap, and Lucy resting on her other side. Lockwood had to lift his arm all the way around Lucy’s shoulders for any of them to be comfortable, and, to be completely honest, he wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

The movie itself was great, though he’d seen it a thousand times. George used to argue for other films, but since he’d moved out and it had just been Lockwood and Lucy, they’d alternate who got to pick each week, and Lockwood never minded watching it Cinderella twice a month. If he were a lesser man, he might’ve gotten sick of it by now, but as Lockwood watched looks of joy and wonder on Bea and Lucy’s faces as Cinderella’s dress transformed, he wondered how anyone lucky enough to be in a situation like his could ever want something else. As the movie came to a close, he looked over once more to see the familiar way Lucy’s eyes went soft as the idea of a happily ever after. Instead of that, though, he was greeted with the two sleeping faces of his girls.

As much as he wanted to let Lucy sleep, they were sitting on the floor against the couch, and the way her head was slumped on top of Beatrice’s would certainly leave her stiff in the morning. Lockwood rolled his shoulder slightly, waking up his own arm, before running his fingers up and down Lucy’s bicep lightly.

“Luce? Luce, movie’s over,” he whispered, smiling. “It’s time for bed.” She groaned softly, scrunching up her nose in adorable displeasure. Then, Lucy slowly looked up at her, sleep still clouding her eyes. He wanted to kiss her, almost as much as he had that first moment she’d come through Portland Row’s doors, any of the thousands of times she’d done it.

“Bed?” Lucy murmured, her voice rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down his spine.

He smiled at her as she brought one hand up to run it over her eyes. Unable to help himself, Lockwood reached over, tucking one strand of silver hair behind her ear. “Yeah. I’ll be up in just a minute, I’ve got to get Bea to her room.”

“Oh,” she yawned, slowly waking up. “Wait, no, Lockwood, I can help with-“

Lockwood chuckled, rubbing circles into Lucy’s shoulder with his thumb. “You’re exhausted. Go on up, I’ll be right there after I tuck her in.” Lucy smiled gratefully, leaning her cheek against his arm before slowly nodding and making her soft, sleepy way out of the library. He watched her as she left, letting himself take in every second. He got that much, at least, he told himself. After Lucy was well and truly out of sight, and surely in bed, Lockwood slowly turned, adjusting Bea in his arms so he could start the very complicated maneuver it would be to stand up with this child attached to him.

Bea yawned as he started kneeling to push up to stand. “Bea? You awake?” She sleepily shook her head, burrowing her freezing nose into Lockwood’s neck. He jumped at the cold, before chuckling. “You know, one of these days, you’re going to get too big for this.”

“Mm, not today,” she murmured. “Maybe not ever. Mum says I’m small for my age.”

Lockwood smiled as he carried this girl all the way up to the attic. As much as his back hated this climb up the stairs, he secretly hoped she’d never grow out of it. He hoped that she’d stay this way forever, falling asleep on the couch and begging him to carry her up to bed.

He wondered how many times his father had trudged up these same stairs, holding him. Lockwood wondered if Donald Lockwood ever carried a nine year old Jess up to bed. If his father would’ve done the same thing for him, in spite of the sprawling limbs Anthony’d had his whole life. He remembered being so small and waking up slightly as his dad had picked him up from the back of a cab late one night, and he had screwed his eyes shut, pretending to sleep so that his father would carry him all the way inside.

Lockwood realized he’d forgotten a lot of the little moments like that when he’d become a teenager.

Maybe they’re the memories you get back trying to be a father.

Finally, Lockwood made it to the attic. He carefully pulled back the bedspread, softly setting Beatrice down. She mumbled in protest as he disentangled her hands from around his neck, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. She was so adorable like this, he thought, all half-formed words and exhausted facial expressions and complete honesty. He wondered how he’d been as a child. Lockwood liked to think it was something a little like this.

He grabbed her favorite stuffed animal, a red cephalopod that George had brought by for her after visiting another college known for its marine biology program. Bea claimed she was getting too old for stuffed animals, but Lockwood knew she liked it anyways. She grabbed it tightly, pulling it against her chest, and he smiled as he pulled the lavender bedspread up around her shoulders.

“Comfy?” he whispered, kneeling next to her bed. She just nodded, nuzzling her face into her stuffed animal. “Good. Sleep tight, Bea.” He started to stand, smoothing out the wrinkles of the blanket around her face and taking one last, long look at this little girl before he went downstairs to get ready for bed himself.

“G’night, Da’.” 

The whisper was so soft that it could’ve been the wind. But it wasn’t. Lockwood’s heart stopped in his chest. His hand stilled on the blankets he’d carefully tucked around her. She’s exhausted, he told himself. It’s just the babble of a tired child. That didn’t make that tight, protective feeling in his chest dissipate at all. It just made him want to press closer, scoop up this little girl up, and hold onto her forever. He would do anything in the world for her. He softly ran his hand over her hair, tucking it behind her ear, something warm and all-encompassing pouring into him. He refused to ever let that feeling go.

“Good night, Beatrice,” he said softly, turning off her lamp.

— —

Three weeks ago, Lucy told Lockwood that she would just stay in her- their- his room until they had time to find a new bed to put in Jessica’s old room. Since then, neither of them had made a single effort.

To be fair, Lucy had tried for the first week, in every sense of the word. She’d woken up before Lockwood, changed in the bathroom on the landing, and run down to the basement to write (ie. settle her heartbeat and pretend she wasn’t actually dying). She gave him every opportunity to express that he was uncomfortable, honest. But, since that first, stilted conversation, Lockwood hadn’t really broached the subject or asked how the search was going, so she had just kind of… let it go.

If Lockwood wasn’t concerned about the fact she was still sleeping in his room, then neither was she. It was fine, right? It’s not that strange.  Of course, if he ever even seemed potentially uncomfortable, she would order a new bed at that very moment. There was one she’d seen in a magazine a few months back, when she’d been debating if Bea needed a new bedframe or if the one in the attic was good enough, so she theoretically had a plan.

But part of her liked this. It wasn’t like she was taking advantage of him, she told herself. There was just something beautifully domestic about waking up with one of Lockwood’s arms slung over her waist and carefully maneuvering around to see the look on his face while he was perfectly at peace. He looked younger than ever in those moments, blissfully forgetful of the lifetimes they’d survived together. Then she would slowly get up, getting ready for the day and go to write in the basement. She wrote faster and better than every before, and she knew her third book would be her best so far, now that she was on the other side of everything they’d survived. Now that she had a good enough ending to it all.

Because, even if this was the best she’d ever have, it was still pretty damn good.

— —

Three weeks ago, Lucy told Lockwood that she wouldn’t mind staying in their room until she had a chance to find a bed for Jessica’s old room instead. Since then, Lockwood had hidden every single magazine that could pass for a furniture catalog.

To be completely fair, he wasn’t exactly hoping that he’d be sleeping in the same bed as his best friend (and literally nothing else but that, that’s it, remember) for the rest of his life. However, if that’s just how things happened to work out, then… Well, fate always had its own plans, who was he to argue? And it wasn’t like he was telling Lucy she couldn’t move out if she wanted. But he wasn’t going to go out setting a bunch of options in plain view for her. Lucy never had a problem speaking her mind. If she was uncomfortable, he knew that she was more than capable of making a concerted effort to go and find a new bed to put in Jessica’s room. He’d pay for it, put it together, make sure it was always nice in there for her. Hell, if she asked him to get one, he’d have a new bed ready in Portland Row before sunset that very same day.

But, as long as Lucy was there when Lockwood woke up in the middle of the night—sometimes because of nightmares, sometimes because old habits die hard—he could pretend it was real. There was something so comforting about being able to remind himself that Lucy was still here, that this wasn’t some elaborate fantasy in his head. There was a sweet young girl in his childhood room and her mom in his bed and he was about as happy as he ever imagined he could be. If you had asked a younger Lockwood if he had thought he’d get this far in life, he would’ve told you he’d die before his eighteenth birthday. And then he’d met Lucy Carlyle. Now, he wanted nothing more than to wake up and start making the tea and toast that he knew would summon her up from the basement and bring a sleepy, blue-eyed girl down from the attic.

So, no, it wasn’t a big problem, Lucy sharing his room. Not to him. She could stay forever, for all he cared. When Lucy Carlyle already had his whole heart, half of his closet paled in comparison.

— —

She carefully made her way downstairs, clutching Celly tightly in the darkness, tears slowly drying on her face. 

Her feet were freezing. She wanted fuzzy socks, like Mum had. 

Fuzzy socks would help with the nightmares, I’m positive.

“Bea?” A voice called out sleepily from the darkness. Mum.

She hadn’t remembered opening the door, much less even making it to the door, but there she was, in Mum and Lockwood’s room, sniffling in the doorway. She knew that someone somewhere had said something about thresholds, but she felt frozen with her own fear, staring through the darkness at the big bed in front of her, miles away but so very close.

“Bea,” Lockwood’s voice called out, full of concern. “Are you okay?”

She wanted to explain. She wanted to say everything, she wanted Mum to go up to the attic and get the monsters, and she wanted Lockwood to give her a hug, and she wanted Mum to say everything was going to be okay, and she wanted Lockwood to help her go back to sleep, and she couldn’t breathe because she was pretty sure she started crying again sometime between leaping out of bed and getting to this doorway.

“What is it, Bea,” Mum asked, sitting up in bed. “Did you have a nightmare?”

Bea nodded her head, the tears and the words and the fear pouring out of her onto the hardwood floor. “Celly was scared,” she managed to stammer out. “And- it was dark, and I woke up, but before that there was a- a wolf there, and it was friendly, and then it wasn’t, and it chased me and then I was in a cemetery, and there’s Visitors, and I-“ Bea paused, struggling to catch her breath. “I don’t want to go back to sleep, I don’t want to go back up there, please-“

“Oh, Bea,” Mum murmured, pulling the blanket down to get out of bed. But Lockwood was up faster, his arms wrapping around Bea and picking her and Celly right up.

Safe, her whole body breathed. She wrapped her arms around Lockwood’s neck and let the cries overwhelm her as he carried her fully inside. He really gave the best hugs in the world, Bea knew that. She closed her eyes, letting Lockwood just hold onto her and Celly as she cried, trying to forget about the strange faces swirling around her hazy, dreamed-up memories. 

“Visitors, is that right? Awful scary, hmm?

Bea nodded helplessly, the words caught tightly in her throat. She kept her head securely tucked Lockwood’s shoulder, holding on tight. If she kept her eyes closed and held on tight enough, maybe it would all go away. Maybe everything would be alright.

“Goodness, Beatrice,” Mum sighed. “I’m so sorry, lovely.” Bea just sniffled in response. 

“Well,” Lockwood’s deep voice rumbled under her cheek, “I suppose, if Visitors are part of the problem, you came to the right place. Isn’t that right, Luce?”

Mum’s voice hummed somewhere close. “Mm-hmm, that’s right.” Bea felt Mum’s hand settle between her shoulder blades, slowly rubbing in circles. Oddly enough, it helped settle her breathing. “Because Lockwood and I, we are the best ghost hunters ever. Did you know that?”

Bea slowly lifted her head, looking around. Mum had turned on her side lamp, and was sitting next to her and Lockwood on the edge of the bed. Lockwood was still holding her tightly, softly looking at her and Mum. Bea nodded, swallowing loudly.

Mum was right. She and Lockwood were the very best. If Bea just stayed here, she’d be safe from everything, she could feel it. 

Slowly, Mum shifted back into her spot on the bed as Lockwood turned, Bea still refusing to relinquish her grip. “It wasn’t real,” Lockwood murmured softly. “It’s okay, I promise you. You’re okay, sweetheart. ”

Bea nodded. She knew that, she supposed. That they were just dreams. She and Celly didn’t have anything to fear, not here. That didn’t make the idea of going back up to her attic alone any less daunting. Her heart raced at the very thought of trudging back up those cold stairs.

“Do you want to sleep here with us tonight,” Mum’s voice quietly asked, reaching to tuck a strand of Bea’s hair behind her ear. “Think that would help you sleep?”

Bea nodded again, crawling out of Lockwood’s lap and tucking herself into Mum’s side. She always liked being there. It always made her feel like everything was going to be okay. And it always was.

“Oi,” Lockwood chuckled. “Budge over, I’ve got to fit too.” He slid under the covers, practically a space heater. It was much warmer here than in her attic bed, but she oculdn’t bring herself to mind.

“Better?”

Bea looked up at Mum’s familiar, concerned eyes. “Celly thinks it’s much better here,” she said, holding her red stuffy close.  “She says it’s Visitor free.”

“I’d hope so,” Lockwood chuckled. Mum reached over, lightly swatting at his arm. “What?”

Mum smiled down at her and Celly. “Does that mean Celly thinks you two can fall back asleep?”

“Don’t be silly, Mum, Celly can’t fall asleep. She’s not a real animal.”

Lockwood poorly muffled a chuckle, getting another light smack on the arm for it. “C’mon, Luce,” he whimpered almost imperceptibly.

Bea yawned, staring up at Mum’s smiling face. She liked this feeling. The nightmares had been bad, but right now… Bea couldn’t exactly remember them so well. It was so warm, and she was rather sleepy. They seemed a lot farther away than they had been before she’d come down here to Lockwood and Mum. 

Bea liked the white streaks in Mum’s hair. Here, without the lights turned on, they were a lot fainter, but at least she could still count all the freckles speckling Mum’s face. Bea couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever get freckles like that too, or if some people were just born with cool little dots. There was one girl at school with them, but she had way more than Mum, with freckles going up all her arms. She didn’t like them, but Bea didn’t understand why. It looked like someone had seen a painting and added pretty little flecks with a twist of their wrist. Or maybe like those strange paintings that Uncle George had of the Milky Way up in his office.

“What are you doing?” Mum smiled sleepily, looking fondly at Bea’s slow-approaching hands.

“Tracing the stars,” Bea mumbled, trailing her fingers softly across the bridge of Mum’s nose. Mum’s freckles always looked like those cool constellations she could see if she climbed up the apple tree just before bedtime, when they just started lighting up the sky.

“That right, Bea?” Lockwood’s chest vibrated behind her. “I have always thought they looked like constellations,” he whispered, and she could hear the smile in his voice. Lockwood’s arm reached over her to Mum. “These ones here always look like Cygnus, I think,” he softly said, lifting two fingers to trail over Mum’s cheek, over next to her eye. “And, late in the summer, it’s like the whole galaxy right here,” Lockwood murmured, his hand stilling behind Mum’s ear. It was still dim, but Bea swore she could see Mum turn just a little bit of a color. At least, she thought. She was rather tired. Lockwood’s thumb slowly ran across more of Mum’s freckles, and Bea thought for a moment she could agree with him about the galaxy thing.

“You two are exhausted,” Mum said softly, sudden pulling away.“It’s late,” she said, turning to flick off the lamp. Lockwood’s hand hovered limply in the air, before he quickly pulled it back. Bea had to ask Lockwood more about stars sometimes, if he knew so much about them. But maybe he just knows about it because it’s Mum. It really could go either way.

Mum turned back, adjusting the blankets, asking Bea if she was comfy and cozy and snug, and all those things mums are supposed to ask. And Lockwood only interrupted with a silly joke once.

“What if they come back,” Bea whispered into the faint darkness. “The dreams.”

 “Then we’ll be right here,” Lockwood murmured. “Right, Luce?”

Bea could feel Mum’s nod more than she saw it. “That’s right. And there is nowhere safer.”

Bea sniffed and nodded, hugging Celly to her. Lockwood pulled the blanket up ever higher, tucking it securely under her chin. “Now, get some sleep, you little rascal.” Bea could hear the smile in his voice. It always made her smile too. She nodded, yawning softly.

“Can I get some fuzzy socks? For the nightmares.”

Lockwood chuckled, rattling the left of the bed. “Fuzzy socks, hmm?”

Mum yawned, brushing Bea’s hair back. “Sure, lovely. We can get you some fuzzy socks.” Another yawn punctuated her sentence, as she settled one arm over Bea’s shoulders. “Tomorrow.” She closed her eyes, her hands absentmindedly carding through Bea’s hair. Slowly, Lockwood’s breath evened out at her back, and the room filled with the soft sound of his quiet snore. 

Nowhere safer.

As she finally drifted off into sleep, Mum and Lockwood on either side of her, Bea couldn’t help but agree wholeheartedly.

Chapter Text

Lockwood loved Saturdays. 

Bea and Lucy had been home for almost a month, and every Saturday had been better than the last. The first week, they’d spent most of it in the library. Beatrice alternated between writing and watching cartoons, while Lucy read with her legs across Lockwood’s lap. She still spent as much time as possible touching him in some way, likely out of fear that if she didn’t, he’d disappear again, but Lockwood couldn’t bring himself to mind. He kind of hoped she’d never totally get over it. The next week, they’d spent Saturday mostly doing chores around the house. He’d always hated cleaning, but somehow, with Lucy and Bea, changing all the sheets seemed like more fun than it should’ve been. Last week had been a picnic in the park: Lockwood’s idea. He said he was going to go insane if they didn’t spend a solid day out in the sun after all the time he’d been spending indoors. They’d eaten lunch on a blanket under a tree and then stopped for ice cream on the way home. Lockwood had thought, watching Lucy try to get the chocolate off of Bea’s face as the little girl beamed up at him, that it was the best day of his whole entire life.

Since he’d woken up, Saturdays had been just amazing. Certainly his favorite day of the week by far. So, of course, as Lucy and Bea came down for breakfast, Lockwood couldn’t help but be happy. They could do anything they wanted today. He’d heard the museum had a new art exhibit, Luce would like that. Or maybe they could go back to the park, he’d seen some swings there that looked like fun. Or they could go to the zoo or any number of things, really. Go see a show, climb the old apple tree, learn to fly kites, adopt a cat, take a train to the beach, paint the sunset over the Thames. Anything was possible.

It was Saturday, after all.

As they slowly gathered in the kitchen, Lucy drying last night’s dishes at the sink and Bea sketching away, Lockwood was just a buzzing ball of excitement. He brought the toast over to the table, getting ready to fix it just as his girls liked. Although Bea preferred her tea juts like him—something that brought Lockwood an immense amount of pride and joy every morning—she liked her toast just like Lucy, slightly burnt with far too much butter. But Lockwood could hardly complain about his Luce’s taste in toast, given that he’d fallen in love with her anyways.

Not that she’d ever need to know that.

Lockwood smiled as he watched Bea alternate between taking much-too-big sips from her mug and sketching out a fancy-looking rapier on the table. One of these days, he would get Bea her own fancy set of paper and drawing pencils, like he got Lucy when they were teenagers. He just didn’t want her to stop sketching on the table, those sketches lit up his every waking moment. Lockwood leaned over, setting Lucy’s toast at her chair, ready for her whenever she’d like it, getting a better look at Bea’s drawing. She was finished with the sword itself, adding little flower doodles and hearts around it. Adorable.

“So, Beatrice Carlyle,” Lockwood said dramatically, brandishing the other two slices of toast to butter. “Any fun ideas for a big adventure today?” He smiled charmingly, putting far more coats of butter than he thought he’d ever be able to stomach. “I was thinking about a trip to the zoo, if you think you might be up for it today. What do you think, Luce?”

“Zoo sounds nice,” she piped up absentmindedly from the kitchen sick.

“What do you say,” Lockwood said, sliding her plate across the table. “The tigers could be out today, you never know.”

But instead of the bright, wide grin he was getting used to, Bea just looked at him like he’d grown six heads. “What is it?” he asked slowly, deeply unsettled. “Not the zoo?” She continued staring at him, a disgusted look on her face. “Is it the toast,” he asked. “I can always make you something else for breakfast if that’s what all that’s about-“

“My last name is not Carlyle,” Bea practically spit onto the Thinking Cloth.

A crash echoed through the kitchen. Lockwood turned to where Lucy was putting away the dry mugs, but she hadn’t seemed to have reacted to the noise. Instead, she was turned away from the table, looking out the window with one hand covering her mouth. Before Lockwood could say anything, Bea continued.

“That would actually be the worst,” she gagged. “Can you imagine?” Bea shook her head disgustedly. “No, see, they wouldn’t let Mum put her name on the adoption papers alone, so Mr. Barnes helped. I’m not sure exactly how they made it happen because Mum says she won’t teach me how to commit a felony just yet, but my last name isn’t Carlyle, thank you very much,” she huffed, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“It’s Lockwood.”

Bea shrugged, saying it it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like he was stupid for thinking it could’ve been anything else.

And, in some ways, Lockwood couldn’t help but agree.

‘What?!’ Lockwood’s mind just played on repeat, fumbling to put all the pieces together, to make sense of what he’d just heard. Bea just reached over and picked up her toast, tearing into it in spite of Lockwood’s frozen gape of shock. To her, Lockwood was sure that this seemed like an obvious fact of life. Like how birds always fly, like how fish can swim, like how gravity pulls things down, like how Lockwood loves Lucy, like how the sun will always rise in the east. For her, this was nothing new. 

For him, this was everything.

This was him and Lucy and what he’d wanted for so very long. This was the thing he’d been waiting his whole life for, the moment that always seemed to be just out of reach, the perfect time that had always passed him by. This was why no one showed him all the papers, this was why George and Holly laughed like he was missing out on a joke, this was why he’d felt more at peace in the past month than he had his whole life. 

It was why he’d had to wake back up: he had a family he had to get back to.

He wasn’t the last Lockwood anymore. He wasn’t alone in the world like he’d always believed, just a boy without a family. He was a man at the breakfast table with his daughter. He had been walking his daughter to school, sitting with her in the library, reading her stories, with Lucy at her other side. Lockwood was practically across the kitchen by the time he realized he had gotten out of his chair and moving toward her. Always toward her.

“Carlyle, unbelievable,” Bea scoffed. “Mum doesn’t even want to be a Carlyle! ‘Course, Uncle George said he offered to put himself on the papers to avoid the hassle with Barnes, but it was mostly a joke,” she just kept rambling. “Mum said something about dying before he’d technically be the father of her child. And I prefer keeping him as an uncle, if I may say so myself, so I’m quite pleased with how everything turned out. That’s obviously enough, I’m sure, but still.” She kept going, but Lockwood didn’t even hear her. Not really.

“Luce,” Lockwood whispered over the babble still streaming out of Bea’s mouth. Our daughter’s mouth. He reached over, covering one of her shaking hands with his own. “Lucy, look at me.”

She just stood at the sink, shaking her head, her knuckles white from clutching the counter. “I was going to say something, I swear,” she whispered weakly. “I just… I didn’t know how. We didn’t know if you’d wake up, and I figured that you’d have said yes if I could’ve asked and… I meant to tell you, Lockwood, because Barnes was able to pull strings so that you’d be… On the papers, see… And- and then it also meant she could come with me to visit you in the hospital, because children who aren’t related can’t- and everything worked out so well, didn’t it? So when the judge said a father had to be listed for the adoption, Barnes pulled me aside and offered to just fix the papers for us, and when he said it, it felt right to me.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “It just felt…” Lucy trailed off, finally looking up at him nervously.

Lockwood couldn’t help but stare in wonder at the woman in front of him. Stray soap suds on her shoulder from when she’d been play-fighting with Bea over dishes, laughing loudly. White streaks in her hair from their first voyage to the Other Side, desperately holding each other through the darkness. Callouses on her fingers that used to be from a rapier, now from pens and drawing pencils. Freckles on her cheeks from being able to live a different life than they’d had before. A life he wanted with her more than anything. A life that they could live, had already started living. He carefully lifted one hand to her jaw, brushing over those faint freckles with a thumb, mesmerized by her.

“Lockwood?” Lucy was looking up at him, with apprehension and hope in her eyes. And he knew she loved him too. How could he have ever thought otherwise?

“Yeah, Luce,” he whispered. “It feels right.”

And he kissed her.

He kissed her like he’d wanted to for years, like he’d been holding himself back since he was seventeen years old, like this was the woman he’d dreamed about since the day he’d met her, like this was the love of his life. Like it was the truth they’d spent too many years trying to hide.

Lucy melted into his arms, one of her hands coming to cradle his jaw as she deepened the kiss, the dishes entirely forgotten. 

Distantly, a door slammed, jolting them both back to reality. Lockwood and Lucy both instinctively looked to the table, which was surprisingly abandoned. The only indication that anyone had been there was the missing mug and crumbs on a plate that had very recently held a few slices toast. Lucy giggled self-consciously, her hands coming to cover her mouth as her face turned pink, all the way to her ears.

“Think she saw that?” Lockwood asked smugly, nuzzling into Lucy’s hair, his hand still lodged firmly in the small of her back.

“Lockwood,” Lucy laughed, lightly thwacking him with the back of her hand. “Honestly!”

“What?” He smiled back down at her, catching her wrist. Lucy just reached up with her other hand, pulling him back down to her lips instead.

This is how it’s supposed to be, is all he could think, as he wrapped his hands around her waist to pull her closer and closer.

It was a while after that when they finally broke apart, Lucy smiling too wide. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to kiss you properly when you’re laughing at me, Luce,” he’d said, laughing himself.

“I’m just happy,” she murmured against his lips between soft kisses. “God, Lockwood, please just… Just tell me this is real,” Lucy whispered, with her bright, beautiful eyes, running her fingers over his slight stubble. “Tell me this is real and that we get to have this forever.”

Lockwood looked at the incredible woman in front of him, wondering how she even had to ask. He leaned down, resting his forehead against hers. “Lucy Carlyle, I have been in love with you since I was seventeen years old.” Her eyes widened at that. “I’m here as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“I love you too,” she breathed with a smile, running her hands through his hair soothingly. “So much more than you could know.” This is what heaven looks like, Lockwood thought. He could live an entire lifetime in this moment, this moment exactly. He wanted to hold onto it forever. And, in a way now, he could.

When they finally made their way over to the table to get their mostly-cooled tea and pick up the remaining plates, Lucy laughed at something written on the Thinking Cloth. He leaned across the table, trying to read what exactly she was looking at.

Scrawled sideways and messily, as though the writer was in a hurry: Does this mean I get to call Lockwood Dad now?

Lockwood picked up the pen the Beatrice had left behind, writing YES in all-caps underneath it, circling it three times. He had every intention of cutting this out from the Thinking Cloth and framing it. Maybe he’d settle for putting it in a scrapbook instead, like the ones his parents had made. It would certainly start off their collection perfectly.

He glanced up at Lucy, who was looking at him with such adoration that he wondered how he’d ever missed it. She proceeded to practically knock him out of his chair, kissing him again. Their teas were largely forgotten after that.

Yeah. Lockwood loved Saturdays.

Chapter Text

Three quarters of London were thrilled when they heard that the famed Anthony Lockwood himself was marrying London’s Darling. The last quarter was pissed that they’d lost a quantifiable shit-ton of money to the bookie managing the most interesting and alluring betting ring in all of London: Doctor George Casper Karim.

“I wasn’t stupid enough to put down my own wager,” George scoffed, as the couple gaped at the sheer amount of money he was counting at the Thinking Cloth. It had all been sent to Portland Row—the address he’d given out when he’d first started this mess ages upon ages ago. “House gets a percentage of all wins, who would be stupid enough miss out on that much guaranteed income?” He laughed to himself, setting aside a separate large stack. “Plus, house keeps all unclaimed bets, such as how no one bet that your first kid would be born several years before you even met. I swear, I might be able to retire off of this!”

Apparently there had been a variety of bets going on. There was a monthly ‘how many times will they be caught almost snogging but not’ alongside the expected tally for how many times the George Report Line would be called. The secret report line George had where people would report “obviously non-platonic conduct”. Inspector Barnes had once called and told George to set up a Human Resoucres Department. George promised him a 5% cut if he stayed uninvolved, and Lockwood and Co had never gotten a DEPRAC citation for inappropriate workplace staring.

The biggest wagers in this ring were self-evident, in George’s eyes: when Lockwood and Lucy would finally kiss, when they’d admit their feelings, when they’d finally fuck, whether fucking or feelings would happen first—Lockwood and Lucy were both taken aback by that one, while George said he was more shocked that it didn’t happen the other way around in real life—when they’d have their first kid, and so on and so forth.

George made a concerted effort to hid the identities of  all of the winners from Lockwood and Lucy, likely to protect them from the hellfire of the couple’s rage. That is, all except for one.

Vera chuckled, standing in the middle of the library, thumbing through the giant stack of notes that George handed her. Lockwood and Lucy couldn’t help but gawk at her and the number of notes she was now sporting. “What?” she shrugged at their confounded faces. “It’s common knowledge that Georgie only lets people place bets once every two years, to keep it fair. I hadn’t ever placed a bet before, but when you called Holly from the bathtub that night, I called in and placed a bet for sometime within the next two weeks. You barely made it, but thank fuck you did, because, thanks to you two and Lucy’s horrid crisis management skills, I’m taking my wife on holiday. Hell, there might even be enough money here for us to take a cruise, what do you think, sweetheart?” Vera chuckled, putting her arm around Holly’s shoulder and leaving, presumably to schedule that holiday before Lucy tried to strangle her for talking about that night.

— —

Much to the public’s chagrin, the wedding was held in the backyard of Portland Row, under the apple tree, with only Lockwood and Lucy’s closest friends in attendance. Barnes officiated, and despite what anyone else will tell you, he did not cry. There was dew from the tree that fell on his face during the ceremony, and that was the official story, and he should know, being the man with the final say over this kind of documented. George would say that was horseshit and that dew must’ve been some pretty damn miraculous dew, if it only managed to touch Barnes face. He’d love to study some fucking dew like that sometime.

There were, however, two wedding receptions. One involved Bea sleeping over at a friend’s house for the weekend and everyone at Portland Row getting absolutely plastered and taking the piss out of Lucy and Lockwood while dancing around the library to jazz music. Perfectly and uniquely them. The second was exactly what everyone expected. DEPRAC itself hosted a large party, with invitations sent to the upper crust of society, alongside whoever Lockwood and Lucy felt necessary to add to the list. Barnes had assumed this would keep the list still rather selective. Yet, despite how much as Lucy hated crowds, the couple had ended up inviting half of London, just to spite everyone at DEPRAC, because what were they supposed to do? Say no to London’s Darling and Swordsman? They thought not.

Lockwood, for once, took the night off from schmoozing, spending almost every moment whisking Lucy to the dance floor, refusing to make speeches, and ensuring that he tasted every last one of Lucy’s appetizers first to make sure there was no horseradish. Each and every time.

“You never know, Luce,” he smirked, holding an appetizer up just out of her reach. “Someone could’ve sprinkled some on the table since the last time I got you- ow!” 

Lucy, despite hating the heels Holly forced her into, could appreciate that they may be occasionally useful. She also refused to ever tell Holly that information.

However, Beatrice, true to her arguments about attention, had absolutely loved it. She swanned around the room in her flouncy, black dress Holly helped pick out, passing out business cards for Lockwood’s newly established fencing studio and easily charming every person in London society.   

“That is certainly your daughter right there,” Lucy chuckled, leaning against Lockwood’s chest as they looked out at her from behind a pillar. “I think she might earn you more clients than that fancy reputation of ours will.”

Lockwood smiled, kissing Lucy’s shoulder. “Our daughter,” he murmured into the soft place where her shoulder met her neck. “And maybe so. Just maybe.”

Lucy had been terrified of how she would handle two of them at parties, when they could gang up on her together, begging for another hour to have fun and (shudder) socialize. Lockwood always struggled to say no to her, she had learned that a number of years prior, but he also folded to Beatrice every time, absolutely spoiling her in the process, and Lucy just knew that tiny little menace would beg to stay late. It was a deeply disturbing thought. However, she hadn’t considered on specific perk of having a younger child at events like this: Bea couldn’t stay up as late as everyone else could. Bea had stumbled up to her and Lockwood around 9:30pm, a yawn swallowing her face. Lockwood had leaned down to talk to her, and she’d basically just climbed into his arms instead, already half asleep. Lucy had quickly thanked Barnes and asked Holly and George to handle the rest of the evening, and all three Lockwoods started the trek back to 35 Portland Row. Back to their home.

Lockwood groaned as they finally stepped inside 35 Portland Row with a sleeping Bea on his back like a koala. “I’m starting to see why you’re supposed to marry the girl when she’s knocked up instead of ten years later. It’s killer on the back, really.”

Lucy laughed, swatting at his arm. “You’re the one who insisted on walking the whole way home instead of taking a cab because of the ‘nice weather’, you daft idiot.”

He carefully set Bea down on the couch before reaching around Lucy to pick up a blanket. “But I’m your daft idiot.”

“My daft idiot,” she repeated softly, carding her fingers gently through his hair. He leaned forward, pressing their lips together softly.

“ ‘M I a daft idiot too?” a sleepy voice added from the couch.

Lucy laughed, ducking out of Lockwood’s embrace to wrap Bea up in the afghan hanging off the back of the couch. “You,” she smiled down at her, “are supposed to be asleep, young lady.”

“Oh yeah,” she yawned, her eyes falling closed once more. “That sounds about right.” Lucy leaned over, kissing her softly on the temple before standing back up.

“Where were we,” Lucy simple asked, taking one step closer to Lockwood. He reached out, pulling her flush to him. 

“Right here,” he smiled down at her, his arms wrapped around her, holding her close. “Right here and everywhere, now and forever.”

“Now and forever,” she replied, kissing him soft and slow. And, finally, all was right with the world.

And, in the corner of the far wall in the attic of Portland Row, there would always remain three handprints: pink, blue, and lavender all in a row.

Chapter Text

Barnes was exhausted. Despite the Problem having been officially declared over for a few years now, he was still cleaning up after people’s messes. Whether it was the remains of the underground relic markets, the normalized human trafficking rings of young people, or the search for more occult phenomena that could become a concern for the future, the Problem had left a hell of a lot of damage that he was still trailing along after. But, tonight, he had wrapped up all of his cases slightly early, and was looking forward to getting his things from his office and heading home and a mildly reasonably hour.

Or, at least, he had been looking forward to it. Because it sure as hell was an idea of the past now.

Because right there, directly to the right of his office door, sat a familiar teenager in a plastic chair. Her bright blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she smiled up at him.

“Good evenin’, Inspector Barnes,” she said, swinging her dark, sleek ponytail over one shoulder. “Think you can give me a hand out of these?” She held up her hands, the thin silver handcuffs striking his eyes.

Damnit.

“Shut up,” a younger voice hissed, with a thick Scottish accent. Barnes noticed the boy sitting next to her, barely thirteen, with a familiar mop of reddish hair. “You’ll get us in even more trouble.”

God damnit!

“Oh, please.” the girl laughed. “As if. I’m his favorite.” She looked up and winked at Barnes with that damned familiar smirk. He’d been dealing with that smirk for too fucking long. A small clinking echoed in Barnes’ ears as she shook her wrists.

God fucking damnit!

Barnes couldn’t hold back his frustrated yell, as it echoed around all of DEPRAC.

“Who the hell arrested Beatrice Lockwood and Thomas Kipps?!”