Chapter Text
Winter lingered like a bad house guest in February. Though the days had begun to lengthen, the sky was almost perpetually overcast that month, so that the late afternoons were dark as ever. The faint outlines of visitors had been reported in the shade of the linden trees which populated the city’s cemeteries as early as 4 PM. Even Holly, who made a point of romanticizing ‘sweater weather’ (a phrase Lucy and George had spent a great deal of time snickering over), seemed to flag under the onslaught of lingering cold. It didn’t rain exactly, but was rather always wet. The moisture just hung in the air or else blew directly into pedestrians’ faces despite the efforts of their stoutest umbrellas.
George was the only one unaffected by the municipality-wide depression which was February. He had become rather close with Flo while no one else was paying attention and they were constantly tromping out to the Thames on mysterious errands together. George usually returned mud-splattered and ruddy cheeked, looking enormously pleased with himself, his glasses all fogged with raindrops.
He entered Portland Row in just such a state on one evening in particular. Lockwood was at the kitchen stove, watching the grilled cheese sandwiches sizzle and the tomato soup simmer with the hollow-eyed stare of someone who hasn’t seen his bed in over 24 hours. Lucy wondered dully whether she should relieve him of frying pan duty before his shirt sleeve caught fire (again). But she remained at the kitchen table a little longer instead, idly doodling on the thinking cloth with a sharpie. Their sleep schedule, which had never been ideal, felt hopelessly scrambled these past couple of weeks. It no longer felt as though there was any clean line between one day and the next. Instead they existed in a liminal tumble between daylight and darkness.
George’s entrance from the kitchen side door was enough to startle Lucy and Lockwood from their mutual stupor. A gust of cold air followed after him as well as a respectable puddle on the linoleum.
Lockwood sighed without looking up from the grilled cheese. Though he would never admit it, Lucy could tell he had a cold if his not-so-subtle snuffling and the mountain of used tissues in the downstairs bathroom were any indication. Lockwood wouldn’t quit joining their investigations unless he literally couldn’t walk but that didn’t stop him from becoming incredibly tetchy.
“Would you close the door behind you George, this is a kitchen not a meat locker.”
Lucy and George exchanged a look behind his back, “Sure so long as you agree to take some Paracetamol and shamble in the direction of your bed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-”
“Oooh grilled cheese” George stole a sandwich bare handed off the stove top and tossed it steaming between his palms, “Hey Luce.”
He kicked the door closed behind him but made no move to take off his jacket. Much to Lucy’s chagrin, George had recently adopted a long puffer coat similar to Flo’s, though so far it wasn’t nearly as mud stained. That evening there was a noticeable lump in one of the side pockets. Lucy supposed it must be a piece of agency equipment or else a giant bag of licorice, until said lump squeaked and wriggled.
Lucy straightened, feeling suddenly awake. “Erm, George?”
But then Lockwood was ladling the tomato soup and Lucy had to scramble to clear away the dirty mugs and sketchbooks and used cereal bowls from the table which all happened to be hers and fish the clean spoons out of the dishwasher. It was many long moments until they were all settled and she was able to blurt out, “George - what have you got in your pocket?”
“Hmm?” George gave her a look of innocent bafflement which was slightly undermined by the pair of ears now sticking out of his zipper.
Lockwood was finally roused from his mucus-filled reverie and stared down at the offending furry ears. “Did you bring a stray cat into the house?”
George, caught out, curled a hand protectively over his urgently squeaking pocket, “She’s not a stay cat, she’s a kitten that got caught in the rain!” He extracted the creature and set it down amidst the jam jars and salt shakers, “She would have drowned in the gutter if I hadn’t grabbed her!”
The kitten seemed as surprised as any of them to suddenly find itself on their kitchen table. It wasn’t much taller than Lockwood’s steaming mug of Pitkin’s Best and began to sniff experimentally at the ceramic. It was a tottering creature with a pair of green bug eys which seemed slightly too large for its head. Its calico fur was indeed wet and plastered to its body, which served to make the kitten seem smaller and more gangly than it already was. As they watched, it lifted a muddy paw and thoughtfully padded the surface of Lockwood’s tea. Lockwood’s eye twitched.
“George. We cannot keep a cat at Portland Row.”
“Why not?!”
“We’re ghost hunters! Cats famously hate ghosts.”
“Well we’re hardly likely to bring the visitors home are we? ‘Cept for the time Lucy did just that with Annabel Ward’s necklace … and the spirit gate we made in Jessica’s bedroom … but those were all one-off’s.”
Lucy tuned out Lockwood’s shrill reply and reached out to pat the creature’s head. The kitten shrank away at first from the strange object coming at it from above. But when she stopped moving it began to investigate her fingers and finding them warm and not immediately threatening, bumped its cheek against her nails. The kitten’s lips peeled back in the process and she could feel the blunt edges of its tiny fangs.
Lucy had grown up with cats in Newcastle. They were half wild and wandered in and out of the house at will, but if she smuggled a piece of chicken from her dinner plate and sat on the back porch, she could tempt one of the tabbies to crawl into her lap and rumble there awhile. It was one of the few peaceful memories she had from an otherwise rather blunt childhood. Lucy stroked the soft fur between the kitten’s ears and was unable to resist the urge to scoop it up and cradle it against her chest. The kitten began wriggling immediately, attempting to claw its way up her jumper and bite at her hair.
Lockwood glanced over at her and groaned, “Not you too!”
“Well…” Lucy hedged, attempting to extract the kitten’s claws from the weave of her sweater, “She is pretty cute.”
Lockwood combed a hand through his hair so it stood at odd angles, “We have an agency to run, we don’t have time for a pet!”
But just then Holly entered the kitchen, “Oooh is that a kitten? He’s so cute!”
And that was how the newest member of Lockwood and Co moved into Portland Row.