Chapter Text
Grey light filtered through the shades of the attic window as Lucy's eyes flickered open, her nose pressed into her pillow and her legs akimbo. She wasn't sure how early it was, but in any case, it was too early. There was a slight chill in the air, and she wanted nothing more than to burrow further into her bed and sleep until her mouth was as dry as George's elbows and her bladder as insistent as Lockwood's reckless tendencies.
Fortunately, Lockwood & Co was taking a day off to “regroup and reinvigorate their faculties,” in Lockwood’s words. In George’s words, it was more a matter of having bugger-all in the way of new cases. Either way, it meant an entire day without polishing ectoplasm out of their rapiers, dealing with disagreeable clients, or fighting for their very lives. Lucy sighed at that thought, letting her eyelids grow heavy again.
A firm knock came at the attic door, and her eyes shot back open. “Lucy.” George’s voice was muffled. There came another knock. “Lucy.” Knock, knock. “Lucy.” Knock, knock, knock.
Ah, so that was what had awoken her at—Lucy propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at her alarm clock through bleary eyes—7:47.
She was going to feed George to the Thames.
A louder knock shook her door. “I heard you move, Lucy. Get up, I need your help.”
Lucy groaned—loudly, so she knew George would hear—and rolled out of the warm and distinctively undemanding embrace of her bed, wincing as the cold floor pressed into the pads of her feet. She stomped towards her door, paused, and then wrenched it open just as George began another round of knocking. His little jolt of surprise was gratifying, though not nearly enough so.
“Is it life-threatening?” Lucy growled.
George paused to consider this, and then responded, “Depends on how you look at it.” Lucy leveled her most unimpressed glare at him, and he shrugged. “I guess technically no.”
“Then come back later.” Lucy started to swing the door closed, but George caught it, poking his head through the opening.
“But it's urgent! Mr. Winfield just called and said he found that journal I need for our case on Tuesday.” The journal in question belonged to Mr. Winfield’s aunt, whom George believed to be the Visitor in one of the few cases they had managed to scrounge up. “But he has to catch a flight soon, so he said we have to pick it up before nine, and I have stuff on the stove.”
“Can't Lockwood go?”
“No, he has that training thing at DEPRAC this morning.”
“No, he doesn't. It was cancelled.”
“Oh.” George pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. But you're up now, so.” Lucy narrowed her eyes, still seriously considering shoving his head back out and slamming the door in his face. Until. “Does it help that one of the things I'm making is apple pie?”
Lucy hesitated. “With scratch-made crust?”
“Obviously.”
Lucy felt her resolve start to soften, like a tender (but still perfectly crisp) apple slice in one of George’s buttery, cinnamon-y apple pies, fresh out of the oven with whirling fingers of steam and a bit of custard on top… Oh, who was she kidding—George had her. Still, she was silent for another second, just to make it clear that she was the one doing him a favor.
“Fine,” Lucy muttered finally. “But Lockwood's not getting out of this.” She shouldered past George and made her way down the stairs to Lockwood’s bedroom.
“Lockwood!” she shouted and banged the side of her fist against his door, the rattling extending to her teeth. “Anthony Lockwood!” She continued to pound against the wood in quick and unrelenting succession. Fortunately for the bones in her hand, the door opened only a few seconds later, revealing a very alarmed-looking Lockwood with a very alarmed-looking head of hair.
“What's wrong?” Lockwood's voice was urgent but still crackled with sleep, sending a little pang of fondness and who-knows-what-else across Lucy's ribs. “Where's George?” he asked, twisting around the door frame to frantically look up and down the landing. To the left of Lucy, though decidedly out of her reach, George gave a bored wave, which seemed to confuse Lockwood as much as it placated him.
“Nothing's wrong,” Lucy said sharply, “beyond the fact that I'm awake before noon on my day off.” She turned her head towards George, who regarded her cautiously. “And don't you have a potential stove fire to prevent?”
George’s eyes widened slightly, though less in concern than in simple recollection. “Oh. Right.” He shuffled down the stairs, calling behind him, “I’ll leave the address by the door!”
Lockwood looked at Lucy quizzically. “Wait, what’s happening? Is there another fire?”
“Get dressed and meet me downstairs in five minutes,” Lucy instructed in lieu of an explanation, and then she trudged back up to her room before he could ask any follow-up questions.
—
Four minutes later, Lucy waited by the front door, watching the staircase impatiently as she clutched a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
Two more minutes passed, and just as Lucy started to consider going upstairs to hurry Lockwood along, he scampered down in his usual starchy attire. However, unlike usual, he was rather…rumpled. His tie was askew, one side of his button-up wasn’t quite tucked in all the way, and his hair still stuck out in a couple of places.
Lucy couldn’t repress an amused grin, and Lockwood slowed as he approached. “What?” he asked hesitantly.
“Nothing, just…did you comb your hair at all?”
Lockwood ran his hands over his head, his face twisting with concern. “I tried to comb it a bit, but I didn’t have time to fix it completely. Does it look that bad?”
“No, it’s fine.” Fucking adorable, actually. “Just not as perfect as usual.”
“You think my hair is perfect?” Lockwood suddenly looked inordinately pleased, and Lucy’s ears grew warm.
“Well, not right now,” she objected, crossing her arms. “And your shirt is untucked. And your tie is a mess. And why are you wearing a tie, anyway? We’re just going to pick something up.”
“Oh, is that what we’re doing?” Lockwood adjusted his shirt and tie, still looking annoyingly chuffed.
“Yes, Mr. Winfield found the journal, but he’s leaving town at nine, so we have to pick it up by then. Do you know where this address is?” Lucy held out the scrap of paper, and Lockwood peered at it.
“Hmm…I believe so. I think it’s about a half hour walk from here.”
Walk? Why not take a taxi? Lucy thought, given their time constraint. Plus, she could be back in her bed in twenty minutes.
But for some reason—totally unrelated to the fact that she’d be alone with Lockwood, of course, away from the smug, knowing glances of their friends—she was in the mood for a stroll.
“Great. Let’s go,” Lucy declared, and before she could stare at Lockwood’s hair any longer, she opened the front door and stepped out into the misty morning.