Chapter Text
LUCY
“Aaaaghhh!” I release all of my coiled energy into a few good jabs, all expertly evaded by Lockwood.
It’s infuriating.
“I still don’t understand why you’re so upset,” he huffs, tense but ever calm, even while sweating through the intense dodges and tricks he’s pulling off in our spar.
“And I don’t understand-“ I jut to the left, just missing the tip of his blade- “what you could’ve possibly been thinking!” I twist out of his reach and quickly reverse the direction of my swing, trying to catch him off guard. It is, of course, unsuccessful, and he blocks with a sharp *clink* as metal makes contact with metal. “That was the most disrespected I’ve ever felt on a case, Lockwood. You better be glad you were holding all the kit or I would’ve- augh!” Another swing and miss. “I would’ve given you a concussion with the chains!”
“I still think you’re making a big deal out of nothing.” His rapier flits through the air in delicate arcs. “I have to tell clients what they want to hear, you know that.”
“Tell them what they want to hear?” I get distracted by the gall it must’ve taken to say something that stupid, and his rapier ticks slightly upward into my arm, where I feel it nick the fabric of the oversized fencing jacket I’m forced to wear while practicing.
“Ah!” Lockwood makes a noise of satisfaction, out of breath as he is, when he feels the blade scratch into cloth. He continues the spar as if he didn’t hear me, or worse, thought I meant my question rhetorically.
More angry than my exhaustion could overcome, I fling my body lower than his next move and quickly spin under his blade, then block it from the wrong direction on his rebound swing. I then break every rule of fencing etiquette, both official and unspoken, by slipping my foot behind his ankles and giving a swift, sweeping kick, which sends him coursing flat onto the ground.
In the next second, I’m standing over him with the end of my rapier staring him in the face. I stick it into the floor mat just inches from his left ear, which makes him lay perfectly still, eyeing the blade with concern.
“Don’t ever, EVER, undermine my talent in front of a client like that again. Even if you don’t mean it. If our clients don’t like my methods, they can hire bloody Fittes and get all the dry, useless textbook methodology in the world. You hired me for my talent, and if that isn’t worth as much to you as you say it is, then I’ll take my talents elsewhere.”
He closes his eyes and sighs, “Lucy, I’m-“
I unstick the sword from the mat and turn on my heel before he can say anything to dig himself farther in this hole. I let my boots hit heavy on the concrete, and I send the rapier clattering to the floor before I reach the stairs.
— — —
That evening, I tread down lightly from the attic, hoping I don’t see Lockwood on the landing. It’s nearly dinner time, so running into George in the kitchen is inevitable, but I remembered after cooling down that I had laundry I needed to fetch from downstairs. I’ve been living in this house for a while now, but I still don’t fancy the idea of one of the boys opening the dryer and seeing my undergarments.
I walk through the kitchen door to find George at the stove, stirring a big pot of something that doesn’t look very appetizing but smells delightful. I slip past quickly and avert my eyes so he won’t notice the redness that’s probably still around them from crying my anger out. When I return from the laundry room with a full basket propped against my hip, there’s a bowl of stew at my seat, and George is dishing up a second for himself. I start to sneak through while he’s looking away, but he notices anyway.
“I haven’t told Lockwood that dinner’s on yet,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You know, assuming you don’t want to sit down for a meal with him right about now.”
“Oh…” I hesitate, “I’m not very hungry.”
“Or, you can take it upstairs,” he sighs as if he’s doing me a favor by offering suggestions.
I pause in front of the place setting and let the warm, spicy curries wash over my senses. I suddenly remember that I haven’t eaten anything today besides the extra biscuits in my kit bag. Then again, I debate how angry I am with George, since he apparently knew about the client, too, and didn’t bother to warn me.
Before I can make a decision, he’s putting a spoon into my bowl. “Here, just take it and go eat. I can’t let you starve to death, Barnes would have my ass in fines for fatal neglect of a junior operative.” He puts the bowl in my free hand and goes back to his own.
“Thanks,” I respond, not sure if I should be offended by his statement or not.
“For what it’s worth, Lockwood was being a dick. But you have to learn how to handle clients like that. I’m not saying his was the right approach, but some people are just assholes, and you have to just ignore them and do the work. Especially entitled adults who think they know more than agents; they’re the worst.”
“I would’ve been fine with the client if Lockwood hadn’t said what he did.”
“Well, he did. And he feels bad about it. He’s just trying to pay the bills, and that requires unethical actions sometimes.”
“He didn’t seem like he felt bad about it.”
“And you don’t seem like you were crying a half hour ago, but you and I both know you were.”