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It’s the usual story; a case gone wrong, soured by a reckless turn from Lockwood with an unfortunate appearance by Kipps and co to save the day and reiterate their job offer to Lucy, leading to an incredibly frosty taxi ride that quickly escalated into a shouting match the second the front door closed behind them, ending with something like-
“Well if you don’t like the way we do things here maybe you should go work for Fittes!”
“Maybe I will!”
“Fine.”
“Fine!”
(Or exactly like that, because he remembers how her face fell and her eyes went glossy even as she glared at him and it’s been playing on repeat in his mind, over and over in an endless tattoo ever since she stormed upstairs away from him.)
And now it’s three hours later and Lockwood has spent every minute working out his frustration in the basement with a rapier until his arms are burning and his stomach protests loudly.
He's hungry, which makes sense because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday and he’s fought a ghost, the training jets and his best-friend-slash-girl-he’s-in-love-with since then which really works up an appetite as well as self-loathing. He almost feels guilty for letting his hunger bother him, for allowing it to break through the miasma of his disgust at himself because he doesn’t deserve to feel anything other than the way he did when Lucy turned on her heel and stomped up to the attic like she couldn’t bear another second in his presence.
He can hear rustling in the kitchen above, the rattle of the cutlery as the drawer is opened forcefully and decides he might as well go face George now in the hope there might be a meal to go alongside the bollocking he’s sure to get for upsetting Lucy and potentially kicking her out of the company.
But it’s not George.
It’s Lucy in the kitchen.
The oven is on, heat flushing her cheeks and the golden light making them glow rosily as she slides a dish onto the rack. She’s changed out of her work clothes into leggings and an oversized jumper, cosy and soft and, most importantly, not the kind of thing you wear to leave the house in the middle of the night because your friend and co-worker and sort-of boss who is desperately in love with you has been a complete and utter twat and told you to go.
“You’re not leaving?” Lockwood croaks out. He’d be more embarrassed at the desperate edge in his voice, but she’s heard it so many times at this point, he can hardly be bothered to berate himself for this particular characteristic that slips out during moments of agonising vulnerability.
Lucy doesn’t turn towards him, makes no indication that she’s heard him speak and for a second he think she’s going to outright ignore him. But then the hard line of her shoulders softens the most imperceptible amount.
“Let’s see if we can make it through dinner without you being a massive prick and go from there.” She says and awards him one brief glance over her shoulder, expression impassive.
He drinks it up like a man starved.
“As long as your cooking doesn’t kill us both first.” He hazards a joke to try break some of the tension, silently rejoices when she turns completely to lean against the counter and fixes him with a cool stare. It’s better than nothing.
She regards him for a long moment where he’s on tenterhooks over whether he’s said the wrong thing or not until-
“George made it earlier. I’m just reheating.” She turns to the counter, grabs the sponge from the sink and starts wiping it down.
“Oh, thank god.” He walks a little closer until he’s in his most favourite spot, at her side, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her body and close enough to feel desperate to do something about it.
“You are truly remarkable in so many areas, Luce.” He says lowly and her scrubbing falters. “But cooking is not one of them.”
She glances out the corner of her eye and for a heartbeat he thinks he’s pushed them too far, too soon. But then she hip checks him hard, knocking her side against his and he revels in the oh-so-brief contact of her body against his.
“Go sit down.” She instructs and he obediently does.
He watches her move about the kitchen, pulling out plates and knives and forks, pouring two glasses of water. He wonders if she knows how graceful she is in moments like this; as an agent, she’s stocky and firm, uses her rapier with force rather than finesse. She’s short and solid and sure of her movements in the field, while he showboats around to hide how scared he is. But there’s something elegant, here, in the way she sets down the salt and pepper, the dance of sliding the hot pan from the oven and onto the counter.
“I’m still mad at you.” She says a couple of minutes later when she sets a plate of cottage pie on the table from behind his chair, leaning over him to add the cutlery.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it but as she withdraws her arm over his shoulder, he catches her hand with both of his, tangling their fingers together, holding on as if to prove to himself she’s really still there. He hears her breath catch above him, but she doesn’t snatch her hand away, just holds herself still above and around him while he clings on for dear life.
He drops his forehead against the messy clutch of their hands, the heat from the oven still emanating from her and pressing warmth against his clammy skin.
Lucy relaxes a minute amount, allows her fingers to curl lightly around his.
“Eat your dinner.” She tells him, runs her thumb over the back of one of his hands. “You’re always picking fights when you’re hungry.”
He brings their hands to his mouth, laughs softly over her knuckles, more of an exhale than a noise.
Lucy’s other hand comes to the back of his neck, just the ghost of a touch at first, then firmer, stroking down the taut muscles at the top of his spine.
He groans as her clever little hand chases the tension from his neck, feels the kneading of her fingers splintering open something he’s been trying to keep buried inside. The flare of embarrassment he ignored when his voice cracked earlier tries to resurface, but he bats it away again, unwilling to let anything break the spell around them.
Lucy digs her thumb in at the base of his skull and he cracks.
“Please don’t leave.” He whispers across their hands, the ‘me’ at the end of his sentence unspoken but heard by them both anyway.
Her fingers still on his neck, her palm held almost protectively over the delicate bones of his vertebrae.
“Don’t push me away.” She responds, equally as quiet.
He blinks up at her, tucks their hands under his chin.
“I’m sorry.”
She looks down at him for a long moment and he knows he must look utterly pitiful. How many times is he going to force them through this dance, him lashing out then coming to her feet to grovel, before she finally gives up on him? Or worse, on them, on that lingering anticipation of a future he so desperately wants but is equally terrified of?
Then Lucy squeezes his hand and he knows somehow she’s found it within herself to forgive his sorry self once again.
“Eat your dinner.” She repeats, slipping her hand out of his grasp.
For a second, he flounders at the loss of her, but then a second plate hits the table as well as – he almost laughs – the gravy boat and she sits down opposite him.
He watches as she drowns her serving in gravy, a joke dying on his tongue when she looks up at him expectantly.
He spends a moment too long distracted by her rosy cheeks instead of responding to her gaze like a normal human being, so with a long-suffering sigh Lucy reaches over for his fork, stabs it into his portion of pie and loads it with a generous helping of mashed potato.
“Eat.” She tells him, taking his hand and wrapping his fingers around the handle.
He does.
And when they’ve finished, she stays.