Lockwood

It was raining outside the café the day Lucy left for good, because apparently even the universe knew there was no changing her mind before Lockwood did. Lockwood should have known, really. Her stubbornness was every bit as strong as his. He had loved it when it came to little spats over things that didn’t matter ( no, Lockwood, there were definitely only two biscuits left in the packet when you left ) because he couldn’t get enough of the indignant face she made when he would fight her on it, and the triumphant one when she knew she had won. It did him absolutely no good now.

Lucy had barely looked at him all morning. After she had announced her plan to leave at the kitchen table last night, he had begged her to talk about it and so they were here. That marked the start of the end. She sounded no different than usual as she asked for their tea. She had dropped a couple coins into the tip jar and tossed the barista an easy smile just like normal. Lucy hadn’t looked at him once since they’d stepped through the door, and he missed having her gaze so much that it ached. It seemed like the only person she wasn’t herself with now was him. Lockwood knew he shouldn’t press on that bruise but he couldn’t help but notice the gap between them (had it always been there? Was he the only one who didn’t notice as a chasm ripped open in the ground beneath their feet?)

Lockwood followed her suit and dragged his eyes away from her fingers tapping on the counter, instead staring resolutely at the lifeless beige of the walls while they waited. He didn’t know how she could possibly look so calm when he felt like he was back in the Thames, being tossed around in the dark and the cold while he desperately floundered for air. He was so distracted that it took Lucy clearing her throat twice (at least) before he remembered where he was. Lockwood hastily thanked the barista and followed Lucy to an isolated table. He wiped his palms on his trousers before he sat, watching as she avoided his eyes again. Some petty part of him wanted to say something snide about it, but he couldn’t make the words come.

Lucy tried to make small talk as she dumped her customary mountain of sugar into her tea and it hurt more than he was expecting. It was the kind of bland conversation you would have with an acquaintance you saw twice a year, not your best friend. Lockwood didn’t want to beat around the bush, so he interrupted abruptly.

“Why are you leaving?”

Lucy did an excellent job ignoring his rudeness. She swallowed and looked just shy of his face as she set her teaspoon down at the side of her saucer.

“My Talent is a danger to you all. I won’t put the others at risk.”

She said it with such ease, such detachment that he thought she must have practised it. For all he knew, she had. For all he knew, Lucy could have been rehearsing how she was going to say goodbye to him for weeks while he was none the wiser.

“How? How are you a danger?”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about-”

“But it’s bad enough that you would leave?”

Lockwood only just managed to stop himself short of saying ‘leave me’. That was the crux of it, after all. Lucy had promised she would stay, swore up and down that she wasn’t going anywhere, and now she was turning away like none of it had meant anything. He had believed her when she said he was home.

“All you need to know is that I can’t put you at risk.”

Lockwood took a single sip of his tea. It scalded his tongue. “You know I’ve never cared about a bit of danger.”

She flinched at that, worrying her lip between her teeth. His usual brand of nonchalance wasn’t going to work here.

“Tell me what the problem is and we’ll fix it.”

Lucy shook her head. “It’s not that simple.”

“We can make it simple if you’d just-”

“ No. ”

In all the time he’d known her, he had never heard her voice sound so sharp. Even when they argued, she’d never sounded as vehement as she did now. Her dark eyes were steely.

“Lucy, why are you acting like this?”

She stirred her tea. “Why are you so intent on making this a fight?”

“Isn’t it?”

Lucy regarded him like he’d grown an extra head. “No. I don’t want to go. If there were any way for me to fix this so I could stay, I would.”

“You say that, but you won’t let me help you. Even if you think I can’t, George could, Holly could. You realise it’s not just me you’re affecting, right? We all want you to stay.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Of course I realise that. You’re making this harder than it has to be.”

“Why are you so desperate to go? Did I do something, say something-”

Lucy snapped, “No.” She’d said it with such conviction that he almost believed her.

“No,” she said again, softer. “You did nothing wrong. I just have to go.”

And then she did the unthinkable. Lucy reached out over the table to take his hand and he shot to his feet like his chair was on fire, a screeching sound created that barely registered over the rush in his ears. Lockwood could barely breathe as he watched genuine hurt pierce her expression. He wasn’t imagining the glassiness in her eyes as she blinked to dispel her welling tears. It killed him to reject her tenderness, but he couldn’t possibly let this be the last time she touched him. He couldn’t think of this as the last time- her squeezing his fingers to comfort him, reminding him he would have to let go sooner or later. He would not be a burden, forcing her to give more than she wanted to. 

“I can’t.”

“Lockwood-”

Part of him knew that it was wrong to push her away when she was trying to tell him she didn’t want to hurt him, but he felt like the same child he had been when he found his parents’ ghosts in the back garden, when he found Jessica’s body, when he was told his uncle had died. Everybody leaves and everybody dies. Lockwood had been reminding himself of that for years, reinforcing the walls around him until he was safe from loss. Then came George, shattering all his notions and barging in to become his friend. And then there was Lucy.

Lockwood had never bargained for the friendship he’d found with her. At every turn, Lucy had surprised him, from the first day when she peered at him from the doorway to the moment she revealed she’d stolen Annabel’s source to when she’d helped him through a panic attack the night of the auction. She’d proven herself indispensable as a colleague and a friend. He didn’t know when things had changed. All he knew was that he couldn’t stop looking for her in every room he went into, that he sought her company above all others (barring George, of course), and suddenly he was desperate to hold her near. It wasn’t decent, how much he craved to know her- know everything that made her tick, every laugh he could draw from her, every freckle on her body. Lockwood wanted so very much.

And for a few moments, here and there, he’d thought imagined that she felt the same. How could she? Bright, brilliant Lucy needed someone she could trust. Lucy deserved someone who could give her everything. What could Lockwood offer her? 

Certainly not enough.

He never meant for the unfeeling mask to slip over him, but his voice came out flat and cold. If there had ever been a chance of her forgiving him, it was surely gone with the words that followed.

“Don’t. You can’t just-” God, he was weak. “Don’t you dare.”

Lockwood tossed a crumpled banknote onto the table and ran before she could follow. 

He was soaked to his skin by the time he stopped outside Portland Row, his lank hair falling into his eyes, and his clothes thoroughly pasted to him. The distance hadn’t even been that far, but he was winded when he stopped running, his feet almost carrying him forward with unused momentum. Lockwood staggered toward the house with blurred vision. There were terrible, hiccupping gasps coming out of his mouth. It took him far too long to realise he was crying, hot tears mixing with the rain. Lockwood shoved his knuckles against his mouth, hoping that if he could keep those animal sounds at bay, he could pretend the rest of it wasn’t real. Lucy wasn’t really leaving.

That was when he remembered he would have to tell George. The knife buried under his ribs twisted savagely. Lockwood cursed his burning eyes, his trembling lip. Sooner or later he would have to go inside and explain to his best friend that he hadn’t convinced her to stay. Maybe even worse than that was considering what he could have said instead. He could have stayed with her, insisted they talk this out properly. He could have begged her on bended knee not to give up on him. He could have had this conversation a thousand times without ever being enough for her to stay.

Lockwood wanted to scream. Instead he tried to stuff his sobs back inside his mouth, wondering if that was why his chest hurt so badly. He shut his eyes and when he opened them again, he didn’t understand his surroundings.

“Lucy? George! George-”

The boy burst into his bedroom, hands up like he was soothing a wild animal.

“Lockwood, you’re alright.”

“What am I doing here?”

George went to his knees beside the bed. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I- I was outside before.”

He nodded. “I found you on the steps. I thought you were drunk, or on something, you know that? You were slurring your words. I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Lockwood made a cheap joke in an attempt to brush it off, but his friend’s face shuttered.

“ Don’t you dare. I was fucking terrified for you. You weren’t making any sense and you acted like you could barely tell I was there. I didn’t know what the hell was going on with you.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s forcing you to care.”

That earned him a laugh so hollow he felt something splinter inside him. Dimly, Lockwood wondered how much more would break before he did.

“It’s far too late for that, and you know it. You’re not going to scare me off by acting like a prick. All you’ll do is hate yourself more in the future when you remember what you said. From what I can tell, you already feel guilty enough, so can we lay off with that?”

Lockwood turned his face away. The care on his best friend’s face was too much to bear. He was scared of his pity, scared to acknowledge that he might need it. He gave a terse nod, and George finally asked, “What happened?”

Stiffly, he muttered, “I’m fine.”

George laid a hand on his shoulder. “That’s not what I asked. And don’t bullshit me; I know you too well.”

“I couldn’t get her to stay, alright? Is that what you wanted to know? She’s leaving, George. She’s leaving and we’re never going to see her again-”

His voice broke and George was on him in an instant, cradling him close while Lockwood sobbed into his t-shirt. He hated that George could tell he was shaking. He wanted to push him away. He never wanted him to let go. Lockwood mashed his face into his shoulder so he couldn’t see as his face crumpled and turned red.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t-” George’s voice came out thick, like he was holding on to tears himself.

“George?”

Lockwood struggled out of his grip to look at him- just in time to watch him release his lip from between his teeth, the skin blanched from how hard he’d bitten it.

Eyes wide, he started, “But you never said-”

Knowing what he was going to say, he gave a watery laugh and muttered, “Do you think you’re the only one who loves her?”

Lockwood didn’t know what to say to that, so the two of them stayed like that, snared in panic and desperation and hurt until George cleared his throat.

“We’re going to be okay, Lockwood. Not now, not for a while, but remember that. It’s not always going to hurt the way it does now.”

“Shall I put some dinner on?”

George cackled. “Only if you want more tears tonight. Today of all days, we can justify springing for a takeaway.”

Lucy came back to Portland Row hours later, with no mention of what had happened at the coffee shop. If she was surprised to see the two boys digging into a mountain of rice, she didn’t show it. She was quiet between bites of food, offering only the most tentative of smiles, the quickest glances. She didn’t try to touch them. Lockwood thought the sound of her bedroom door closing might as well have been the door to a crypt. He knew he would wake up to find her gone.

George

George hadn’t known what to say when Lucy told them her plan in the kitchen. He had sat there, blinking, his mind whirring, but nothing came out when he tried to put words to the hundreds of questions piling up on his tongue. Lockwood had looked at him like he expected him to have the answers, and he was terrified to find he didn’t have any. George always came up with something, always scraped his way to the truth, but now there was nothing to fill the awful silence.

“Lucy.”

That was all he could offer up. 

She smiled, but the usual amusement or happiness or light behind it was gone. Lucy was blinking more frequently than normal. Her eyes were glassy. Her spine remained ramrod straight but there was a weariness in her folded arms. Though she was trying to pull herself together, it was obvious that it was a front. 

Lucy didn’t want to fight with them, she wanted them to roll over and let her leave without discussing it. Not that Lockwood noticed. He was about to say something to her, but Lucy held up a hand to cut him off.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be off to bed. See you in the morning.”

“I do mind, actually,” Lockwood spat. “You can’t possibly drop something like that and go.”

Holly bit her lip.

“Let’s all calm down, shall we?”

George interjected. “I’m calm. Why don’t you tell us what brought this on, Lucy?”

“I won’t put the three of you in danger. We all know I’ve acted rashly recently.”

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “You’ve always been reckless. What is it you’re supposed to have done to tip it over the line?”

Lucy squirmed, looking at the floor instead of at them. She’d been biting her nails, he noticed suddenly. That wasn’t a good sign- she had only applied new polish yesterday and she never fucked it up on purpose before three days had passed. Only when she was at her most stressed did she indulge her habit.

“Aickmere’s. I let personal feelings get in the way of the team’s safety. I can’t let that happen again.”

“So don’t,” answered Lockwood. His eyes held a desperation that sent warning bells ringing in his head. “Don’t let it happen again. Why would you have to go?”

“It’s not as easy as that and you know it.”

Holly stepped forward, “Lucy, if I’ve-”

“You haven’t. I’ve made my decision.”

Lockwood stood. He wasn’t going to let this go easily and for that George was ashamed to admit he was glad. George didn’t want Lucy to go any more than Lockwood. She belonged here, with them. They were supposed to be family.

“It’s late. Lucy, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Lockwood-”

His voice was brittle. “Think of it as an exit interview, if you’d prefer. We need to talk this through.”

“Meet at the café?”

George frowned at the reference he didn’t understand.

Lockwood shook his head. “Together. We’ll go together.”

It seemed Lucy no longer had the energy to argue with him, because before George could make sense of any of it, she was nodding and climbing the stairs in near-silence. It had been a long time since she’d walked around so gingerly in this house. Lockwood looked mutinous, almost as though he was going to chase after her, and George knew he couldn’t let this get any worse. He grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Sit down.”

“I’m not a child.”

Holly seemed to snap back into her polished manners. “No, but you ought to listen to George. Sit, please.”

The three of them took their respective chairs around the kitchen table.

Lockwood almost put his head in his hands before he stopped himself. “Why is she leaving?”

“Are you asking me?”

“You’ve known her the longest.”

He held in a snort. “By about a minute, Lockwood. You know her best.”

“I’m starting to think I never knew her at all.”

George knew his eyes were blazing but in the light of the night’s events, he couldn’t find it in himself to quash his temper.

“You can’t mean that.”

Lockwood’s face held contrition for a moment, but then his jaw clenched. 

Holly drummed her fingers atop the thinking cloth.

“Is there something you’re not saying, Hol?”

“Me? No.”

Lockwood couldn’t have looked more like a puppy if he tried, and she was soon relenting to ask them, “Do you think she wants to leave because of me?”

“Why would she do that?”

Holly played with a bracelet on her wrist, her hair, the cuffs on her blouse.

“We haven’t always gotten on. You know that. I just thought- I thought we were getting somewhere.”

George tried to offer a reassuring smile, but he knew it probably looked like a grimace on his exhausted face.

“I don’t think it’s because of you. Really. You heard her.”

Lockwood crossed his arms and scowled down at the floor. “Just because she said something, doesn’t mean she meant it.”

It didn’t take a genius to work out that he was thinking through all his conversations with Lucy, combing through for signs that this was coming. Lockwood prided himself on noticing even the smallest of details, knowing how people acted, reading them. He hated missing anything- and this was worse than having a piece of information slip through his fingers in the archives. This was Lucy.

“We have to focus. Lockwood, she’s going to meet with you tomorrow. You can try to understand why it is that she thinks she has to leave. Maybe you can change her mind about this.”

George knew it was horrible to pin all their hopes on Lockwood, but what other hope did they have. If anyone could convince Lucy not to go, it was him.

Holly smiled supportively. “Exactly. You have an opportunity to try.”

Lockwood hid his face from them.

“And if I can’t? What then?”

George swallowed, wishing he could offer something of more use.

“Then we’ll know there was no changing her mind.”

When George found Lockwood on the steps, soaked to the bone, he knew it was done. He tried to disconnect from it all as he took his best friend through the steps. He knew Lockwood wasn’t himself now, but it still ached when he was the one to take him out of his waterlogged clothes and set him to rights. He wasn’t sure there was such a thing anymore.

Lockwood looked so lost. Despite his incoherent babbling outside, he was perfectly silent now on the end of his bed. George fought his own shaking hands as he took his shoes off, his pasted-clear white shirt, his belt, his trousers. He’d never seen his best friend in such a state and his mind warred with itself as he wished Holly was here to help him and simultaneously thanked an entity he didn’t believe in that no one else had to see Lockwood so distraught and out of it. He didn’t think he could trust anyone but Lucy to see him like this, and not only would that be an impossibility now, it would be nothing but a cruelty to them both. 

George dried him with a towel, trying to be gentle so as not to irritate his sensitive skin. It was Lockwood’s dead eyes that scared him the most. He could stomach seeing him angry, fury scorching him dead, but he didn’t know what to do now it looked like the fight had gone out of him. He didn’t know what to do if Lockwood was drowning. George would do all he could and always wonder if there was more he could do to save him, even if it was from himself.

When Lockwood was clad in the softest clothes he could find in his wardrobe, he tucked him into bed and tried not to lose it at the blankness behind his eyes. He prayed he would fall asleep soon. He prayed things would feel different when he woke again. He wouldn’t know what to do if Lockwood stayed like this. Nearly silent, George whispered, “I’ve got you, Lockwood. I’ll always have your back,” before he stepped out.

Alone in the hallway, George finally allowed himself to crumble. There was no one to be strong for now. Sobs of anger and fear and loneliness tore through his chest, and he didn’t realise he was moving until he was slumped with his back to the wall. George loved Lucy more than he could ever express, but right now he thought he might hate her in equal measure. That thought just made him cry harder.

Lucy

Away from Portland Row, Lucy forced herself into some semblance of a routine. There was no other choice now she was freelancing. Sometimes it shocked her how easy it was to force herself through the monotonous days. Each day, she fielded calls from as many clients as she could manage, tackling simple jobs (more often than not two or three in a night, lest her thoughts get too loud), taking sources to the furnaces, and trudging back to her flat utterly exhausted. She would fall into drowsy, awful sleep, wake up, have tea, and do it all again. There were variations of course. Buying herself meagre selections of food, going on runs to Satchell’s to replenish iron filings and the like. Then there was the other new thing: checking the agent obituary columns as often as they were updated. Each time, her heart would leap into her throat, unable to be calmed until she had read through the names twice or three times, until she was sure that Holly and George and Lockwood were alright. Lucy had nearly burned a newspaper in her ramshackle fireplace when an Anthony Loughlin had died. She had been almost inconsolable until she scanned the entry for more details and realised it wasn’t him. Skull had made his usual derisive comments on the subject, but each time he was met with resistance- it helped her get to sleep, knowing that at least today, her friends hadn’t suffered because of her. 

Then there were the nightmares.

On bad nights, she would wake up with a dreadful tightness in her chest after nightmares of the Fetch, of Lockwood. She saw him ghost-touched, burned with plasm, run through with a rapier while she watched in horror, unable to do anything to save him. One particularly vivid nightmare had her throwing on her clothes and almost out the door of the flat to find Lockwood before Skull (never a good sign when he was the voice of reason) reminded her that it wasn’t real. It had been the worst one yet- Lockwood had bled out in her lap while she begged him not to go. The feeling of his blood on her fingers was far too close to reality for her to bear. It was at times like that that Lucy found herself torn, wondering if her absence was helping as much as she had hoped. What else did she have but the promise that her staying away would be enough to save him from whatever fate had in store for him?

As much as it hurt to be without them, Lucy had to believe that it was safer for her to stay away. That didn’t stop her eyes from combing hopefully through every crowd for the sight of an impeccably dressed girl standing beside a boy with dark, messy curls- and a lanky boy in a slightly too-big suit and pink socks. She had almost embarrassed herself a few times, sneaking away from strangers who looked like them. 

Lucy hadn’t taken a lot with her when she left. The night she had packed up her things was frozen in her mind in varying states of clarity. She remembered the sad look George had shot her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. She couldn’t recall what any of them had said at dinner (the last supper, Skull had called it). Lockwood’s dark eyes were burned in her memory- he had been trying to avoid her since he’d ran out of the café- but it was like he couldn’t stop himself from meeting her eyes one more time before she had gone to bed. Lucy had wanted so badly to take his hand, to pull him into a hug, but given how he’d reacted before, it would be like blatantly ignoring what he wanted. If he needed that distance, she would give it to him, no matter how much she wished they could be close. 

She knew she shouldn’t have kept the necklace. She could have left it in her room, returned it, but when her hand went to her throat with the intention of setting it on the dresser, that morning she left, she couldn’t get her fingers to move. Lucy had closed her hand around the pendant as she often did when she was worried or tired or thinking, and she knew she couldn’t part with it. Even if it made her a thief or a hypocrite. She needed to leave the only home she had ever known, and she wasn’t going to leave it without a memento of the love she had been given in this house. Lucy didn’t take it off.

Her flat wasn’t as cold as her the attic. She knew that, intellectually, but it didn’t stop her from huddling under her duvet for a few extra minutes each morning, hating that she had no one to speak to over breakfast. As much as she was trying to cultivate some sort of friendship with Skull, there was only so much discussion of treachery and murder that she could handle before eight a.m. There was still the smell of burnt toast, but no one to share it with (or promise to share it with and end up still eating all of it anyway). Lucy ached for the simplest remnants of home- easy banter with George over eggs, the leaky tap in the attic bathroom (the one Lockwood claimed to have fixed but only a week later it started up again), the glow of the lamplight in the library. She even missed Holly’s chirpy demeanour when she came down to breakfast at ungodly early hours.

There were the more complicated things too, if you could call them that. The lingering smell of Lockwood’s aftershave in the main bathroom. His uncharacteristic fastidiousness with iron chains. The warmth of his laugh when she caught him off guard with a sarcastic remark. The smiles he gave her after a particularly tiring case that made her want nothing more than to throw herself into his arms. She had promised herself she would abandon every thought of him, of what she couldn’t have, but she had realised the impossibility of it when she’d had the first dream.

Her second night away from Portland Row, she had expected another nightmare, but when she closed her eyes, she found herself home. It was like she had never left: Lockwood grinned when she burst into the kitchen, in the midst of scrawling something unrepeatable on the thinking cloth. He offered her the seat beside him and buttered her toast for her. Even in the dream, she had been surprised by the way he looked at her. So much so that he had asked her why she was looking at him like that. 

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve never seen me before.”

Lucy had blushed bright red, and Lockwood had done a shocking thing. He touched her cheek, his eyes never straying from her face. 

“Do you have something to tell me, Luce?”

Her voice was more playful than she usually allowed. “I don’t know.”

Lockwood had grinned, begging her to say it with a glimmer in his eyes.

“Shall I make it easier?”

Lucy was ready to surrender to every traitorous desire in her head, ready to tell him every word she had held back, and she was sure he was about to tell her he loved her-

And then she was waking up to a cold flat, alone.

In her imagination, Lucy was able to tell him the truth when she saw him. She would tell him the real reason she had to leave him behind. Lockwood would tell her that he had missed her when she was gone, that he looked for her face in every crowd, in every room he went into, and she would admit she had done the same. She would have this conversation when she had time to ready herself for it. She would have brushed her hair, tidied her space, come prepared. She would look him in the eye and she wouldn’t stumble over her words and lose her train of thought and make that god-awful choking noise when he surprised her.

The day Lockwood turned up at her door, she did none of these things. She had barely made it through their interaction with her dignity intact. Skull had ripped her a new one when Lockwood left, and for once she agreed with his assessment. Her attempt at normalcy had been pathetic at best.

When she came back to Portland Row after Harold Mailer’s death and her subsequent race away from his killers, she hadn’t known what kind of welcome she would receive. George’s just noticeable stiffness with her was a barb in her heart, but she supposed she deserved it. She wasn’t surprised by Holly’s taking her presence in stride. Lockwood… was predictably himself. She had been relieved that he hadn’t thrown her out, when he had helped clean her cuts. It felt like the world was tilting on its axis and she couldn’t say it was unwelcome. Lucy hadn’t even realised the depth of her wanting until he was calling her Luce again. It felt good to be home. 

There were so many subtle changes that had happened in her long absence. George’s hair was longer, more tangled than the last time she’d seen him. The thinking cloth was fuller with writing, and the ratio of drawings to text was off. Her fingers itched with the desire to carve out more space for her doodles. Lockwood had lost weight. She had tried not to notice it, but it brought a prickle of tears to her eyes when she hugged him.

The cadence of his voice was the same, the cheeky smile he put on to set her at ease, the overconfident manner with which he showboated around the house as he showed her where he kept the medical supplies now. Not everything had changed. But enough.

Lucy gasped as he led her up to her attic. She got an odd sense of déjà vu, following him up those familiar stairs. It made her ache for the beginning, to be so young and new again. It would mean getting to know him again, all the habits that drove her crazy and filled her with affection. She was racing over to the dresser before she could stop herself.

“My jumper.”

Lockwood was rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. It was in the wash when you left.”

“You didn’t throw it away.”

She hadn’t meant it to come out like a question, but he smiled as though it was one. Lockwood knew her too well to let it pass without comment.

“That would just be rude, Luce.”

Her hand must have drifted upward without her realising, because his eyes fixed on her throat.

“You kept the necklace. You still wear it?”

Lucy nodded, knowing what she was really admitting. She didn’t have the energy to lie to him, even if she’d had the inclination. 

“Every day. You don’t- do you want it back?”

Lockwood laughed, and she could see the beginning of tears welling in his eyes.

“No, Lucy. It suits you. I was glad I didn’t find it here after you left, you know. It made me glad to know it was still with you.”

“Lockwood?”

“Yes?”

Lucy dropped the pendant and crossed the room, until there was a scant distance between them. “Do you know that I missed you?”

Her eyes were drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.

Lockwood spoke softly, like he was dreaming. “Did you?”

“Every day.”

Lucy couldn’t make herself ask the same of him. She was too scared that he would hide himself away again. It turned out that she didn’t have to be, because he took another step closer.

“I missed you too.”

His eyes drifted to her mouth. She must have imagined it, she thought, but then they did it again. Lucy had never been so conscious of the space between them. A few inches now, at most. If she leaned in, would he dare to kiss her back? Would Lucy always be the one to lead in this dance? Would she have to push for him to share every last morsel of himself, or would he finally get up the courage to close some of the distance? 

Lucy felt her heart soften at the plea behind his eyes.

Lockwood started forward, unapologetically looking at her lips and she was about to ask him to kiss her when-

“Dinner!”

George’s shout nearly made her jump, and she stared at him apologetically at the loss of their closeness. 

“We ought to go,” she whispered, hating herself for her cowardice.

“Yes,” he answered. “We should.”

Lockwood made no move toward the stairs, and she felt her stomach flip. Lucy gathered all her courage and moved closer again.

“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Lockwood?”

“No.”

She turned away, only for him to circle her wrist with his fingers. 

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs, if there’s nothing you have to say.”

Lockwood bit his lip.

“Wait, Lucy, please.”

He let go and she didn’t run, though she wrapped her arms around herself to stop herself from doing something stupid. She couldn’t assume what she wanted was obvious to him.

“I don’t think I have the words yet for what I’m trying to say to you, so may I show you instead?”

Lucy nodded.

“Alright.”

Then he did a shocking thing. His hand came up to cup her cheek, sending butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She tried not to let her breath come out uneven as his thumb stroked her cheekbone, but it was a lost cause. Lockwood couldn’t be allowed to keep looking at her like that. Lucy could feel her knees turning to jelly with every sweet pass along her skin.

“Lucy?”

She couldn’t even trust herself to form words. “Mhm?”

“Tell me right now if you don’t want me to kiss you because if you do, I can back off and we don’t ever have to talk about this and I can figure out how to keep us normal-”

“And if I do?”

Lockwood let out a watery laugh. 

“Then I will be more than willing to embarrass myself in front of our best friend when I tell him what it took for me to admit my feelings for you.”

Lucy’s breath hitched. “I don’t think you actually got to that part yet.”

“What?” His eyes shot wide. “Fuck, I didn’t- shit, I was supposed to tell you in a romantic way but now I’ve just cocked that up, haven’t I?”

She giggled at the despairing look twisting his face. “It’s alright, Lockwood.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, because I say so. Do you know what else?”

He shook his head. 

“I believe there was something else you were supposed to do.”

His brow scrunched in confusion and it took every last drop of willpower in her not to jump him right then and there.

“Kiss me, you git.”

“Oh, that.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Only you would ask to kiss me and then nearly lose the chance because you were rambling.”

“Bad habit of mine, I’m afraid. I’m not sure if you know what a mess I am with pretty girls.”

“I’m starting to see it, yeah. You still haven’t kissed me.”

Lockwood stopped in his tracks.

“I haven’t.”

“Nope. Are you going to get to it any time soon, or…”

But Lucy had to stop teasing because his lips were on hers, warm and slightly chapped, and the hand not on her face was holding her body to his by her waist, squeezing ever so lightly. Lockwood seemed to approach kissing like he did everything else- with reckless abandon only barely tempered by his thoroughness. She gasped against his mouth when his tongue stroked her bottom lip. Lucy was half-sure he was smirking too, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care when he was kissing her like she had imagined guiltily for months and longer.

“Lockwood?”

“Yeah, Luce?”

She kissed him beside his mouth. 

“That was very, very good, but I think we may have a problem.”

Lucy didn’t miss the way his eyes shot down as if to check…

“Not that, but it’s very flattering to know I have that effect on you. No, I meant George. We’re late.”

“Fuck! Do we tell him?”

“I’d say we should wait. You?”

“Excellent idea.”

The two of them raced down the stairs, trying not to look as dishevelled as they felt. Of course, when they burst into the kitchen, George took one look at them and snorted.

“What was that, then? Ninety minutes, less?”

“Of what, George?”

“It only took ninety minutes of you being back before you snogged each other.”

Lockwood choked. “How could you possibly…”

George shot him a flat look, his wooden spoon clenched in his hand like he was contemplating hitting him with it for his stupidity. 

“Because you look happier than I’ve seen you in months, your heart is in your eyes, and you’ve somehow managed to fuck up Lucy’s hair in the ten or so minutes you’ve been upstairs.”

At that second, her hand leapt up to check and she felt her face burn at the evidence.

“All that I ask of the two of you is that you keep your hands off each other where I can see you. Which includes communal areas. I’m happy for you, but do not give me a toothache.”

Lucy took one look at Lockwood where he stood beside her, memorised the combination of embarrassment and endearment on his face, and murmured, “I think we can do that.”

Lockwood took her hand in his own, tracing his thumb over the ridge of her knuckle like he’d been thinking about doing it for a while. 

“Welcome home, Luce.”