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The three of them sleep in the living room the first few nights, taking turns on the sofas and floor. Holly offers to stay overnight while they’re tidying, but they all shoo her home to her girlfriend, and Kipps is still being kept in the hospital (not that he’d have volunteered to stay anyway).
The first night they’re too exhausted to do much more than shove the detritus leftover from the siege of the house in a corner, check there is nothing sharp or spiky in their proposed sleeping locations, and drop into dreamless slumber.
The next morning, Holly returns, scolds them all and by the end of the day the room looks more or less back to normal, minus a few statues and books and the big mirror over the mantle that didn’t survive the events of the previous days.
The kitchen is tidied up next; the beating heart of their home. They can’t get someone in for the shattered windows for a few weeks, so Lockwood boards them up while Lucy and Holly sweep up the shards of glass, George in charge of fixing cupboard doors and taking stock of their contents. Even Flo shows her face for an hour or so to de-rig some of their booby traps (and, Lucy overhears and reports to the others, to set a time for the date proposed by George).
After the kitchen is semi-presentable, they all sit at the table – a fresh, unmarked Thinking Cloth spread over it – with a dinner cobbled together by George and Holly’s collective culinary efforts and it feels like, eventually, it’s all going to be okay.
-
They sort the upstairs rooms one by one, George’s first, righting bookshelves, gathering clothes that had arguably been scattered on the floor before Winkman’s lot got involved
But after a day or two, he has a clear enough bed and clean sheets (thank you Holly, working diligently through washing all their linens and curtains and towels alongside any clothes that survived so they’re not wandering around in their pants all day- except for George who, well, you know) so he leaves his makeshift blanket pile on the living room floor for an actual mattress with very little fight.
Lucy and Lockwood sleep on the sofas opposite each other, his long legs draped uncomfortably over one arm. They haven’t tried sharing one couch, not with George in the room to moan at them, but the first night it’s just the two of them, they both drop to their own anyway.
This thing between them is new, spun glass still soft enough to mould and Lucy is terrified of letting it cool, harden, be likely to break. They’ve kissed (once), he’s given her his mother’s necklace (a symbol of his undying devotion), but then there has been DEPRAC to report to and the house to fix and their friends underfoot at every turn so now they’re in some sort of stasis despite sleeping in the same room every night.
Well, sleeping may be an exaggeration for what Lockwood does.
He’s fidgety, restless, occasionally murmuring under his breath. She thinks she catches her name once or twice, muttered in panic, eyebrows twitching before she slips from her own sofa to smooth a thumb over the crease in his brow. He starts awake at the smallest thing, Lucy tiptoeing out for a glass of water, a creak in the stairs, the ghost lamp flashing through the flimsy curtains.
Light is the worst actually - flicking the lamp on or cracking the door to allow light to spill in from the hall sends him lurching upright. Probably an after effect of his Seeing or his subconscious suggesting the unexpected brightness against his closed lids are death glows. Maybe its all the after effects of Jessica’s blinding death on his fragile young eyes.
She asks George if he’s ever noticed Lockwood’s sensitivity; they’ve shared enough rooms in hotels on cases that take them beyond London, after all. He starts rambling about a study he read on the impact of light on agents with strong sight that she eventually ends up tuning out because the sofa isn’t kind to her either and she’s too tired to follow his thought process.
-
“Sleep well, Luce.” Lockwood whispers drowsily from his sofa the first night without George on the floor, and even though he’s on the other side of the room, she can practically feel his breath fan over her cheek with each word.
She has to push her face into her cushion to hide from the intimacy of it all and pretends to be asleep, fingers closing around the sapphire that was hung around her neck earlier that day.
-
They do Jess’ old bedroom next. None of them are planning to sleep in it, so it’s not really needed on a practical level, but they all recognise that Lockwood’s desire to finally exorcise his ghosts as a higher priority than having his own bed.
His shoulders get looser the more they clear it out, Holly and George carefully packing boxes of whatever survived the portal to the Other Side, Lucy and Lockwood stripping out the iron and painting over the walls, Quill ‘supervising’ from an armchair they lugged in, hand carefully held over his bandages as he points out spots they’ve missed.
By the end of the day, Lockwood is laughing at one of George’s tales, joining in as they rib him about his upcoming date with Flo.
He dabs a splotch of paint on the tip of Lucy’s nose when she least expects it, grinning at her astonished laughter and enduring her revenge (dipping his tie into the can of magnolia) like a champ.
-
“Hol.” Lucy catches her alone in the kitchen; the windows are still boarded up, so it feels darker than usual with the big light on instead of the sun streaming through the glass.
“Everything okay?” Holly asks, pausing where she was putting together a tea tray to take up for them all, a well-deserved break as they all got a little silly on paint fumes.
“Lockwood has a meeting with Barnes tomorrow.” She tells her, voice low. “I think we should sort his room while he’s out.”
Holly scrunches her pert little nose cutely. “I don’t know, Lucy. Without asking him? That feels like an invasion of his privacy…”
“More than what Winkman’s goons did?” Lucy folds her arms, leaning her hip against the counter. “You know what Lockwood is like, he’ll insist his room is done last but he’s struggling on the sofa, Hol, even if he won’t admit it. He’s going to become a human pretzel at this rate and we’ll be having to convince George not to take a bite out of him.”
Holly laughs merrily, a warm tinkle that more than makes up for the lack of sunlight in the kitchen.
“Besides, I’d… I’d like to surprise him.” Lucy admits, haltingly. “He does so much and he’s barely stopped since the whole Fittes nightmare. He’s never slept well, not really, and we had so many nightmares from Aldbury Castle, but even before that- well, you’ve seen the circles under his eyes. But now that the whole Marissa thing is over and Jess’ room is clear, he might be able to… Well, and maybe, now that we’re- that is, I can… I’m…”
“Uh huh.” Holly smiles knowingly, saving her from her flustered explanation and Lucy flushes to the roots of her hair.
It’s hard to explain how she hopes that now she and Lockwood are, well, whatever they are, he might be able to find some peace. That she might be able to bring that to him, just as every coat of paint on Jess’ walls has lightened the weight on his shoulders, but in a more practical way.
She pictures the serene look in his eye after he’d kissed her on their walk, the way his index finger had circled the sapphire pendant hanging newly from her neck. They haven’t really talked, or labelled it, or even touched again since – they’ve hardly has a second alone with putting the house back together – but it happened and it hangs between them, there and partially acknowledged and real.
Holly laughs again, clearly aware Lucy’s mind is travelling to places she can’t – and probably doesn’t want to - follow. “It’s okay, Lucy. Get me a list and I’ll see what I can do.”
-
That night, Lockwood shouts out in his sleep and Lucy settles on her knees beside his sofa, stroking through his hair to coax the bad dreams away until she hears George come puttering downstairs to put on their morning tea.
When she pulls her fingers away, he makes a small, sleepy noise of protest and his hand shoots out to loosely grab her wrist.
He blinks startlingly alert eyes open, and she’s too embarrassed at having been caught to think to question how long he’s been awake.
-
“Do you think it’s silly? You can tell me, Hol, really.”
“No, Lucy. I think it’s lovely.”
-
She greets him in the hallway as he comes home from the all-day meeting with DEPRAC and Barnes, standing on the bottom step of the stairs; Holly has left, Kipps is home and George is on his date with Flo. It’s just them, alone, in their half-finished house.
“Hi.” She says when he collapses his umbrella, dusting the rug with raindrops.
“Hello, Luce.” He responds and must notice then that the library lamps are off, that there are no cooking smells wafting from the kitchen, no voices calling from the various landings, because a coy smile lights up his face.
Something heavy, but not unpleasant settles between them, her at the foot of the stairs, him in the doorway, framed by the arch and the lashing rain outside.
“Are you going to come in?” She asks, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
He quirks a brow at her, but closes the door behind him, shrugging off his coat and sticking his brolly in the rapier stand. “You’re acting odd.”
“Am I?” She feels like a teenage girl, home alone with her boyfriend for the first time. She is a teenage girl home alone with her… Lockwood for the first time.
“Yeah.” He hangs up his coat. “Everyone out?”
“Uh huh.”
“We could get started on your room, if you like.” Lockwood offers, slipping out of his suit jacket and kicking his trainers off. He starts down the hall towards her, unbuttoning and rolling up his shirt sleeves. It’s a bit obscene, actually, talking about her bedroom while fussing with his cuffs, forearms flexing. “Shouldn’t take too long. We can do it, just the two of us.”
He stops in front of her; the bottom step makes her the same height as him and being at his eye level when he looks at her cautiously makes her gut swoop.
“Holly and I sorted most of it this afternoon.” Lucy tells him; her palms are sweating. She probably could have moved back up into her little attic days ago with how little work it really took, but she hadn’t wanted to leave him in the living room on his own at night, so shrugged off any suggestions by the others that they tackle it next.
“Actually.” She hedges, glancing up the stairs over her shoulder. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”
“Oh?” Lockwood puts a hand on the banister, leans into her space.
She almost forgot, he’s a teenage boy home alone for the first time with her too.
She sways back ever so slightly because she’s still feeling a jumble of guilt and pride and fear over what she and Holly have spent the day doing. She doesn’t know how he’ll react; he was once so private, but he’s been cracking himself open to her over their years of working together, of friendship, of being partners. She doesn’t know if what she’s done is a violation of that trust or her making a claim on this new step they’re taking, or maybe a bit of both.
She turns and hurries up the stairs before she loses her nerve, senses him hesitate (or maybe watch her? There was something Skull said once about Lockwood and her hips…) before the boards creak under his socked feet as he follows.
She stops in front of his door, turns tentatively to see the confusion bloom over his face when she doesn’t continue to the attic stairs.
“Lucy…?”
“We- I wanted to surprise you.” She blurts out.
His expression is carefully blank as he stops in front of her. She remembers the guilt of sneaking into Jess’ room a year or so ago, directly disobeying his request not to. He’d never put such rules up against his own room and she’s been in it plenty of times, but she still acutely feels like she’s invaded his privacy, no matter how good her intentions.
Why didn’t Holly talk her out of this?
“So. Yeah.” She twists the doorknob and pushes it open. “Surprise?”
On first glance, it doesn’t look all that different; wardrobe, desk, bookshelves, all in their old spots, contents neatly put away. The bed is neatly made, pillows plumped to Holly’s impeccable standards. They touched up the paint with the can they found buried behind some filing cabinets, gave everything a good sweep and dust and wipe and Holly waged what can only be described as a war with the vacuum over the hardwood floors.
Lockwood steps inside, Lucy hovering behind him in the doorway, cataloguing the differences as he seems to spot them.
The bay windows have new blinds instead of the old flimsy mesh curtains, one for each pane. His desk is sporting an electric kettle and a caddy filled with individually packaged teabags. There are candles on the bedside table and a heavy blanket at the foot of the bed.
It’s deathly silent as Lockwood takes it all in, face impassive as looks around his pristine bedroom.
Then Lucy breaks and starts babbling.
“The blinds are blackout, because I know the ghost lamp wakes you up, it’s a Sight thing apparently, sensitivity to light, and well, the lamp is right outside your window so I figure it must keep you up an awful lot, but now it shouldn’t be a problem. Quill actually recommended those ones, he used to have them in his flat before, well, you know.” She scrambles mentally to justify every change, rooted to the doorway, feeling like a vampire who hasn’t been welcomed inside despite spending most of her day in here. “The candles – they’re not lavender, because I thought that might remind you of work and then you’ll never relax, so Holly got something called ‘ylang-ylang’ which is apparently even better smelling but it’s okay if you hate it, we can put them in George’s room or something because anything would smell better than it does in there.”
She folds her arms protectively over her chest as he stays silent, big dark eyes turning to watch her as she rambles. “The kettle is so if you wake up in the middle of the night, you don’t have to go all the way downstairs to the kitchen, and the tea is all herbal so it won’t keep you up. George picked them all, so it should be good stuff, even the camomile which I personally think tastes like grass, but I dunno it might be your cup of tea. Ha! Didn’t even mean that one.”
He doesn’t laugh, just gazes at her intently.
“I just…” She feels hot and uncomfortable and itchy under his gaze. “I noticed, when we were in the living room, you don’t sleep too well. And I wanted to help you. Make it easier for you to sleep.”
They both look reflexively at his bed, the scent of fresh linens rising and filling the room with a clean scent.
“That blanket is weighted.” She adds, then immediately regrets drawing his attention to what the blanket rests on top of.
To the stripey blue duvet with its navy pillowcases.
“Lucy.” Lockwood says, voice a little crackly from staying silent for so long during her panicked monologue. “These are your sheets.”
She feels her face heat up.
“There’s still a bit of a backlog in the washing.” She explains. “Holly is making her way through it all but when I went to look for your sheets they weren’t dry yet. So, we put mine on instead because they were ready. I guess we didn’t think to buy more.”
“Your room is sorted as well?” He asks.
She starts at the unexpected question, but nods, thinking back to the hour where they’d essentially swept through her attic with a broom and a bin bag and got it into a reasonable state. “Uh, yeah. It’s tidy. Might need some new curtains eventually but they’ll do for now.”
“Right, right.” Lockwood runs a hand through his hair. “But the thing is… If your sheets are on my bed, what are on yours?”
She meets his eye unsteadily. “Nothing. My bed isn’t made.”
When he doesn’t say anything in response, she adds, “I’ll just sleep on the sofa another night or two till everything dries.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches, like he wants to say something but can’t force the words out.
She knows the feeling.
“Are you mad?” She asks quietly.
“Mad?” He repeats, blank expression turning through several emotions and landing on incredulous. “Mad?”
She gears herself up for his anger or, far worse, his disappointment but instead his eyes go soft and his mouth turns up and he says-
“This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“Oh.” Lucy swallows, finally allowing herself to step into the bedroom. “Good.”
“I mean it, Luce.” He casts his eyes over the space again. “This is… I don’t know what to say.” He tails off, throat catching.
“Good.” Lucy says again, because what else can she say? “That’s good.”
“You did all this?” He shakes his head, moving to the armoire and opening the top drawer to where all his salvageable ties are neatly curled in colour order.
“With Holly. And George and Quill helped with the tea and the blinds and stuff.”
“Of course.” Lockwood huffs out a laugh and Lucy feels herself relax just a touch, the knots in her stomach going slack. “Why would I be mad?”
“I just- it’s your room. Your space.” She shrugs.
He blinks at her. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“What?” Lucy asks, but he’s shaking his head, moving further into the bedroom.
Lockwood picks his way around the bed and she feels content just to watch him, fighting the urge to over-explain or justify anything she’s done to it. He strokes a finger down the photos of Jess and his parents she and Holly framed on his bookcase, the ones they chose from a stack saved from Jess’ room. He pulls one of the blinds down, casting the room in partial shadowy darkness before running his hand over the heavy blanket folded at the bottom of his bed.
Eventually, he makes his way back to the armoire, fussing over the drawer of his ties.
“If it’s filled with things that make it easier for me to sleep,” Lockwood asks, carefully not looking at her as he unspools then re-wraps a navy blue tie and slots it back into its place. “Does that mean you come with this room?”
She feels a hopeful sort of hitch in her chest, another jigsaw piece in the puzzle of them slotting into place.
“Are you calling me boring? Send you to sleep, do I?” She snarks weakly with no bite, but he rolls his eyes exasperatedly anyway, putting the tie down and turning to face her.
“No, I’m calling you comforting.” He tells her, just on the edge of irate. “I feel better when you’re around, Luce. I always have.”
They look at her for another long, charged moment, like the one when he came home to her waiting nervously on the stairs for him.
Then an easy smile slides onto his face and the string of tension that’s been pulling taut since the second he shut the front door snaps. Because - oh yeah - they have this room and this house and it feels like right now this whole city to themselves. Warmth blossoms in Lucy’s stomach as he steps back toward her slowly, one hand reaching up to brush the sapphire resting on her breastbone.
Comforting is hardly the most romantic adjective in the dictionary, she thinks. In the books Holly innocently used to leave on Lucy’s bedside table, well-thumbed and quickly hidden before one of the boys came barging in, heroes called their paramours beautiful, or breathtaking, or – in some of the ones that really make her blush – their goddess, their lover, their tease.
But comforting is- it feels right for them. Like wrapping your hands around a warm cup of tea on a frosty morning or sinking into a steaming lavender scented bath after a long job. Like cosy evenings curled in one chair in front of the fireplace, sharing a magazine across laps, a plate of biscuits balanced on an arm. Hushed whispers and pink cheeks and unbreakable trust. Of arms around waists and borrowed coats slung over shoulders on strolls through the park, an umbrella held above her head.
Comforting is what they both want. What they deserve.
“What you don’t know, Lucy,” Lockwood says slowly, picking up the earlier thread of their conversation while taking hold of the sapphire and turning it so it glitters in the half-light from the windows. “Is that what is mine is yours.”
Lucy blinks at him, feeling hazy from his closeness, the smell of earl grey and smoke from his clothes.
“Do you come with this room, Luce?” Lockwood asks again, low and lazy, as his fingers skitter over her collarbone, across the sensitive skin of her throat, threading through the tangled ends of her hair where it rests at the nape of her neck.
“If you want me to.” She says breathlessly, realising what he’s really asking.
His smile turns a little wicked, home alone with no one to interrupt them. “I absolutely do.”
“You’re sure?” She asks, voice quiet and vulnerable, a last chance pass for him to laugh and say he’s joking and aren’t they just such great mates to muck about like this?
This feels like talking about it, in their own wordless way. It feels like putting a label on it, even though they both know there isn’t one that exists that can truly describe what they are to each other.
“Lucy…” He murmurs, almost in admonishment, then uses the hand at the base of her skull to tilt her face up and kiss her soundly.
She sinks into the warm tea, hot bath, borrowed coat of it all, going pliant in his arms as he gathers her closer. Her hands float up to his shoulders, tipping up as much as she can to try work with their height difference, the moment stretching out long and languid. The churning unease that’s been roiling all day in her stomach settles entirely, blooming into easy, molten bliss.
Lockwood makes a pleased little sound in the back of his throat, pressing it from his mouth into hers, blunt nails scratching gently down her neck and making her shiver. Her senses are in overdrive and the kiss on their walk – well, it was good. It was downright lovely, if a little tentative and unsure. But this? This feels like a forever kind of kiss, a good morning and good night and hello I missed you even though you were only out for an hour kind of kiss.
An I want you to stay kind of kiss.
As arguments go, it is very convincing.
“Well,” Lucy says when he pulls back, only far enough that their mouths can part, one arm still coiled around her waist and pressing every other inch of them together. She’s proud when her voice doesn’t tremble even a little, especially since her insides are quivering like George’s most majestic strawberry trifle. “I suppose my sheets are here already…”
Lockwood grins and pulls her down into them.
“I want to keep my attic room.” Lucy murmurs when he moves to trail his mouth down her neck, propped up over her body, bracketing her against the stripes of her bedding with a hand either side of her. His forearms are right next to her head; she could turn her head and lick one of them.
“That’s fine.” He grazes his teeth over her pulse.
“We should still have our own space.” She presses, hands coming to wrap around his bare wrists and anchor him over her.
“Agreed.” He nudges his nose against her jaw, hips dropping into the cradle of her thighs.
“And-“
“Lucy.” He says, in that exasperated tone again, pushing his forehead down against hers. “Whatever you want, okay? It’s yours. It’s all yours.”
She smiles. “Okay.”
And so, she stays and they both sleep through the night.