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1.
The door to the library is a slightly ajar and Lockwood thinks he catches a flash of blue as he and George go to pass by.
Lockwood frowns and checks his watch; nearly 3am.
Lucy should have gone to bed several hours ago by his count; once George decided he’d found the right manuscript and didn’t need both of them to stay and help, he’d volunteered to stay up to assist since he’d been the one to insist they take this case, ignoring Lucy’s protests as he’d shooed her out of the basement with instructions to get some sleep. There was no point in them all being exhausted the following morning, after all, not when they had to present their findings to the client after lunch.
He shushes George, who is still rabbiting on about their research in the hallway, holding a finger to his lips as he detours into the library.
Lucy is curled into an armchair, a heavy biography of Marissa Fittes resting in her lap and a tepid cup of tea on the table beside her. The book is open, her thumb marking the page like she’d dozed off mid-sentence, head tipped back against the upholstery, mouth slightly open. She is still in her fuzzy blue jumper and leggings, fully dressed apart from her boots which seem to have been kicked off as she got comfy, unlaced and sprawled by the chair legs.
Clearly, she’d been attempting to wait up for them out of sheer stubbornness and sleep had gotten the better of her.
Smiling fondly, Lockwood slides the tome from her unresisting hands, slips a nearby sheaf of paper in between the pages to save her place before setting it down on the coffee table. He grabs the throw from the back of the sofa, a blanket made with more love than skill and gifted to them by George’s mother, and rests it over her, tucking in the edges so she’s fully covered.
Lucy stirs, mumbling something in her sleep, shifting so her head lolls the other way. There’s a strand of hair stuck to her cheek and he brushes it gently away, thumb smoothing over the imprint of the armchair’s material on her sleep-flushed skin.
When he straightens up, George is staring at him impassively from the doorway.
“What?” He whispers defensively.
“Nothing.” George says as he makes his way to the stairs. “Just remembering this for next time I fall asleep down here and you shove me off the sofa.”
2.
The heavens open just as the sunrise turns the sky pink and Lucy groans in frustration.
She’s had a long night, on a solo case that wasn’t terribly difficult but hardly a walk in the park either.
The Type One had been causing a ruckus at a local school but was mostly harmless. Unfortunately, its Source hadn’t been inside the school itself, but rather in the sewer system it had been built on top of, leading to a grimy and unpleasant smelling search.
She just wants a bath, her softest pyjamas and her bed until at least noon.
The rain isn’t really more than a minor inconvenience, but she’s so tired it feels like the final straw, especially when she’s just turned onto Portland Row and was so close to home.
So she blames her lack of sleep for her bewilderment when the rain seems to stop as soon as it started, even though she can still hear it pattering away against the pavement.
But no-
She realises the rain has not stopped at all, but a large black umbrella has been raised over her head. She follows the line of the owner’s arm up to its body and finds Lockwood smiling down at her like he hasn’t seen her in week, when in reality it’s been less than twelve hours.
“Morning, Luce.” He greets her cheerfully. “I was just picking up milk from Arif’s and saw you coming past.”
Lucy is so absurdly relieved to see him after her disgusting night that she could cry.
“Lovely weather we’re having.” She remarks instead.
“Quite.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not sure about that new perfume, though. Eau de Sewer, is it?”
“Oh, piss off.” She grumbles, shoving him.
As he sways away with the force of her push, he makes sure to keep his arm upright so the brolly stays over her, even when he briefly falls out from its protection and the rain slicks his hair to his brow.
It’s only a few minutes before they get to the door, Lucy rustling for her keys while he stands vigil behind her, umbrella angled to keep her dry. She pushes into the warm safety of the hallway, certain she’s never felt more blissful in her life.
She turns to tell Lockwood this, but instead finds his carton of milk pushed into her hands before he sets back off down their front steps.
“Wait, where are you going?” She calls after him, hugging the doorway to avoid getting wet again.
He turns and gives her a crooked grin, tipping the umbrella back slightly so she can hear him over the rain. “To pay Arif for the milk.” He offers a lopsided grin. “I left in rather a hurry once I saw you.”
She doesn’t really know what to say to that, just tips her head against the doorframe and stares at him incredulously, amazed he accidentally robbed their corner shop in his rush to protect her from the weather when she was really only a few feet from their front door.
His smile turns soft like he can read her mind. “Go get some sleep, Luce.”
3.
Lucys tap needs fixing
Lucy’s?
She greets him with a scowl when he gets to the top of the attic stairs. He’s in a rare grey t-shirt and she pretends not to look at the long, pale lines of the muscles in his forearms usually hidden by starched white cotton.
“Here to fix my grammar?” She accuses, but it’s playful, no real bite, smile glimmering at the corner of her mouth.
He grins and hefts up the toolkit that is usually kept under the kitchen sink. “Just your tap.”
Lockwoods a pedant!
Lockwood’s fixed your tap and your grammar.
4.
The day starts like this - Lockwood is in the kitchen, making two cups of tea, one black with a squeeze of honey and the other abysmally milky and sweet because that’s how Lucy likes it.
She’s due to stumble in, half asleep, in precisely three, two, one-
“Tea, Luce?” He holds the cup out toward the doorway just as she wanders in with rumpled hair and her jumper on backwards.
Her fingers fumble over his as she reaches for it with a grunt of thanks and he still feels the pressure of them when he lets it go and wraps his hands around his own mug.
-
When it’s his turn in the biscuit rotation a few hours later during their elevenses, he plucks a digestive from the packet and puts it on her plate instead, ignoring George’s scandalised look.
Absorbed in drawing out the floorplans to tonight’s haunted house on the thinking cloth, she doesn’t even notice she’s received it out of order, crunching away thoughtlessly as she sketches.
“Your turn, Luce.” Lockwood nudges the packet towards her when only crumbs remain.
“Huh?” She looks up. “I just had one.”
He shrugs. “No, I just took my turn, so…”
George is glaring daggers at him, but thankfully keeps his fuming silent.
“Oh. Okay.” Lucy helps herself and takes a nibble. “Thanks for letting me know, I wasn’t really paying attention. George could’ve taken his turn twice and I wouldn’t even have noticed.”
“George wouldn’t.” George says pointedly and Lockwood kicks him beneath the table.
-
George gets over it and makes them all a late lunch, a spread of whatever he can find in their chronically understocked fridge, reasoning that they need a big meal before their case starts at dusk. Lucy is practising her rapier drills in the basement; the kitchen floor occasionally rumbles as the pipes below spurt out steam for her to swing for.
Lockwood piles a plate high with sandwiches and a few sausage rolls, adds some crisps and a handful of bright and plump cherry tomatoes.
George eyes him. “You hate tomatoes.”
“I do.” Lockwood agrees airily, then sets the plate down at Lucy’s table setting.
-
They stumble through the door, exhausted but well-paid and satisfied with a job well done. George drops his backpack in the middle of the hall and practically crawls up the stairs to his room the second they get in, but Lockwood and Lucy take some time to wrestle out from their equipment, hang up their coats and unsheathe their rapiers.
Lockwood is about to bid her goodnight when her stomach growls comically loudly.
“Have you eaten since lunch today?” He asks, frowning.
She glances at the clock which reads just after midnight. “Define today.” She hedges, looking up at him sheepishly.
The day ends like this - he is in the kitchen, making two portions of cheese on toast, one with a neatly perfect ratio of bread to cheese and one practically drowning in Worcestershire sauce with cheddar dripping over the edges.
Because that’s how Lucy likes it.
5.
Barnes is giving them a tongue-lashing, which is all well and good but it’s six am, they’re outside and Lucy is bloody freezing.
She shifts from foot to foot, trying to focus on the rollicking they’re getting from the inspector, how they’re reckless and foolish, how they could have been killed, but all she can think about is the freezing January wind whipping her in the face. Her jacket was a casualty of the case, currently buried somewhere beneath some rubble (thankfully not with her inside of it, thanks to Lockwood’s quick action snatching her out of the way), and so the chill is leaking through the thin material of her jumper.
She folds her arms briskly, hands clutching at her elbows as she tries to suppress the violent shiver that ripples down her spine when a particularly biting gust of wind smacks into her body.
Suddenly, a soft, cosy, delicious warmth wraps around her shoulders. It smells of bergamot and smoke with the tiniest hint of lavender, woollen and gentle, soaking into her bones immediately.
Her hands automatically unclasp from her elbows to catch the material sliding around her, tugging it close over her chest, which is when she sees the lapels and the buttons and realises the warmth is actually Lockwood’s coat draped over her, still carrying the warmth from his body.
It swamps her ridiculously, flapping around her ankles, but she shrugs it closer, tucking her chin into the wool of the collar. It’s like sinking into a hot bath or a hug and her cheeks go pink at the thought - at least she can blame that on the sting of the cold.
When she glances over, Lockwood is still taking Barnes’ scolding with a mild smirk, eyes seemingly having never left the inspector, with his shirt sleeves and tie rippling in the wind.
+1.
Lockwood reaches over the Thinking Cloth for the plate of toast and winces when the action tugs at the still healing gunshot wound of his shoulder. He's no longer in that blasted sling, thank goodness, but he's bandaged up to the high heavens and under strict instructions to keep it as still as possible to avoid pulling at the stitches.
Lucy descends on him in an instant, looming over where he’s sat at the kitchen table.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” She demands, arms folded.
He blinks. “…Buttering toast?”
“That’s my toast.”
It seems a little odd that she’s getting territorial over bread and he has the impression there’s something else going on here.
He looks at the plate, then back up at her. “Yes.”
“So why are you buttering it?”
Well. That’s a good question. Why does he do any of the things he does for Lucy? He gets the sense she’s not used to people looking after her. She doesn’t talk about it much, but there’s always an air of surprise when he does even the smallest task in the hopes of making her life a little easier. Generally, he doesn’t do that – make her life easier, that is – all that often, between dragging her into deadly scenarios, forcing her to pull him back from the demons in his head and forgoing her comfort for the benefit of his own ego. Making sure she eats and stays warm seem like paltry offerings for the anguish he’s put her though time and time again. But now and then he glances at her and remembers the girl who came to the interview and ate a biscuit like she’d never seen food before and thinks that if they all end up in an early grave because of him, at least she’ll know he cared in his own odd, repressed little way.
He’s no good at saying it, never has been, but actions speak louder than words or whatever that old saying is.
Sometimes he does it because of the reckless rush of knowing there’s a smile waiting as his reward in the end.
Best not look too close at that answer, actually.
“You’re injured.” Lucy continues, oblivious to his internal discomfort.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” He asks, reaching for the knife.
She abruptly slaps his hand away.
He lets out a bemused laugh. “Lucy!”
“Sorry!” She cringes instantly. “I’m not… I’m not as good at this as you are.”
She’s smiling, but also seems to genuinely be a little distressed as she hovers over him.
“I’m lost, Lucy.” He admits, but lets her take her plate of toast away from him.
She slides into the seat next to him, busying herself with dipping the knife into the butter.
Then she reaches for his plate instead.
“While you’re healing,” She says, speaking to the toast rather than him as she scoops up a much smaller amount of butter than she’d usually partake in and scrapes it thinly over his breakfast – just the way he likes it. “You’re going to have to put up with me looking after you for once instead of the other way round.”
“But that’ll be months.” He protests.
Her eyes flash with hurt and he could kick himself.
“Not- I didn’t mean-“ He sighs. “I like looking after you Lucy. I told you I- we always would.”
And there it is, that tiny smile that just ticks up the corners of her mouth but positively radiates from her eyes. Lucy’s a quiet sort, but her gaze has always been able to speak volumes and right now its bathing him in gratitude and warmth and something else that is honey sweet and soft.
“Well, I’m sorry but you’ll just have to wait a little while. Your body needs rest and that means no exerting yourself.” She chides, slicing his toast diagonally and sliding it over to him. “I can’t just kiss it and make it better.”
Huh. His traitorous mind tells him that he wouldn’t be opposed to her trying, but he manages to switch off his brain to mouth filter for long enough that he doesn’t say it out loud.
“So,” She says, picking up her own toast. “Be a good boy for just a little while and let me take care of you.”
And when she puts it like that, it doesn’t sound half bad.