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Lockwood wants a hug.
And while he knows that he could ask Lucy, he could ask Holly, he could ask George, or even Quill who would awkwardly oblige him, he just can’t bring himself to do it. He’s trusted all of them with his life, and would do it again in a heartbeat, but this is different.
This makes him feel weak, like the child that he only got 6 years to be. It makes him feel silly, lingering on the edge of conversations, so close to asking, but his mouth refusing to open.
And it would be so damn easy to just ask. But he can’t.
So he relishes in the small things. He relishes in the way that Lucy will sometimes hold his hand on cases, the way Quill punches him affectionately on the shoulder, the way that George shoves him around, the way Holly taps him to get his attention. He feels guilty in relishing these small touches, but the ravenous pit in him that cries for more drowns out his guilt.
It’s one of those nights, when he feels cold no matter how many blankets he has, but he doesn’t have a fever. One of those nights where he dreams of his family, not his new family of George, Lucy, Holly, and possibly Quill, but Jessica and his parents. They’re never pleasant dreams, and they always leave him covered in sweat, and even colder than when he fell asleep. They don’t happen often, these nights, but when they do, he wishes, for just a fleeting second, that he had someone to hold him. It’s been three nights in a row with these dreams now, and he can’t bring himself to go back to sleep.
So instead he lies awake in bed, shivering, and staring at his ceiling, remembering faintly the song that his mother used to sing to him. He stays like that till the sun comes up and he forces himself out of bed. He dresses in clean clothes, and throws on his jacket, trying to rid himself of the chill that had settled in his bones. Then he goes to make himself tea.
It’s early enough that Holly hasn’t arrived yet, the sun barely over the horizon, the ghost lamps giving their last flickers, and the moon still hanging in the sky. It’s beautiful, but Lockwood can’t help but feel empty. After a night like he’d had, he can’t find warmth in such a view. Not when he’s still so damn alone.
The others show up slowly, Holly first of course, then Lucy, and then an hour later, George. Quill is due sometime after lunch for a case briefing. They all give him a look for being up so early, a concerned glance that makes him feel guilty for worrying them. George makes his favorite for breakfast though. It’s something his mom used to make when he was little. He’d told George haltingly after George had found him crying in the library, back in the early days when it was just the two of them.
George had made it the next morning. Toad in a hole, just like his mom had made it, egg still runny. Lockwood had wiped away a tear that morning, and George had gracefully ignored him, babbling about their case.
This morning it inspires a similar reaction in Lockwood, a piece of George’s affection for him that he greedily holds close to his heart, uses it to fill that ravenous pit just a smidge. George had made it for all of them, setting their plates down at the table. Even Holly, who usually made breakfast for herself, sat down and ate with them. It doesn’t escape his notice that Lucy and George had moved their chairs to sandwich him in between, offering their silent support of him as they ate. It’s nice, quiet even for a moment until George accidentally chokes on a bite, and the silence is broken by them laughing.
They settle into a comfortable rapport, Lockwood content to watch from the edge of things for a while. There is something comforting about it, although the pit inside of him screams for him to fling his arms around George and Lucy, to hold them close. The other part screams at him to run.
“You all right?” Lucy quietly asks him, and Lockwood nods tightly.
“Just a rough night,” It’s not technically a lie, and hopefully covers how he pathetically leans towards her, desperate for anything, for a morsel of human contact.
“You know you can come to me right?” Lucy tells him softly, bumping her knee against his under the table, the contact igniting his skin and setting loose a pack of butterflies in his stomach. He tells himself that he doesn’t miss it the second that she pulls away.
“I know,” Lockwood tells her, not even convincing himself. Lucy gives him a slightly disappointed look, and his stomach drops. He hates disappointing Lucy, feels ashamed of himself for doing it. And it sounds so easy, just turning to her for comfort, but he just can’t make himself walk up those stairs at night after a bad dream. Can’t wake Lucy when she finally manages to get to bed.
Lucy lets him get away with it though, bumping their knees together again before she turns to Holly to discuss the most practical way to put hair up in the field. He lets the conversation fade into the background.
Then George gently pokes his side, “You still hungry?” He asks Lockwood in his blunt, effusive way that is just so George.
“No,” Lockwood tells him softly, but George is already dropping another toad in the hole onto his plate. Lockwood eats it without complaint.
After they do the dishes, Lockwood and Lucy head down for rapier practice, Holly starts to make a checklist of all the tidying she needs to do, and George heads to the Archives for a few hours before they go over the case at lunch.
The rapier practice is refreshing, muscles burning as he runs drills that he’s run thousands of times. Joe is his target today, and the routine of things helps to ground Lockwood. They have a case tonight, he needs to be ready.
When he and Lucy move to sparring, he is keenly aware of everytime that they brush against each other, everytime that they get close to each other. He hoards every touch, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t think he could ever get enough.
Holly calls for them after what feels like only an hour, but when he checks the clock, it’s been three. He and Lucy shower quickly, taking turns with the big shower, and then gather in the kitchen for lunch.
George and Holly have set out stuff for sandwiches, and Quill walks in soon after they all start. He grumbles a bit at their starting without him, but he’s soon sitting at a chair, sandwich in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, laughing at George’s jokes. Lockwood is sandwiched in between Lucy and George again. It’s the most delicious type of torture, the two of them passing items back and forth, leaning into him each time, and Lockwood drinks it in as he puts on his confident facade.
“So what’s on the agenda for tonight?” Quill asks, leaning back in his chair, biscuit half out of his mouth.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Holly reprimands him before turning to Lockwood, “Well?”
Lockwood jumps into action with a practiced ease that came with so many years of pretending, “It seems to be a pair of Type Twos, hence us calling you in Quill,” He nods to the older man, “Our client disclosed that there were two violent deaths in the house due to the Blitz, and George has been able to verify that,” He nods to George, “We’ll go in like normal, secure the sources, and Bob’s your uncle,” He leans back in his chair, painting on his brightest grin. He pretends he doesn’t see the look that George and Lucy swap behind his back.
“Are you sure that you didn’t find anything else at the Archives?” Holly asks George, sipping daintily at her tea, “I’d hate to run into more ghosts on top of what we’re already facing,”
“I’m pretty sure,” George tells her confidently, “However, there is the usual chance that there was an unreported death in the house,”
“Any ideas on what stirred it up?” Quill asks, taking his plate to the sink.
“Owner said they were doing some remodeling,” Lucy tells him, leaning practically into Lockwood’s lap to get George’s plate to take to the sink. She’s so warm.
Quill nods thoughtfully, “Pretty straight forward then,”
“Should be,” Lockwood agrees. He tries his best to keep his grin up. He knows that he’s not entirely successful by the worried looks that they exchange, but none of them are brave enough to call him on it. Except for Quill.
“You alright Lockwood? You look like a stiff breeze would blow you over,” The redhead tells him, giving him a scrutinizing look, “I won’t have you coming on the case if you’re sick,”
“Just a rough night,” Lockwood insists, “I’m perfectly capable of coming on the case,”
Quill gives him a skeptical look, but he doesn’t push it, “You’d best not be lying,” Lockwood glares stubbornly.
As it turns out, Lockwood had not in fact been capable of going on the case. One of the spirits had turned out to be a Poltergeist, which had quickly tuned into Lockwood, feeding off of him. The other had been another Type Two, a Spectre, fueled by a love lost to the war when it died.
Lockwood had been ghost-locked almost immediately after it had shown itself, so stricken by a grief that echoed his own. His own family had been lost in a war of sorts after all. As furniture started to fly, he had been pulled out of the haze by George who had tugged him roughly behind the kitchen island.
“You said you were fine,” George hissed at him, “Just a rough night, well news flash Lockwood, one rough night doesn’t make you act like that,”
Lockwood winced, caught out as the others fought around them, “It may have been a few more rough nights than that,”
George gave him a fierce glare, “We are talking about this when we get home,” He gave Lockwood his best disappointed stare. Lockwood’s stomach dropped, he hated it just as much as he hated when Lucy was disappointed in him. George sighed before going to join the others.
Lockwood pinched his arm and followed.
Quill had taken charge, ridiculous goggles strapped firmly to his head.
“Lucy, listen for the source, ask the Skull for help, I don’t care if you have to beg. Holly, you watch Lucy’s back. George, you look for the sources, I’ll watch your back. Lockwood, you stay in the circle,” Lockwood started to protest, but Quill turned on him, his mouth drawn tight, “In the circle,” Lockwood listened, he’d done enough damage tonight.
He watched as his friends risked their lives, unable to do anything but occasionally cry out a warning as he further recovered from the ghost-lock. It was not fun, but eventually he felt strong enough to leave the circle to help Quill watch George’s back as he dug through the rubble to find the source. Lucy and Holly were busy fighting the poltergeist, distracting it as best they could while Lockwood and Quill fended off the Spectre.
Lockwood made an effort to keep his emotions drawn tight, all of his worry and longing as close to his chest as possible. He could not afford to make any more mistakes.
Later that night when Holly and Quill have gone home, and everyone has been bandaged from their minor scrapes, and the tea has been drunk, Lucy and George sit him down in the library.
He’s in between them again, staring straight ahead at the wall. The artifacts hanging there remind him of his parents.
“Lockwood,” Lucy starts gently, “What’s going on?”
“You know you can tell us,” George adds on softly, pressing just a little bit closer to Lockwood, “We want to help,”
Lockwood feels so helpless. Everything he wants is just a few words away, yet he can’t bring himself to speak for fear that everything would come falling out. So he keeps staring at the ceiling.
“You scared me today,” Lucy tells him, and he can feel her eyes on the side of his head, “We nearly lost you Lockwood,” She takes his hand, and the lump in his throat grows.
“We need you Lockwood,” George says softly on his other side, taking his other hand, and his voice is so full of devotion that the two of them rarely acknowledge that it brings Lockwood to a halt.
These two wonderful people, his friends, his family, are worried about him. are worried for him.
And the dam breaks.
One tear rolls down his cheek as he draws in a shuddering breath.
“I just feel so alone,” He starts, still staring at the wall, but gripping their hands tightly, taking in the comfort while it lasts, “And I know that I’m not,” He hastens to assure them, “But sometimes it just gets hard,” He takes a deep breath, the tears coming a bit quicker, “And sometimes I feel so cold,” He tells them, feeling the warmth from their hands, letting it give him courage, “And nothing seems to stop it except for,”
He trails off, “Except for?” Lucy prompts him gently.
He holds up their conjoined hands, George’s fingers calloused from cooking and holding books, Lucy’s calloused from rapiers and fighting, but both so perfect and warm in his, “This,” He tells them softly, and suddenly he’s surrounded by warmth.
When he looks down, Lucy has tucked herself into his side, and is busy pulling his arm around her shoulders. It's a bit awkward as they refuse to let go of each other’s hands, but they make it work. When he looks at his other side, George has leaned up against him, pressed them together from knee to shoulder, and when George leans his head on his shoulder, looking up at him, Lockwood shudders and the tears begin to fall faster.
“Let it out,” George tells him softly, bringing his free hand up to gently thumb at Lockwood’s tears. Lockwood leans into the hand, and George gives him a fond look. He has hazy memories of that look from when he’d been shot in the catacombs, the three of them pressed together much like they are now, George on his left, and Lucy on his right. Lockwood takes a few more shuddery deep breaths before pulling them closer to him, greedy with their touch as they give it to him freely.
That bottomless pit in his chest begins to fill, and Lockwood wishes they could stay like this forever, that all of the ghosts would leave simply because they couldn’t bear to interrupt such a tender moment. The outside world fades away, and for a while, he lets himself relish in the affection, before he begins to feel greedy. Surely they don’t want to stay like this forever.
So he begins to loosen his grip on their hands, no matter how much it hurts him, no matter how much the despair in him starts to howl in triumph. But they aren’t so quick to let him go.
“Why are you doing this?” Lockwood asks them desperately, mind racing.
“Oh, Lockwood,” Lucy pulls away and forces him to look at her, her hand gently gripping his chin, “You silly boy,” She presses a kiss to his cheek, then another, and another. On his other side George does the same.
Lockwood is overwhelmed by this affection, this care being shown for him so outright.
There’s a small part of him that wants to scorn it, to throw them off, to storm out of the room and hide. The larger part of him is crying out for him to let them in, let them help. Even George, who so rarely shows his affection through touch, is making the effort to help him. So he finds the courage to let the words fall out.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” They still around him, but they don’t go anywhere. Their presence remains reliable, steady, unmoving. He’s incredibly grateful for the courage their presence gives him, “I keep dreaming of-” He takes in a shuddering breath, “of my parents and Jessica,” They still hadn’t moved. If anything they press closer to him.
“Go on,” Lucy tells him, her face pressed to his cheek. The three of them are so close that Lockwood feels they could fit in an armchair together.
“And I miss them,” The tears are still falling, and surely Lucy and George can taste them with all of the kisses they painted on him. Surely his face is snotty and wet and gross, but somehow they stay, “I miss them so much,”
They don’t say anything for a little while, staying pressed to the couch. Be brave, Lockwood tells himself, and finds the courage to speak again, “I miss the way that they’d hug me, or the way they’d hold my hand crossing the street,” He admits, “Miss it so much that it feels like there’s a void in my chest,”
“All you have to do is ask,” George tells him, he’s drawn back a bit, but Lockwood can forgive him. George has never been as much for physical contact.
But George’s assurance sends him over the edge again. To hear it said so plainly, to have that invitation means more than he could ever put into words. So he just squeezes their hands, tight as he can, hoping they understand.
“Anytime Lockwood,” Lucy tells him softly, “I don’t care if it’s three bloody am, just ask,”
“The same goes for you,” Lockwood means it. He wants to be there for them, needs to be there for them in the same way that they are there for him.
“We know,” George tells him softly, running a hand through Lockwood’s hair. Lockwood leans into it.
“I think it’s time we go to bed, yeah?” Lucy says softly, pulling away from Lockwood. He holds himself still, determined not to chase after her comfort. It’s even harder when George stands too. He’d known they’d have to part, but some part of him had hoped for longer.
Then they’re giving him expectant looks, and he realizes they haven’t let go of his hands. He blinks dumbly up at them. “Oh,” Lockwood says softly.
“Oh,” George parrots at him, jerking his head towards the door, “Come on, your bed is the only one big enough for all three of us,”
Lockwood follows them without complaint.
He loans them tees to sleep in, and they dance around each other, changing in separate corners, and brushing their teeth together. In the midst of their bedtime routine, Lockwood realizes that one of them is always touching him, his hand, his shoulder, his hair. He feels rich, that pit beginning to overflow.
He sits next to George on his bed as they begin to settle down. Lucy’s on the floor between George’s legs as George braids her hair. It’s painfully domestic, but Lockwood wouldn’t have it any other way.
“How did you learn how to do this?” Lockwood asks, hypnotized by George’s unusually nimble fingers, the way they slide through Lucy’s slight curls, pulling out the tangles of the day.
“Read about it when I was small,” George says, his eyes squinted in concentration, “My mother let me practice on her,” There’s familiarity in his motions, in the careful way that he runs his fingers through Lucy’s hair. It makes Lockwood fond, and he presses a careful kiss to George’s cheek.
George stills for a second, before he goes back to braiding, “You missed,” He tells Lockwood, and only the slight tremor in his hands betrays the confidence in his voice, “My mouth is about two inches to the left,”
Lockwood doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give himself time to second guess. He gently takes George’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and turns him to face him. George smiles up at him, eyes fluttering shut as Lockwood leans in. Lockwood can see Lucy lean her head against George’s knee, smiling fondly up at them.
And then he gently brushes his lips against George’s. Once, twice, and then firmer as George leans into him. It’s short, and Lockwood straightens George’s glasses as they pull apart.
“Not bad,” George tells him, smirking and Lockwood feels both a rush of affection and annoyance, “What’d you think Luce?”
“Hard to tell without the proper data,” Lucy grins up at them, her bangs out of her face for once, neatly braided back by George.
Lockwood feels lighter than he has in ages. His heart flutters against his chest, and if he weren’t tethered by George at his side and Lucy at his feets, he thinks he would fly right up to the ceiling, “I think that can be arranged,” He tells Lucy, leaning over and kissing her gently. It’s just as short as his kiss with George, and the three of them share giddy smiles, on the edge of something new.
“Enough data for you?” George asks Lucy, “Before I contaminate the experiment,”
“Quite enough,” Lucy grins up at him, “I love it when you talk all nerdy,”
George laughs, and leans in to kiss her softly. Lockwood’s heart thrums. The two of them are beautiful. He doesn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.
“Can I have data too?” Lockwood blurts out, ears burning as he realizes how desperate he sounds, but George just kisses him swiftly, without hesitation, cupping his cheek, and deepening the kiss more than Lockwood had when their roles had been reversed. Lockwood doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it. Doesn’t think it’s even possible to have enough of this affection, this warmth and care.
As soon as George pulls away, Lucy is there, her lips softer, fuller, but just as warm as George’s. Lockwood loves it. Loves them, he realizes. The realization ignites him, makes him pull them even closer to him, makes him hope that they’ll never let go of each other.
They don’t do anymore than kiss, all tired after their case, and everything so new that Lockwood just wants to hold them close.
They crawl under his covers together, piled on top of each other. George’s head is cutting off the circulation to his arm, and Lucy’s knee is in his gut, but Lockwood is so happy. The howling in his head has paused its lament, content to let peace have its moment. The void has shrunk to a tiny puddle that barely has enough water to show his reflection.
A thought crosses his mind, “Are kisses like the biscuit rule? Do we take them in turns, one at a time?”
There’s silence for a moment, then George snickers, Lucy laughs, and Lockwood grins sleepily.
The three of them will find their way, he knows it.