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"Did you know that your body remembers trauma?"
This particular tidbit is spouted as Lucy and Lockwood sit in the library after a rough job, applying ointment to plasma burns and wrapping up cuts from shattered glass. Lucy's head snaps up and her eyes meet Lockwood's across the couple of feet of space between their chairs.
"I might have heard that once or twice, yeah," she says carefully. Examining a gash on her wrist as she tries to decide if it's worth bandaging or just leaving to heal in the air, she adds, "Anything particular on your mind?"
She can see him smile out of the corners of her vision, and he replies languidly, "I was just thinking about all the scars I've got, but also – the muscle aches or the headaches I get sometimes."
"You get headaches?" Her gaze lifts once more to meet the sparkling stars that are his eyes. Dark, like a storm cloud on the horizon, but glittering with promise and hope and mischief. Three of Lucy's favorite things.
"Yeah. From my Sight. Just when the Death Glow is super bright. Even sunglasses don't always help." His smile quivers; the corner of his lips twitches down. He drops his eyes to his knuckles, which are bloody from when the Changer caused a mirror to fall.
It was a rough job.
It's been an even rougher night.
Changers are always bad jobs for Lucy. Her old team was slaughtered by a Changer disguised as a more innocuous ghost, and tonight was much the same. She and Lockwood walked into the house, believing they would be facing a Cold Maiden at worst, and instead got more than they bargained for. They're counting their lucky stars they got out alive, but neither of them are happy.
Lucy is particularly shaken, having seen Lockwood nearly get brained by a mirror, and if it wasn't for his lightning-fast reflexes, he really might have. It reminds her of the screams that echoed through the door at the mill, her friends locked in, Lucy unable to claw her way to them. The surging helplessness, the raging despair, the biting agony. Some nights, when she closes her eyes, she can still picture the stark white sheet of Paul's face, his eyes wide and wild and desperate as he shouted for her to go, to save herself.
But tonight, Lockwood's face is shadowed, and the ghosts that haunt him aren't the kind that he can eviscerate. Whatever is lingering, whatever is clinging to him like the stench of the Thames, will remain with him forever.
They both know this, but it's not something either of them really want to think about.
Agents live fast and die young, and they don't have much time to ponder about how their trauma haunts every decision they make, every step they take. How when they lie awake at night, it's the faces of their dead friends they see.
They don't have the time or the life or the energy for that. Instead, they focus on what they can control, and Lockwood is all about that most nights. But maybe tonight is a little bit different. There's a spark in the air, not necessarily something positive, but something palpable, something that strums between them as he lifts his head to meet her stare once more.
Something electric.
Something that pulses through Lucy's whole body like a guitar chord at a rock concert. She can feel it trembling in her bones, a sound she can't hear but a vibration she can feel.
It's a strike of lightning, a clap of thunder. It's the waves crashing upon the shore during a storm, and the rain beating down upon a little village, unprepared but resilient to their core.
It's the way her heart skips a beat every time he looks at her. It's the sudden quickening of her breath, not enough for him to notice, but it's her body. How can she not?
Her body remembers trauma. But it also remembers the feeling of Lockwood's hand pulling her to safety. It remembers the heat of his own body as they shivered after the Thames. It remembers his thigh pressed against hers, his thumb drawing soft circles across her arm as he helped her bandage her wrist in her bedroom.
It remembers it all.
Sometimes she wishes it wouldn't. Sometimes she thinks it would be nice if she could just go about her business without needing to worry about the way Lockwood affects her. Without wondering about the potential mortification if he accidentally finds one of her bras in the washing machine, or how he'll react if he catches her looking at him for just a second too long.
There is so much that goes into her day, just regarding Lockwood. The way she thinks about him. The little moments of hope that leave her breathless and her head spinning.
These are the times when she feels slightly drunk, slightly hazy, as though she's forgotten the worst parts of the night and focused on the best. The best is always him, no exceptions.
He's never an exception.
Lucy forces a small laugh to pass through her lips. "Maybe you need stronger sunglasses."
"What, like get a prescription from an eye doctor?" He snorts derisively. "No thanks. I tried that once and got laughed out of the office. They don't take pity on Seers, Lucy. They don't take pity on any of the Talented kids. We're just…disposable. Remember? Nothing more than sacrificial lawn ornaments."
"Wow, Lockwood. Tell me how you really feel."
His lips twitch. Moments like these, he reminds her so much of Paul. The heat of rebellion, just simmering beneath the surface. The rage at the establishment that threatens to turn into a violent storm. If anyone can take down Fittes, Rotwell, and DEPRAC, it's Anthony Bloody Lockwood. This might not be his plan, but the way he rants sometimes…Lucy finds herself ready to incite a full-blown rebellion after listening to him for ten minutes. Tear down the bricks that make up the infrastructure one by one.
She thinks she can do it, if she's got Lockwood's confidence in her.
"Well," Lockwood says, his voice heavy like he's got a thought weighing on his mind, "maybe I'm just feeling a bit bitter after I had to dodge a mirror. We were lied to, and the clients will never get punished because 'they didn't know'. It's bullshit. We both could have died, but the clients' lives are more valuable than ours. We're just good for fighting and dying. Always have been. At least…" He swallows hard, like he's got a lump in his throat, and Lucy stares at him. "At least here, at an independent agency, we have a chance of survival. Of living on our own terms. Isn't that what it's about? Nothing like at Fittes or Rotwell, where you're basically a slave to the higher-ups every whim, every demand. Why would you want to sell your life for something like that?"
Lucy can't bite back the smile that's threatening to overwhelm her face. It's not that she's amused by his rant, because she's not. It's more that she enjoys seeing his passion spill out of him in waves, something she doesn't always get to witness. Most of the time, he's focused on paying off his debts and owning the house by himself, with no equity from the bank. But right now, when he's tired and wounded and angry, his real interests shine through, his vulnerabilities laid open, exposed for the world to see.
Or Lucy. Maybe they're just open for her.
Deep down, she hopes that's the case. She likes the idea of something about him being for her and her alone. Even if it's just a dream he has, an ideal he holds onto. It's almost like a secret, whispered against slick skin in the dead of night, her fists tangled in his hair. The very thought of this is heady, like a musky perfume she's bought but hasn't dared to wear. Something sweet and seductive, but a little dangerous. The sort that brings with it a murmur of sensual delights, forbidden and tempting and way too worldly for a girl like Lucy Carlyle.
"What?" Lockwood asks, quirking an eyebrow curiously at her. "What're you smiling at?"
"Nothing," she replies at once. "I'm just…you get so passionate and opinionated about this. It's…kind of fun to see."
"
Fun
?" he repeats, like it's a bad word and he's not sure he understands the meaning.
"Yeah," she says with a shrug. "It's fun. It's interesting. I like seeing that side of you."
There's that bold part of her, the little voice that spurred her into buying the perfume, that convinced her to purchase a dark red lipstick, something else she's never gotten the nerve to wear.
Maybe one day, but it won't be today.
A little twitch of Lockwood's lip. Maybe it's his turn to be amused. Maybe he's just surprised. She likes the idea of surprising him, and she kicks out a leg, almost as if to bridge the gap that still exists between them. The toe of her boot nearly touches his chair.
"As opposed to what?" he challenges, smiling for real now. He doesn't seem to follow her train of thought, but he also doesn't seem to be upset. "Disinterested and bored?"
"You're just…you're very driven." She licks her lips. The dull ache of her bruises and the slight cramping in her muscles have faded now, forced away by Lockwood's proximity and attention. "You also have a lot of adult responsibility, so you're more focused on that." Now she's thinking about how much more mature he seems to her than, say, George. He always strikes her as older, even though he's only eighteen, and he holds himself accountable in a way that most teenagers do not. His ideas might be wild, but they usually land in some capacity – even when it involves them jumping into the Thames. He's beyond intelligent, probably as much of a genius as George is, but he's not interested in sitting in dusty archives. All he wants is to fight ghosts and to build up the business. And maybe, just maybe, take down the establishment eventually.
Lockwood continues to look at her for a long moment before he curls his fingers in a "come hither" motion. "Bring the bandages."
She messily grabs them and springs to her feet, padding the two feet or so over to him. Maybe it's three feet. She's not sure and she's not trying to eyeball it.
"Give me your hand," he orders her, and she stretches her arm out, letting him grab her fingers. Just like last time, she hasn't bandaged the gash on her wrist, and Lockwood immediately begins cleaning it with one of the antiseptic wipes he's got stashed in the plastic tub on the side table. She hisses and tries to jerk away at the stinging, but he holds fast. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I should have warned you this time."
"It's fine. I know better."
"Anyway," he continues on as he wipes away the blood from her skin, "I've always gotten headaches. Not every job, but like tonight…the Death Glows were so bright, and my sunglasses were nearly useless. And sometimes I wonder if it's just a reaction from my body, responding to the energy left behind, or if it's simply because of how incredibly blinding the Death Glows can be." His gaze flicks up to hers. "Does that make sense?"
"Yeah, it does," she says quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you get headaches."
"It's fine. Peppermint or chamomile tea usually helps ease the worst of the pain. My sister taught me that trick." His mouth shakes, just for a moment, and then it straightens out. "She couldn't see ghosts. Maybe if she had…maybe something would have been different. Anyway." He shakes his head dismissively at this line of thought, as though he doesn't want to even consider it. Lucy understands completely. It's a dark path and it's too easy to trip over a stray branch. No one knows what might be ahead, but like in a haunted house, they're sure it won't be anything good.
"She had a bit of rebellion to her," Lockwood murmurs. "Jessica, I mean. Just a bit. She was too busy to really lean into it, but she always thought…she believed the agencies and DEPRAC maybe weren't all that useful. Maybe that's what pushed me to sign on with Sykes." He tosses aside the wipe and reaches for a bandage instead. "Her beliefs. I didn't want to go the traditional route; I never did. And I'd still rather be feeling as though I'm making a difference, as though I'm creating changes and better working conditions. But I'm so in debt, I have to focus on the house and what I owe the bank. It's not about being an adult. It's about figuring out how to survive. And I've been figuring out how to survive since I was nine-years-old. Does that make sense?" He drapes the bandage across her wrist, a thumb holding the end in place. Lucy feels like she can't breathe, but it's somehow a good kind. Like staying under water because it's so peaceful, you don't want to surface.
"Yeah," she manages to choke out, "it does."
"Good." He drops her wrist. "I'm glad."
"I'm sorry you had so much responsibility foisted on you so young."
A shrug of his shoulders. He doesn't seem concerned. "It's fine. I mean, don't we all have a lot of responsibility foisted on us? You were pulled out of school when you were eight. Maybe it's a different life than mine, but you were still handed a rapier and told to fight ghosts. In some ways, I feel like that's worse."
"Well, I'm not about to compete with you for the worst childhood," she retorts. "We can save that for another night."
A smile. This one stretches across his face and his eyes light up. "Absolutely we can. Well," he adds as his smile transitions into a smirk, "assuming we survive long enough to do it."
She laughs and playfully shoves his shoulder. "Shut up."
His hands circle her waist, almost a grab. She's standing between his legs and her fingers slide from his shoulder down to his chest. His heart beats rapidly under her touch, and her breath catches in her throat.
Their eyes meet, just for a moment, and she knows her own heart must be hammering against her chest. They're the same height like this, him sitting down and her standing up. It would be so easy to just close the distance between them and kiss him.
She wants to.
She's never wanted anything more.
She bets he tastes like tea and toast, with maybe just a hint of Chocolate Leibniz. Sweet and salty, the two sides of him. She wants to bask in both, to explore the dips and nuances of his personality, the edges he keeps filed away and the secrets she has yet to learn about.
There is so much more to Anthony Lockwood than meets the eye, but she wants to know
everything
.
All of it, everything.
He looks away first. His gaze drops, and she steps back. Her fingers fall away from his chest. Tonight is not the night, not when they're both exhausted and injured and vulnerable. Not when she can no longer tell if he actually wants her to kiss him, or if it's all in her head.
Probably all in her head. But that's okay. She can enjoy it for herself. If she pretends, maybe next time, he won't look away. He'll keep his eyes on hers until she finally closes the gap between them.
That would be perfect, she thinks as she grabs the bandages back and mutters something about heading up to her room for the night. He agrees and comments that he's tired, and he wants to try to get some sleep.
That's absolutely okay. This is all just fine. There's always next time.
And there will be a next time.