Chapter Text
Lucy wasn’t a stranger to sleepless nights. From what she knew about George and Lockwood, they weren’t either. That didn’t mean lying awake staring at the ceiling of her loft bedroom at Portland Row was any more enjoyable than lying awake staring at the ceiling of her childhood bedroom. Aside from the fact that if she managed to make it down to the kitchen at 2AM, too tired to speak coherently but still too tired to sleep, at Portland Row she wouldn’t be yelled at for it. Her mother, on the other hand, would have some choice words on the matter.
She preferred not to dwell on what her mother would or wouldn’t do, but when the lights are off and the darkness is everywhere… It’s hard not to let one thought spiral into another and another until she’s choking back tears with her knees pulled up to her chest. It was in those fateful early morning hours when the truth blurred with the lies she’d been told and the feelings she’d spend so long bottling up and it was almost painful.
Because what if they were all right about her, back home?
What if her team died because of her?
What if the same thing was going to happen here too?
After Bickerstaff and the Bone Glass, the nights seemed a lot longer than they used to be, and the silence was all too loud to be comforting. It was almost like every time Lucy closed her eyes, she was back there.
The image of Lockwood, ghost-touched, flashed into her mind again.
Panic knotted in her chest and she attempted to swallow it down. It spread like frostbite, turning her blood to ice as it worked its way from her heart to her fingertips and left her hands shaking just enough to warrant the force she clenched them with in an attempt to calm down. It didn’t work, only succeeding in leaving angry crescent-shaped marks on her palms and a stinging sensation that accompanied them.
All it took was one look at the photos of her and Norrie. That instantly merged with the memories of the visions from the Bone Glass of her best friend ghost-locked, interspersed with the screams of her old teammates, all the other horrific events she’d witnessed, and finally the yet to happen ghost-touched Lockwood. Lucy clamped her hands over her ears in an automatic response to the screaming, but it was futile when the cause was her own trauma.
Slowly, she removed her hands from her ears and opted for curling them tightly in the bed sheets instead. Her gaze fixated on a blank spot on the wall — currently a safer bet than what would undoubtedly return behind her eyelids as soon as they closed. Sleep was looking less and less likely, so there was really only one solution that didn’t make Lucy feel like shit.
Biscuits.
Granted, she had been the last one to take one, so it would be breaking the biscuit rule… But as long as she went out and bought more first thing in the morning, it would probably be fine. Right?
It was hard to know who was awake, so she tiptoed carefully down the stairs in her socks, taking each step slowly to make sure it didn’t creak. It didn’t end up making a difference, if the light spilling under the kitchen door was anything to go by. She hovered on the bottom step and her eyes quickly traced over the spot where Carver had died, the event which Lockwood was forced to be reminded of every time he came down after dark. If her Sight was better, maybe she would be able to see it too.
She hesitated, briefly. Sometimes, it was easier to be alone in these hours, in the quiet hours. You could almost convince yourself that you would only be awake for five minutes — ten, maximum — and that it was probably because of a noise outside. It wasn’t your own fault, it wasn’t a regular occurrence. A rare inconvenience at best. This wasn’t one of those times. If someone else was awake, it was proof she wasn’t alone in all this.
Lucy desperately needed that proof right now.
She pushed open the door, showering the hallway in a golden glow. Lockwood was leaning over the kitchen table with his head hanging low; either fixated on something on the thinking cloth or lost to his own thoughts, it was too early to tell. His arms were almost completely straight, braced against the table in a way that made it seem as if he’d collapse without the assistance — although it wasn’t hard to see that he was favouring his right arm, the left still recovering. A pencil danced between the fingers of his right hand, but it had grown still as soon as the door opened. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers but his tie was discarded on the table, still tied, and judging by the odd angle his collar was sticking out that meant that his top button was undone too.
It was pretty clear that although he disappeared upstairs after dinner, Lockwood definitely made no attempt at going to bed.
She couldn’t be sure how much he’d slept in the past week — her world was distorted through the same sleep-deprived lens that it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume he shared. Still, Lucy was slowly finding it easier to read him, to see beneath the cracks in his armour. Lockwood looked up, slowly, and the light made him look that much more hollow. The bags under his eyes looked exaggerated in comparison to during the day.
Despite this, he still mustered a small, uneven smile. Even if he didn’t quite have the energy to. It wasn’t much, but it was solely for her, and Lucy couldn’t help but notice she felt a little bit less anxious because of it. “Luce, hey.”
“Late night?” She asked warily, taking a few steps into the kitchen and closing the door behind her.
He sighed, wiping his forehead with the back of his left hand before bracing against the table again. He winced as soon as it made contact with the surface again and immediately tried to hide it. “Late night, early morning…” Lockwood trailed off, forcing a small laugh. “Can hardly tell the difference.”
Lucy made her way over. Eyes skimming over the thinking cloth, she clocked the checklist he seemed to be working from, along with the contents of the documents strewn across the table. A rather large reminder that read “BILLS” in all caps had been underlined several times, as well as being circled in red pen — something she’d rarely seen used on the thinking cloth. “Please tell me you’re not doing… taxes? At three in the morning.”
“Not taxes,” he chuckled. “Far more interesting than that.” Lockwood nudged one of the pieces of paper across the table towards her. “Keeping the lights on, all the important landlord stuff that you guys don’t need to deal with.”
“At three in the morning?” She probed again, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s very therapeutic,” he lied.
“Lockwood.” Lucy folded her arms. “Take a break.”
“I’m almost—”
She couldn’t ignore the real reason she came downstairs for much longer, so Lucy reached for the packet of biscuits and slid it towards him as she sat down. “Please?” She asked, her voice small. She couldn’t be hypocritical, she couldn’t coax Lockwood’s secrets out of him and then hide her own when she was struggling.
Something flashed in Lockwood’s expression, but it was gone before Lucy had a chance to register it. He sat down, turning the chair so it faced hers as he took a biscuit, before passing the packet back to her. “Is it the Bone Glass still?”
She took a biscuit from the pack, nibbling on it for a little comfort. “Maybe,” she admitted. It didn’t take much for him to work the truth out of her, but honestly Lucy wasn’t sure she had the energy to fight it anyway. “Yes,” she clarified. “It is. Are you still avoiding the…” She trailed off, glancing at the kitchen door.
Lockwood ducked his head, refusing to meet her eyes. “I fell asleep packing away new kit in the basement, it was dark out by the time I woke up. I just couldn’t do it.” His brows pulled tight, knitting together in frustration. “It’s stupid, they’re already dead. I don’t know why I can’t just… I don’t know. Maybe it’s punishment, because they’re my fault.”
“They’re absolutely not—”
“They are Lucy,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “Just like that DEPRAC agent at Winkman’s. If I had helped Jessica like she asked me to, or if I had a more subtle plan to talk to Carver, or if I hadn’t… I hadn’t…”
“Lockwood.” Her tone was final, no arguments would hold up against it. She put her hand on top of his and interlaced their fingers. “It wasn’t your fault. You can’t keep blaming yourself for it all, it wasn’t your fault.” She sensed his hesitation, squeezed his hand again in reassurance. “Because if it was your fault, then by that logic, what happened at the Mill was mine.”
That seemed to disperse any attempt at a valid argument he had. It was harsh move to use, if a little selfish — all Lucy needed to hear someone say was that it wasn’t her fault — but she knew Lockwood well enough to know he would never let her take the blame for what happened. Ever since she told him the full story, about Norrie, about her team, about Jacobs… He was adamant that she did all she could.
“Of course what happened at the Mill wasn’t your fault, Jacobs—”
“Then Jessica wasn’t yours. Or Carver, or that agent,” she replied firmly. “If you doubt that, then I will keep telling you you’re wrong because there is no way I will let you beat yourself up over this for the rest of your life.” Returning to the subject of her own failures, Lucy’s voice shook a little, just a little less certain. “And if I end up thinking about… all that… Then you can talk me out of it just the same, yeah?”
She squeezed his hand again.
He squeezed hers back in silent agreement.
After a moment of no talking, just comfortable quiet, Lucy wondered out loud: “Do you think George would notice if I took another biscuit?”
Lockwood managed another small smile. “I might have discovered a small flaw in our rule.”
“Oh?”
He reached across the table for an empty plate, shoulder visibly tugging but he almost managed to hide his wince. Almost. One biscuit, and then another, made their way onto the plate. “There, George’s rotation. So he’s not missing out.” Lockwood glanced at the kitchen door, thinking of their friend upstairs. “But just to be on the safe side…” He checked his watch. “Sun’s up in about two hours, we can probably restock before he wakes up.”
Lucy smiled. “Sounds good.” An idea occurred to her, and she hesitated before presenting it. Was it a little too self-indulgent? Would it come across that way? Would he even say yes? “Lockwood…”
“Luce?” He caught her eye, even as she looked around the room to ease her nerves.
“If you don’t want to… If you don’t want to come downstairs when you can’t sleep… You can always come… up?” She suggested carefully, trying to gauge his response.
Lockwood blinked. Either his ability to process the information was severely impacted by his lack of sleep, or he had just buffered while trying to figure out what she was suggesting. “Up? As in… As in your room?”
“Yeah,” Lucy confirmed, a little more confidently. “If that’s weird, then we can forget I ever suggested it. But if it would help…”
“Okay,” he decided. “But what if you’re asleep?”
“We’re already both sitting at the kitchen table at half-three in the morning. Do you really think I would be?” She pointed out.
He conceded a little. “Fair enough. But are you sure you’d… want me to?”
“Would I have asked if I didn’t?” Lucy met his eyes again, offering the most reassuring smile she could muster. Obviously that was more Lockwood’s territory, but she hoped her own version of it could have a similar effect.
“Okay.” He nodded slowly, mirroring her smile with an even brighter one of his own. “Thank you.”
“I need this too,” she blurted out, barely thinking. “Just so you know, because I know you worry. I… Talking to you does help. And I don’t want you to think that it’s all one-sided, because it’s not. I probably could’ve phrased this a bit better, but it’s bloody three AM, so I’m not really going to try again.” Lucy looked down at her lap, where her free hand was taking comfort in fiddling with the hem of her pyjama shirt.
“You can come to me too, if you want. Whenever you want. Whenever you need, Luce,” Lockwood promised. “And if I’m not in my room…” He gestured to the table. “There’s not many other places I’d be.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “So that’s sorted then. If you need anything…”
“I’ll find you. And if you…”
“I’ll find you,” she promised.
A rarity, Lockwood confessed quietly: “I’m tired, Luce. I’m tired of being tired.”
“Me too,” Lucy admitted just as softly. “Want to crash on the sofa instead of going back up?”
He nodded, pushing himself up shakily onto his feet before holding out his free hand to Lucy. She took it, and he helped her to her feet. Before making a move towards the living room, however, Lockwood surprised the both of them by pulling her into a gentle hug.
“You and George are everything I never knew I needed,” he whispered.
Her arms came up around him and Lucy turned her head to one side as she hugged Lockwood back, comforted by the sound of his racing heartbeat thundering next to her ear. “I’ve been thinking the exact same thing,” she replied with a sigh.
Neither of them were okay yet, but Lucy finally let herself think that it wasn’t such a long shot to get there.