Chapter Text
Lockwood felt the cold more easily now. Well, after being shot he felt a lot of things more easily. It was as if the bullet had broken some sort of barrier, making everything that much harder to hide. Now, every time he set foot in a haunted house and the temperature started to drop, the cold seemed to burn in that hole in his shoulder and it only got worse from there. Like roots, twisting and branching, it would work its way down his arm until the very tips of his fingers almost felt numb.
It was terrifying, the thought that this could be permanent.
He had always tried to avoid thinking about it — the future. For a long time, Lockwood didn’t think he’d have one. He didn’t expect to live long enough to need to figure out what his next steps would be. What would be the point in planning ahead when he had a higher chance of dying before his talent faded?
Then George came into his life, followed by Lucy.
And the future didn’t seem to scare him as much anymore.
Or it did, but for very different reasons.
The cold tugged at him again, and he let his eyes fall closed briefly. British weather was always so predictably unpredictable, and the most recent cold snap seemed to aggravate everyone and everything… including the boiler at 35 Portland Row. Sleepless nights were that much harder when you could practically see your own breath misting in the air above you. They’d dolled out the extra blankets between the three of them, but that didn’t make it any easier.
Lockwood had made the executive decision to lie about his own ‘supply’ of blankets, and even though he knew it let the others sleep soundly he couldn’t help but regret it ever so slightly. And every time he moved, icy pain radiating from his shoulder, he regretted it just a little bit more.
He contemplated Lucy’s offer, considered if he had the energy left in him to attempt to climb the attic stairs. It was something George had said too — off-handedly, bluntly, in a way that only he could — about the fact that he shouldn’t be alone in times like this. The times where thoughts came easier than sleep did, and his mind wandered to all the things that company usually managed to keep at bay.
Like that DEPRAC agent he got—
Wasn’t your fault.
Lucy’s voice interrupted him before he could finish the thought, echoes of their previous conversation drowning out his guilt. Fleeting, and then it was gone, and he was left to his thoughts again. He never even got the man’s name. Did his wife work? Did his family get paid compensation for their loss? Was it enough to keep the heating on when the weather got this bad? He had a daughter, too, Lockwood knew that much. Was she awake too? Kept from sleep by the chill that even the thickest of blankets couldn’t keep out, wondering—
If you need anything…
Lockwood sighed. She was right, wasn’t she? Lucy was always right. She was right when she told him he needed to take a break. She was right when she told him he needed to be ‘just reckless enough’.
He hated the fact that she was always right.
No, he didn’t.
He swung his legs out of the bed and immediately regretted it as soon as his bare feet touched the wooden floor. It was cold enough to make him sit there for a moment, hands braced either side of him against the edge of the mattress, feet flat against the wood until the initial shock subsided. Lockwood eased himself upright, favouring his right as the fingers on his left hand tingled again. His hand shook, ever so slightly. Not enough to be noticeable, as long as he kept it moving, or kept it hidden. Just enough to have to ignore it.
Just another reminder that he was still broken.
He reached for a hoodie, pulling it on over his pyjama top with considerably less ease than he would ever be willing to admit. The socks came next — in hindsight, something he should have considered before getting up — and he pulled the bedside drawer open. Several ties, and one singular orange sock. The word ‘laundry’ on the thinking cloth, circled three times, came to the forefront of his mind. Lockwood pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his right hand, too exhausted to even consider going downstairs to check the laundry. Not past Jessica’s room, or Carver’s death glow.
By then, he might as well stay barefoot anyway.
There was one option, stuffed in the bottom drawer of the cabinet. Novelty socks — last year’s Christmas present from George — with little rapiers stitched into them. They didn’t scream professional in a way that would let him ever wear them outside of the house, but they worked well enough for tonight. He pulled them on without a second thought and reached for the door handle. It was already turning, and his hand froze mid-journey.
Lucy hovered in the door, caught off guard by the fact that he was already up. “Oh. I can—” She turned back towards the landing, almost as if she was scared to intrude. Lockwood almost scoffed at the thought, like she could ever do that. This was her idea in the first place.
“Wait,” he whispered. His desperation stopped her from leaving, a hand reaching out for hers and gently catching her wrist instead. “Please stay.” He swallowed thickly, it wasn’t embarrassment but nerves that left his voice unsteady as he asked her. He attempted a weak joke to ease the tension. “You’d be saving me the trip.”
“Oh,” she repeated, finally getting it. “You were about to…”
Lockwood’s gaze dropped as he tried to hide his uncertainty. “Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” Lucy replied firmly. She took a step further inside, and closed the door softly behind herself with a click.
He looked back up at her, his hand sliding down a fraction so that he was grasping her hand instead of her wrist. Her eyes seemed to follow the movement with the softest of smiles accompanying the gesture. Lockwood could’ve sworn the room grew a little warmer because of it. “Can’t sleep?” He asked gently, tiptoeing around the subject just in case.
Lucy shook her head, avoiding speaking it into existence straight away. She looked back at the door one last time before taking a step closer to him. Warmth seemed to radiate off her in waves — must’ve been from the extra blankets. “You too?”
Lockwood offered a tired smile in place of an answer. It said everything that he couldn’t put into words and with a light tug of their joined hands, Lucy was pulling him close. It caught him off guard, but he couldn’t help but melt into her. His good arm came up to cup the back of her head tenderly, while his still-healing one curled around her back to tug her closer. They didn’t do this often. It was a rarity, but he made sure to savour every moment of it. During the day, they weren’t as exposed.
It didn’t matter though, because she was here now.
His lips brushed over the top of her head gently and Lockwood could smelt the faintest hint of lavender from her shampoo. His eyes fluttered closed and they stood there, unwavering, clinging to each other as time seemed to slow down. He didn’t want to end, and yet…
“You should get some rest,” he mumbled into her hair.
Lucy’s head shifted slightly — a nod — but she didn’t pull away just yet. “So should you.”
He let out a weak exhale. “Luce, I—”
She cut him off, pulling away slightly. He already missed her warmth. “Have been lying for the past two days about having a secret stockpile of blankets?”
Shit. She levelled him with such a no-nonsense look Lockwood couldn’t even stumble through a half-asleep attempt at an explanation. Instead, all that came out was an incredibly undignified: “Busted…” as he closed his eyes to hide from her judgemental gaze.
Lockwood prided himself in his ability to seem put-together, composed, relaxed. It put others at ease, and it was one of those vital parts of being a leader. The last few weeks had felt like clutching at straws, weighed down by the lack of immediate progress with his injuries. He wasn’t up for big cases yet, and it had been a unanimous decision to enforce that. He didn’t trust himself not to forget his own limits if he saw George or Lucy in danger, despite how much he trusted them. But just because he couldn’t help didn’t mean they didn’t need the money, which left him waiting up at the kitchen table feeling useless and helpless until they came back.
They needed the extra blankets more than he did, they were doing most of the work anyway.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
He just wanted to feel useful, like he was making their lives just a little bit easier.
Lucy sighed. He didn’t open his eyes yet, but it was comforting that she still hadn’t let go of his hand even when she pulled away. Her thumb brushed over the back of his hand with a featherlight touch. It was as an anchor point, and even when Lockwood finally opened his eyes again it was the first place his gaze fell. “You don’t need to do that, you know,” she whispered.
“I’m not exactly good for much else right now, am I?” The joke — was it even a joke at this point? — fell flat, and the silence it left behind was almost deafening.
She didn’t say anything, at first. It was fair enough, Lockwood wasn’t sure what to say either. Instead, she tugged him towards the bed and climbed in. Too tired to argue, he settled down next to her and let Lucy pull the covers up over both of them. His hoodie was discarded out of the side of the bed, the zip too cold to be welcome as he followed her lead and let his arm curl around her, pulling her back flush against his chest. Warmth. Every time it almost caught him off guard, probably because of the cool colours she wore — he never would’ve guessed she’d run this warm. Then again, she was fiery at the best of times, so it kind of made sense.
“Lockwood?” She whispered, finding his hand and parting his fingers with her own until they slotted together comfortably.
“Hmm?” He could feel himself getting pulled into sleep already, Lucy’s presence more than enough to keep everything else at bay.
“You’re enough,” she promised. “For me and George. You don’t have to do anything else. You’re already enough.”
He could feel the small smile making its way onto his face. He believed it, from her. “Thanks, Luce.” Something cold pressed against his ankle, but instead of shiver Lockwood let out a soft laugh instead. Of course her feet would be the only part of her that was cold. “Your feet are freezing.”
“They’d be warmer if you had a blanket in here,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. Always right.
He couldn’t help but grin now, as Lucy nestled her head into the crook of his neck. “You should’ve brought one then.”
“Shut up,” she retorted, attempting to scowl. Lockwood didn’t need to see her face to know the exact expression that sat there, and there was no real heat behind it. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“‘S fine,” he mumbled, smiling into her hair. “Too late now. I’ll have to do.”
“Yeah, something—” She interrupted herself with a yawn— “Something like that.”
“Luce?”
“Hmm?”
She nestled in closer to him, and Lockwood almost forgot what he was going to say. Almost.
“Go to sleep,” he murmured, his own eyes already closed.
“Okay,” Lucy conceded. “Night Lockwood.”
“Goodnight, Luce.”
And for the first time in a while, it actually was a good night.