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The first time Lucy had touched his face – honestly, calmly, and with intent – he had flinched away.
It was stupid. They were sat in his room on his bed, talking over the last case. It wasn’t important what they were saying. He had done something reckless (again), gotten hurt. She was upset over it (again). You’d think he’d have learnt by now. He was fidgeting with his hands in his lap, too tired to try to be unbothered by her words, to feign any attempt at nonchalance. Lucy had reached her hand out, stilling his restlessness with a touch.
The feeling of her fingers on his own sent a wonderful sweeping chill through his arms and into his body. It was electrifying.
“I care about you,” she had said, eyes serious. Her eyes…
“I know,” he replied. He bit at the inside of his cheek, looking down.
“Then why do you keep on doing this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I said just reckless enough,” she paused for a breath, “but you’re swinging back into too reckless, Lockwood.”
“I know,” he whispered. He felt like he was suspended on a tripwire above reality, looking down at the conversation they were having from ten feet above. His head ached, his legs ached, and he just wanted to sleep. “But I need to keep you safe. You and George.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Lucy said. “Jumping off the second-floor balcony to save us from that Visitor? That was just stupid.”
He didn’t reply to that. It had been stupid. But George had his back turned, pulling something from one of the bags. Lucy had her eyes closed, Listening. The Visitor was coming their way, and there was no time to shout. He needed to get down; jumping was the only thing to do. Get himself in the line of danger so they didn’t have to be. He hadn’t given it any thought. He’d been too late before; that wasn’t going to happen again.
“Lockwood,” she breathed his name out like a swear, almost too quiet for him to hear.
She brought her hand up to his face, gently touching his cheek as if to move his head to look towards her. He flinched away at the touch, ever so slightly. The image of her, possessed with the ghost of Annabelle Ward, clinging to him while begging to be let go, came unbidden to his mind. She pulled her hand away quickly at his motion.
“Sorry,” Lucy mumbled, barely audible, her hands now folded neatly in her lap.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to reach out and grab her hand again, place it back on his face and say “here, it’s okay. I want you here.”
He wanted to collapse into her hand, collapse into her arms, just let her hold him until he felt less hollow inside.
He didn’t do that, though. And Lucy didn’t put her hand back.
She nudged his shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, releasing a puff of air before composing himself, giving her a grin. “I’ll be fine.”
***
The second time Lucy had touched his face, he had been more prepared. They were having a game night, and George had finally gone to bed leaving the two of them alone in the dull orange light of the sitting room.
Lucy looked… Lucy looked absolutely stunning in that light. It glinted off her hair, reflecting the miniscule differences in shade that shifted throughout. She was smiling, eyes sparkling with mischief and joy. They were talking, joking, and every time she laughed he couldn’t help but join in. It was infectious and healing, her laugh. It seeped into his bones and warmed him from the inside out.
He loved that laugh.
“Luce,” he said, placing his cards face down on the table. “You’re cheating.”
“I am not!” She hid her mouth behind her own cards, but he could tell that she was grinning behind them.
“You are! It’s very rude of you.”
Lucy cackled at that. “Is it just rude? Or does it prove I’m smarter than you?”
“No, definitely just rude.”
“Hey!” She swatted her cards at him, leaning closer with the movement. They were crammed up on either side of the card table in armchairs altogether too big to be set up in the way they were. He was on the edge of his seat, leaning forwards with restless energy. Her motion brought her to the front of her seat as well.
Their knees touched. Lockwood didn’t move away.
That point of contact, skin blocked by two layers of clothing, was enough to drive him crazy. He was hyperaware of it, of every shift and move of Lucy’s leg, of every adjustment of his own. Everything in the room froze down to that one small square centimeter of contact. He was absolutely and thoroughly distracted by one small touch from Lucy Carlyle.
This was probably why he was losing so spectacularly at cards.
That, and the cheating.
“At least tell me how you’re doing it,” Lockwood said, looking into her eyes.
“Alright, fine.” She leaned her head in conspiratorially. “But don’t tell George; I need all the advantage I can get when playing him.”
“Deal.”
“Here, come closer.”
He shifted, leaning his head forward so he had crossed half the gap between them. She closed in on the space, leaning towards his ear.
“The secret,” Lucy whispered, “is that.” And then he couldn’t care less about whatever she was showing him because her hand was on his face, guiding his head gently to look.
His heart stood still.
Her hand wasn’t soft; it was calloused by hours of rapier work. But her touch was gentle, pushing him along with barely any force. It was warm, enveloping. It trapped his head and his mind together into a whirling spin of electricity. It was eternal, burning, and sweet.
And then it was gone, and she was leaning back in her chair with a smug grin.
Lockwood gave a small cough and scratched at his nose, trying to compose himself. “Right, what am I looking at?”
“You’re hopeless.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “There’s a mirror right behind you, idiot.”
“You have been looking at my cards then!”
“Course,” Lucy said. “I may not be good at cards, but I’m excellent at cheating.”
“Have you no morals? No shame?”
“Not when there’s biscuits on the line,” she said, taking one from the pile and stealing a bite with a grin.
***
Unfortunately, the third time Lucy touched his face, they were having much less fun.
They were on a case; a Screaming Spirit, one of the worst for Listeners. He had tried to convince her that they didn’t need to go, but Lucy had insisted. It was a Type Two, which meant good money, and the agency desperately needed it.
“I’ll be fine, Lockwood,” she had said with an eye roll. “Stop worrying.”
Yeah. Fine.
That was why she was collapsed in a heap in the corner of the room, clenching her ears as she shook with barely silent agonizing sobs. That was why he was here, guarding her with his rapier from the Visitor’s apparition that was closing in on them, out of flares and almost out of luck. That was why George was frantically searching through the shelves of the storage room alone, trying to find the source before he became the only member of Lockwood & Co. left to tell the tale.
“Luce,” Lockwood shouted towards her, hoping to call through the psychic barrage, “Luce it’ll be alright, just hang on.” He swiped his rapier at a trailing bit of plasm. “George! How’s it going?”
“Think I’ve got it!” George was balanced atop a rickety stool, reaching to the highest shelf where an old cigar box covered in dust was sitting just out of reach.
“Don’t hurry on our account!”
The Visitor was creeping closer. Lockwood couldn’t hear the screams – his Listening had never been good – but he could see the Visitor’s mouth gaped, long and horrifying. It was a black abyss of silence, but the energy expelling from it sent shivers up his arms. He spared a quick glance Lucy’s way.
Every part of her body save for her shaking hands was unnaturally limp. She had shifted to staring into space, breath coming out in short gasps. It was like she was ghost locked, except her eyes were painfully clear and sharp, eyebrows clenched in a painful grimace. Her hands were talons, digging into her hair and pressing frantically against her ears, as if they would help to dampen the phantasmic sound. She looked defeated.
Lockwood never wanted to see her like this again.
“George!” he shouted. His rapier motions were becoming more haphazard, barely contained to the neat forms he knew by heart. He couldn’t hold off for much longer.
He almost didn’t notice the stream of plasm shifting from the ghost’s feet to the floor. Almost didn’t notice as it made its way along beside him, tracing towards the corner. Almost didn’t catch it as it slid towards Lucy, who was in no state to react. It had touched her boot before he glanced back at her again, and his blood had run colder than the room. He twisted, shifting his rapier around as if to dispel the plasm. He knew he wouldn’t make it, though. It would be too late.
“Got it!” George swept the cigar box down, catching it to his body in the motion. Quickly, he engulfed the thing in a silver net. Like switching off a light, the apparition disappeared. Lockwood’s rapier swung through nothing, and Lucy remained blissfully not Ghost Touched.
Lucy.
Lockwood collapsed to the ground in front of her, grabbing her shoulders. “Lucy, are you alright?”
She groaned, life coming back to her body now that the sound had dissipated. Her hands unclenched from her ears, moving to lay atop of his. She looked exhausted. “What kind of a shit question is that?” She barely mumbled the words.
He gave a small laugh. “No more Screaming Spirits, then.”
She shook her head, groggily. “No, no it’s fine. Usually, I can block them out but this one…” She shuddered, leaning more into the pressure of Lockwood’s hands on her shoulders. “Did you hear how shrill it was?”
“I didn’t.” He couldn’t. He could never really understand the attack she had been subjected to, never really understand the pain she felt seeping off from the dead. He could only look and guess.
“Right,” she mumbled, then finally looked him in the eyes. “Oh, Lockwood, you’re hurt.”
At some point in the night, a rouge salt bomb had gone off a bit too close to his face. His cheek burned, feeling tight. It was probably not bad, just a small sear along the cheekbone. He barely noticed it after the initial sting; he had been distracted with more important things.
“Don’t worry about me.” He brushed some dust from Lucy’s shoulder. “Let’s get…” he trailed off.
Lucy had silently reached her hand up to his face, tracing the edges of the small burn. Slowly, she shifted the tips of her fingers deliberately, almost like she did when she was sketching. Lockwood felt a small gasp of breath leave his body at the touch. Lucy shifted her hand further, and fully placed her palm along his cheek, rubbing her thumb below the burn.
Lockwood forgot how to breathe.
“I’m sorry, Lockwood, I wish I had been less useless tonight.”
“It’s fine, Luce, really. You’re not useless. I’m just…” he let out a shaky breath and leaned into her touch. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
***
The fourth time Lucy had touched his face was his favorite.
They were sitting on the bed in Lucy’s room, watching an old black and white film on the television. George was visiting home, leaving Portland Row to just the two of them. The house was colder than usual, the winter air seeping through the old cracks. They couldn’t go on a case with George gone, so they had bundled up into Lucy’s bed, sharing the warmth of the covers to watch the movie and pass the time. A pile of snacks sat on the bedside table, dwindling as the film went on.
It was a nice, platonic, friendly thing to do when it was cold out.
Of course.
Lockwood was hyperaware their closeness, doing his best to relegate their touch to just the briefest brushes of shoulders. Every time Lucy or he would shift – to grab a snack, stretch, anything – he would readjust so that they were just an inch away from touching once more.
He could not remember a single plot point of the film.
He was going to go insane.
“Oh my god, why did you do that?” Lucy shouted at the screen, gesturing with her mug of tea. “Come on, get your shit together and kiss her already!”
The lead had just had a touching moment with the heroine, holding her close in the dark of their hotel room. They had been face to face, inches apart, and seemingly on the edge of kissing before the lead had pulled away to talk about the case they were trying to solve. It was infuriatingly familiar.
“Maybe he’s afraid she doesn’t feel the same?” Lockwood kept his eyes pointedly at the screen.
“What, with the way she looks at him?” Lucy snorted. “He’d have to be blind to not see that.”
“Would he?” Lockwood said, voice slightly high.
He was going to die.
“Yeah,” she said, crunching a crisp. And then he turned to her, and their eyes met.
And her eyes…
“Oh,” Lucy said.
Oh indeed.
“Shit.” Lucy said.
“Yeah,” he said. They were fully touching at the shoulder now, Lockwood having abandoned any pretense at keeping apart. He gave a shy smile and rubbed his neck nervously.
“Lockwood.” Lucy brushed the crisp dust off her hands before placing them on his shoulders, holding him so they were face to face. He was forced to stare her in the eyes. “You’re an idiot.”
“A loveable idiot?” He was lightheaded with the contact, with that look.
“No, just an idiot.” She leaned closer, and Lockwood forced his eyes to stay locked on hers and not travel down her face to her lips.
“Lucy,” Lockwood said, fighting how his heart was beating in his ears, drowning out sense. He cleared his throat and asked his question. Like a gentleman. “Would it be okay if… I mean, I’d like to… Do you want me to...” He trailed off, words turning to breath. They were so close; their faces inches apart to the point he could feel her breaths. He could see the individual flecks of color glinting in Lucy’s eyes, mesmerizing and resplendent. He darted his eyes down to her lips, then back up again, face hot.
This was going to kill him.
What a beautiful way to go.
“You’re useless at this,” Lucy said softly, smirking.
And then she was kissing him, and Lockwood was melting.
How had he missed out on this feeling his whole life? Soft and warm and changing, engulfing his whole being. The movement of her lips on his causing his mind to break over and over again until there was nothing left but her, him, and the lack of space between them. He was absolutely and totally consumed.
When they pulled away, it felt like a solid minute passed of him staring into Lucy’s eyes before he was able to offer another coherent thought.
“Nice.” He said.
Shit that was not right; why did he say that?
Lucy laughed. “Want to try that response again?”
Lockwood leaned his forehead into hers, closing his eyes in despair. “No, it’s fine, just stab me it’ll hurt less.”
“You really just said nice in response to me kissing you. I’m never letting you live that down.”
Lockwood let out a groan. “Please don’t tell George.”
“Oh, I’m telling George. He’ll get a kick out of this.”
They were both grinning widely, and Lockwood felt like his soul was vibrating from his body. As disappointed as he was in himself – nice? Really? – he still felt the faint memory of Lucy’s lips in the tingling of his own. All he wanted was to do that again, over and over, for the rest of eternity. He wanted to have Lucy hold his shoulders like this forever, hold him closer, even. He wanted to walk with her, holding hands, laughing at the world. He wanted to be with her, fully an irrevocably.
“Do you want to grab coffee sometime?” He found himself asking.
“What?” She laughed.
“I mean, like a proper date? With me?”
“Lockwood,” Lucy brought her hand to his face, and he felt absolutely complete. “Typically, that’s something you ask someone before you kiss them.”
“Hey, you kissed me,” he raised his own hand to her cheek. “I didn’t get a chance to ask. Besides.” He paused, grinning. “We can always kiss again, if you’re going to be stuck up about the order of things.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah, but you like that.”
She grinned. “Yeah, I do.”
Then she kissed him again.
And again.
And again.