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looking at it now, last December
we were built to fall apart
then fall back together
oh, your necklace hanging from my neck
the night we couldn't quite forget
twenty stitches in the hospital room
when you started crying, baby, I did too
but when the sun came up, I was looking at youbut the monsters turned out to be just trees
when the sun came up, you were looking at me—out of the woods
Twenty stitches.
That’s how many sutures and staples it took to piece Lockwood’s chest back together after it had been ripped apart.
Lucy hadn’t even been back at Lockwood & Co. for five weeks, and now she was living her worst nightmare, sitting next to Lockwood in a dreary hospital room.
In the blink of an eye, somehow everything had gone so terribly wrong.
The night’s case was supposed to be straightforward. As usual for Lockwood & Co., it had been fine, until it wasn’t.
Until glass started shattering.
Two days prior, Manon Bernard, the manager of Blanchette, the celebrated French restaurant in Soho, had contacted the agency about a potential haunting. Recently, the staff had begun complaining of strange occurrences as dusk started to fall, as well as feelings of dread and malaise. All signs pointed to a ghost causing trouble, making the employees reluctant to come in for work and leaving the kitchen understaffed.
As Lucy and Lockwood packed their kit bags to head to the restaurant, George briefed them on the case; his research had revealed that Henri Durand, the restaurant’s former head chef, was the likely culprit of the haunting. Overwhelmed from the stress of his recent divorce, Durand had keeled over from a heart attack while cooking beef bourguignon over the massive restaurant stove.
“Essentially, he died of a broken heart,” George explained.
“That’s a real thing?” Lucy said skeptically, checking her belt to make sure it was fully stocked.
George nodded, pushing up his glasses. “It’s called takotsubo cardiomyopathy. It’s a documented medical condition that can happen during times of extreme emotional stress, causing heart failure.”
The skull in the jar spoke from his place in her backpack. “Seems suspicious to me. Probably poison.”
“Oh shut up,” Lucy said, exasperated with the ghost. “Not everyone was murdered. Sometimes people just die for normal reasons.”
“I wouldn’t call dying from a broken heart normal,” Lockwood interjected.
George stared at him. “And you’re one to talk about being overdramatic, Lockwood?”
The two boys continued to bicker good-naturedly in the cab to the restaurant. They were all in high spirits, still freshly excited to be working together again. Holly was enjoying a well deserved night off, and Lockwood had decided that Kipps wasn’t needed for this job, so it was just the three of them, sliding seamlessly back into their old routines.
They set up two iron circles—one in the utilitarian kitchen and a second in the elegant dining area—before taking temperature readings. Quickly, they determined that, as they suspected, the Source was likely located in the kitchen.
Lockwood slid on his sunglasses when he took in the death glow still prominently located in front of the stove. Otherwise, it was quiet, with almost no signs of psychic activity during their initial explorations.
George longingly admired the top of the line restaurant appliances, as he passed out their sandwiches. “This really puts our kitchen to shame, Lockwood. You should really think about remodeling.”
Lockwood was busy making them tea. “Well, when we open the Lockwood & Co. restaurant, I’ll take your feedback into consideration.”
George snorted. “What’s going to be your contribution to the menu? Burnt toast?”
Lucy couldn’t help but smile as she listened to George and Lockwood continue to banter with each other as they ate their sandwiches. After being on her own as a freelance agent, every case she did with her team now brought her an immense amount of joy. While the skull was still being his usual snarky self in her backpack, around these people even his off color quips were tolerable.
Slowly, the three of them began to sense more psychic activity as the temperature continued to fall. Lucy closed her eyes and Listened again.
“Hear anything, Luce?” Lockwood asked.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. The gentle hum of cooking reverberated through the space, growing louder each minute: sharp knives hitting cutting boards, wooden spoons stirring in pots, soups bubbling on the stove, and the gentle clink of silverware against china plates. Underneath the sounds, there were other feelings as well—emotions that left her feeling unsettled.
“Cooking sounds mostly. Pots. Pans. That sort of thing.”
“Anything else?”
“Loneliness,” she said slowly. “But that’s not all. He’s also angry. Resentful.”
Lockwood flashed her a grim look. “Quite the combination. It’s getting colder. Why don’t you stay here and let us know if you hear anything else? George, let’s take another look around and see if we observe anything.”
Lucy pulled the skull from her backpack and placed the jar on a stainless steel workstation. “Getting anything?”
The ghost in the jar sniffed at her. “You want my assistance now after you’ve been too busy socializing all night with your living friends to pay attention to my invaluable commentary?”
“Can you help me or not?”
“Seems like a grumpy one. Fond of terrible cuisine. Much like Karim over there.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Guess that’s my answer.”
Just then, she heard a whisper. “Abandoned… alone…”
A chill broke out over her body, giving her goosebumps. This was more than the earlier sensation; it felt like overwhelming despair. Lucy swallowed and shook her head, trying to stay focused.
With his torch, George quickly spied spiderwebs underneath some old storage shelves—very out of place in the immaculate kitchen.
“Come here, Lucy,” Lockwood called. “I’ll keep watch if you help George.”
The cooking noises were getting louder, and Lucy had a feeling they were running out of time. She joined George and began digging though the shelves of neglected utensils and out of fashion dishware, searching for anything that could be a Source. She couldn’t stop thinking about the chef’s overwhelming loneliness, feeling like it was seeping into her bones.
“Lucy, George,” Lockwood said in a low voice. “I think we have company.”
They looked up to see a faint tall, thin shape of a man wearing an apron slowly floating across the kitchen. It seemed that Durand’s ghost was already taking note of them—a sign that they were on the right track.
There was a brief stalemate, as Lockwood stepped slightly forward with his sword.
Abruptly, the ghost lunged towards them, and Lucy fell back, reaching for her rapier. In the process, she stumbled into George, creating a domino effect as he knocked over a wine rack. They both watched in horror as a cascade of expensive, dusty wine bottles rolled and shattered on the floor, resulting in a deafening crash.
Lockwood swiped gracefully at the ghost with his rapier, dispelling the Visitor with a complicated swish. With the apparition temporarily gone, the three of them grimly took in the scene together. Their clumsiness had created additional dangers. Shards of glass and rivers of dark red French wine had rapidly produced a slippery obstacle course in the tight space.
The skull cackled at them from his vantage point. “Ooooh, look at what a delightful mess you’ve made.”
Lucy cringed as she glanced over at Lockwood and George. “Oh, hell,” she muttered, gingerly attempting to tiptoe through the sea of broken glass.
Lockwood pushed his hair out of his face and sighed. “Not the neatest job we’ve ever done, that’s true. But we’re getting close.”
“At least we haven’t burnt anything down yet,” George interjected.
He was busy cleaning wine splatters off of his glasses, and Lucy’s boots and leggings were also covered in splashes of wine. Only Lockwood had managed to avoid the deluge of wine; somehow he still looked immaculate, without a drop of wine or hint of dust on his white shirt.
“George, your use of the word ‘yet’ doesn’t make it sound like you have much faith in us,” Lockwood said dryly. “Keep alert—I have a feeling the Visitor’s not going to be gone for long.”
“There’s always time for you all to make a situation worse, as far as I’m concerned,” the Skull offered, making Lucy scowl.
Lucy took a deep breath and then resumed looking for the Source with George. She peered under the shelves, spying something shiny tucked away in the back while George was on the other side.
“Do you see that?” she asked, gesturing towards the faint metallic glimmer. “Think you can grab it?”
“Maybe,” George muttered. “Let me see if I can use my crowbar to draw it out.”
Then, the despair was back, bringing with it aching loneliness and something that felt like betrayal. Lucy leaned forward on the shelf, closing her eyes as flashes of memories flowed over her. Echoes of arguments, a woman’s voice, slamming doors… standing in this kitchen with a prized tool, now discarded just like he had been.
“Lucy! Get in the circle!”
Lucy jerked her head up. The shimmering apparition had returned, and Durand was becoming more aggressive. A gust of wind started to blow through the kitchen, rustling the china on the shelves and causing small ripples in the pools of wine on the floor.
There wasn’t time for her to reach the circle on the other side of the kitchen. The wind quickly grew stronger. Lucy blinked, and suddenly half a wine bottle was flying straight at her. She lurched backwards again, attempting to dodge it.
All of the sudden, Lockwood was at her side, shoving her out of the way and standing protectively in front of her. The bottle shattered against the wall next to them.
But his quick movements meant Lockwood didn’t have a chance to react before a second jagged glass bottle came at him, and he took the full brunt of the broken glass straight to the upper chest. The sharp blow knocked the wind out of him, causing him to falter.
“Oh,” he said, making a small noise of surprise, as a large maroon burst of color started to bloom over his starched white shirt.
Lucy’s first thought was that it was just wine, and the stains were going to be hell to remove in the laundry. But a split second later, as the dark spot continued to grow, she realized in horror that it was blood.
She had a fleeting image of the Fetch from Aickmere’s, before pushing it away and desperately reaching for Lockwood.
No, no, no. That’s not the way it was going to be.
She caught Lockwood in her arms, just as the shock made him sway on his normally steady feet. The blood stain continued to grow, as she wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him stable.
“Oh, shit. George,” she called frantically, eying the ghost’s still approaching form, as she lobbed salt bombs at it. “Please tell me you have the Source!”
“Got it!” he yelled back, tossing a silver net over the large chef’s knife that he’d finally succeeded in digging out from where it had been wedged under the shelves. The apparition vanished, as well the noise she hadn’t realized had grown progressively louder.
Lucy sank to the floor, still holding Lockwood against her. It was difficult to muster a feeling of relief when he was looking up at her so weakly. His shirt had been ripped open from the force of the blow, the shredded fabric revealing the open wound underneath. The chill she felt now had nothing to do with the haunting.
“Call for an ambulance, please!” Lucy begged George, not breaking eye contact with Lockwood for a second. “Now! And find something I can use to stop the bleeding.”
George chucked her a kitchen towel, as he ran to find the phone. She gingerly dabbed the cloth to Lockwood’s chest, realizing too late that there were small glittering glass fragments mixed in with the blood.
“Luce,” Lockwood said, as calmly as if he’d gotten a paper cut, “it’ll be fine, really.”
“Will it though?” the skull asked unhelpfully, a note of unsuppressed glee in his tone, and she glared at the jar briefly before turning her attention back to Lockwood.
Lucy found she couldn’t speak, as she blinked back the tears that were starting to blur her vision. George returned from the phone to kneel beside them, carefully avoiding the broken glass, while they waited for the ambulance.
“It looks like they’ll need to clean the wound before they patch him up,” George said after giving Lockwood a critical once over. “This isn't pretty.”
He attempted to find a way to stop some of the bleeding that didn’t also involve pushing more glass fragments into Lockwood’s already raw flesh, but was unsuccessful.
Lockwood blinked up at them both, his face even paler than normal. He now seemed dazed, almost as if he was belatedly in shock.
When the ambulance arrived, George insisted that Lucy be the one to accompany Lockwood to the hospital. “Lucy, you go, and I’ll take care of everything here. Update me when you can.”
“Take the Skull,” she said, pressing her backpack into George’s hands. The last thing she needed was to listen to his horrible comments. “I’ll call with more information as soon as I can.”
An anxiety-filled ride to the hospital followed. Triage in A&E determined surgery and stitches were necessary, and Lockwood was rushed away from her to an operating room.
Unable to sit still, Lucy paced back and forth under the fluorescent waiting room lights. She refused treatment for her own cuts and scrapes, too distraught and numb to even give them a second thought.
Instead she held Lockwood’s coat, clinging to it like a security blanket as she dug through his pockets to find the emergency Pitkin’s tea bags she knew he kept stashed away. Her hands shook as she made tea, and she finally sank into a stiff chair, breathing in the comforting familiar scent wafting up from the styrofoam cup.
Every time Lucy closed her eyes, Lockwood’s bloody chest flashed in front of her eyes, overlaid with the shell of the hollow boy. It was that haunted memory that eventually forced her to succumb to her tears for the first time that night. At one point, someone offered her tissues, but she just blinked at them blearily, unable to even process what was happening.
It could have been minutes or it could have been hours later when the doctor emerged from surgery. While Lockwood’s injury had been relatively minor, all things considered, the presence of glass, wine, and dust had required surgery to ensure that the wound was properly cleaned before they stitched him back up.
Lucy nodded slowly, trying to focus on the most important information: Lockwood was alive, he was safe, he was going to be fine.
The doctor quietly told her the remaining details about the procedure and the recovery process, before saying that Lockwood was stable if she’d like to see him. Lucy bolted down the hallway to find him asleep in a hospital bed, still pale but with slightly more color in his cheeks, his chest covered with a large mass of gauze bandages. She quickly ducked out to call George before taking up her vigil at Lockwood’s bedside.
Lucy folded her arms together on the edge of the creaky hospital bed and rested her chin on them. Lockwood’s face was strangely tranquil and free of tension. She watched his chest rise and fall, in tandem with his slow breaths, his hands lying on top of the blanket. Lucy took a deep breath along with him, willing her heart rate to calm down, as she tried to push the haunting images out of her mind, replacing them with the real Lockwood’s face.
Even now, with Lockwood safe and sleeping peacefully next to her, she was still a whirling web of worries.
Her mind fixated on the number of stitches. Twenty felt like entirely too many. It also felt like there weren’t enough sutures in the world to keep Lockwood tethered to her, alive and healthy.
Since the past November when she had left Lockwood & Co, the two of them had fallen apart and fallen back together, now closer than they’d ever been. But would it last? Was this all they were built for? Was there ever going to be a time where they were out of the woods—or was she doomed to spend the rest of her days worrying that Lockwood would sacrifice himself for her?
As Lucy continued to get lost in her thoughts, the sun began slowly rising over the horizon, and the first beams of warm golden light started filtering through the blinds—the only positive thing about the dreary hospital room.
Well, besides the fact that they were there together, of course.
She was still sitting in the same position when Lockwood’s eyes slowly fluttered open, a sliver of sunlight splashing across his face and highlighting the new flecks of gray in his hair.
“Luce,” he croaked.
“Lockwood,” she breathed, a fresh wave of relief washing over her at the sound of his voice. “Do you want some water?”
He nodded gratefully, wincing as he shifted in the hospital bed to take the cup she offered him.
“How’s the pain?” she asked worriedly, leaning in to get a closer look at the bandages on his chest as he sipped at the water.
“Just very sore mostly. And groggy.” He attempted a crooked smile, his eyes still heavy.
“Good,” she said, trying to smile back.
Lockwood blinked at her. “What exactly happened, if you don’t mind catching me up? It’s all a bit blurry.”
“You mean after you got hit with a glass bottle?” she said wryly. “Well, George finished dealing with the Source—and he took the Skull—and I came here with you. From what the doctor said, it seems not ideal to get swiped with a broken glass bottle in the thorax.”
“Imagine that.”
“Yeah. They had to make sure that there was no glass still stuck in your chest and clean the wound, so that’s why they had to do surgery and not just an x-ray. It sounded... rough.”
At the agonizing memory of those hours of surgery, where she’d sat alone, without any idea what was going on, Lucy felt tears come to her eyes. Soon they were dripping down her face again.
“Oh God,” she said, sniffling slightly and looking away, as she roughly wiped at her face. “Sorry Lockwood.”
Lockwood’s eyes also looked a little damp. “Lucy,” he said softly, “I’m fine really.”
She shook her head, folding her lips together. “For a minute, I thought—” She couldn’t finish the sentence, unwilling to even breathe the words into existence. The startling image was at the forefront of her mind again, the hollow boy with his chest caved in. So close she could almost touch it.
Lockwood moved his hand so that their fingers overlapped slightly, and Lucy gripped his hand tightly, trying to reassure herself again that the boy in front of her was the real one.
“I’m here, Luce.”
“It’s just… Lockwood, if this was a few months ago, I wouldn’t have been here. I wouldn’t have even known you were hurt,” she choked out.
“But you’re here now.” Lockwood’s gaze was becoming clearer, as his fingers slowly intertwined with her own.
Lucy took a deep breath. He was right. She was here, they were together, and she was never leaving again. As horrible as it was to see Lockwood injured on her behalf, not being by his side was still the far more terrible option.
They both fell quiet, as Lockwood continued to look at her. The diamond necklace around her neck glistened in the first streams of daylight, sending small speckled rainbows across the room. Lockwood—still a little loopy from anesthesia, she determined—seemed captivated by it.
The relative peace of the moment was interrupted by the arrival of a no nonsense nurse who introduced herself as Linda; she bustled around, quickly surveying Lockwood’s chart and taking his vitals.
“This all looks good, Anthony,” Linda announced when she was finished. “The doctor said—”
“Lockwood,” Lucy interrupted automatically. “He goes by Lockwood.” He gave her a half smile at that and squeezed her hand in appreciation.
Linda raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Lockwood. You should be able to go home soon; we just need to get the final clearance from the doctor. And you’ll need to be careful with that wound so that it heals properly. It will need to drain, and you’ll have to be vigilant about changing the dressings. Maybe this one can help you with that,” she said, tilting her head in Lucy’s direction.
Lucy nodded in agreement. “The doctor already gave me some instructions while he was asleep.”
“Good. Let me see if we’ve heard anything else, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with an update for you.”
Once they were alone again, Lucy was suddenly hyper conscious of their still intertwined fingers. However, Lockwood didn’t seem to mind, so she couldn’t bring herself to let go.
Linda returned briefly to give them the final clearance from the doctor, as well as strict instructions on how to care for Lockwood’s wound. “Well, you’re officially in the clear, and you can leave now,” she announced. “Here’s the paperwork you’ll need.”
“Well, you heard her,” Lucy said, getting to her feet and dropping Lockwood’s hand, although she immediately missed his warmth against her palm. “We can go home now.”
“Good. I’m quite ready to be out of here, Luce.” Lockwood glanced down at his mostly bare chest. “I see you have my coat, but I’m guessing my shirt and tie did not survive the, uh, broken glass?”
“They did not.” She resisted the urge to shudder again, thinking of the shredded fabric soaked with his blood, of how easily this night could have been so much worse. “I’ll see if they have anything here you can wear.”
She hurried out of the room, still feeling off kilter, returning a few minutes later with a garish hospital issued t-shirt. She handed Lockwood the shirt and his other clothing, and a wave of awkwardness washed over her.
“I’ll step out—let you change. Can you—” She felt her face flush.
Lockwood eyes snapped up to her. “Oh. Yeah, I can manage.”
“Right.”
Lucy excused herself and lurked outside the room, willing herself to get a grip already. After what she decided was a sufficient amount of time, she knocked gently on the door before hesitantly stepping over the threshold.
“Lockwood?”
“You can come in,” he said, waving her over.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hospital gown discarded, dressed in his trousers with his shoes on, but bare chested. There was a beam of light streaming in through the windows, illuminating his face and making his pale skin look like a statue. Or at least what a statue would look like if it was covered in gauze and rapidly multiplying bruises.
She examined him quizzically. “You don’t look ready to go.”
“It appears I’m going to need some help after all so I don’t disturb the bandages,” he said sheepishly, holding out the t-shirt. “I tried, but well—would you mind terribly, Luce?”
Lucy shook her head. Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped between his legs and helped carefully guide the shirt over his head and down his torso. Her fingertips gently grazed his skin to keep the fabric from catching on the delicate patchwork of bandages.
“There,” she said, quickly stepping away. She handed Lockwood his coat, still amazed it had escaped the night unscathed. “You’ll need to restock the Pitkins in there. I helped myself while you were asleep.”
“Can do,” Lockwood said, letting out a small groan as he got to his feet.
Lucy came to his side, gingerly putting an arm around his waist, while he slung an arm around her shoulder. Together, they walked down the hall and out of the hospital into the crisp early morning air.
“Do you remember anything about the surgery?” Lucy asked curiously, once they were settled in a cab.
Lockwood shook his head. “Not a bit. Quite a good nap, honestly. Probably the best sleep that I’ve had since—well, you know.”
She did know. Sleep had always been a struggle for Lockwood, but since their trip to the Other Side, both of them had been plagued by nightmares, leaving them up and wandering the house at all hours of the night.
“You should still rest again when we get back.”
He nodded in agreement, seemingly too tired to speak. They sank into a companionable silence, looking out the windows as London slowly began to wake up for the day.
At some point, Lockwood took her hand again, absentmindedly running his thumb against her palm, like he wasn’t even quite aware of what he was doing. Lucy let herself slide closer to him, still relieved to find him next to her.
The smell of bacon greeted them when they returned to Portland Row, courtesy of George’s work in the kitchen, but when Lockwood made a move to walk down the hall, Lucy glared at him and pointed up the steps.
“Bed, Lockwood.”
“Lucy, I’m hungry,” he said, flashing her a smile that she knew was meant to be persuasive.
“I’ll bring it upstairs to you. You need to rest,” she insisted, her tone allowing no argument.
Lockwood sighed, but headed up the steps after briefly waving hello to George.
She quickly exchanged updates with George, while he put together a plate for Lockwood and she shoved down an egg and toast, feeling ravenous. George stayed behind to clean up the kitchen, while Lucy headed up to Lockwood’s room with a tray containing a plate of eggs, toast, and bacon, as well as water, decaf tea, a bottle of paracetamol, and a few Choco Leibniz for good measure.
“Here’s your breakfast,” she said, sitting the tray next to him.
“And tea?” he asked hopefully, from his spot tucked under the blankets, still wearing the ridiculous hospital issued shirt.
“Just the way you like it.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Luce,” he said gratefully, clutching the mug. His eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled at her, making her feel warm again.
“Thank George,” she said, shifting on her feet. “He did most of the work.”
Lucy left him to eat alone, while she quickly took a hot shower, changed into comfortable clothes free of blood and wine stains, and slapped a bandage on the cut on her forehead. Holly would be arriving in a few hours, and hopefully she’d be able to do some proper first aid on her other scrapes, as well as help with her laundry. While Lucy wasn’t excited at the idea of wearing this particular outfit again, she really didn’t want to have to throw out yet another set of clothes.
She returned to Lockwood’s room to find him still nursing the tea, his breakfast and the biscuits gone, blankets resting around his waist.
“Holly’s going to be here in a few hours to check in on us and take care of some things. George is going to get some sleep in the meantime, and you should too.” She couldn’t resist fussing over him, moving to fluff his pillows. “Do you need more water? What about another blanket? I can grab one from the closet—”
“I’m quite warm, Lucy. It’s almost summer after all.”
“Okay. I’ll let you rest then. Just call if you need me,” she said hesitantly, lingering at the side of his bed. She didn’t want to be too annoying, but she was frankly reluctant to let Lockwood out of her sight after what a trying night it had been.
Lockwood caught her arm as she started to turn to leave. “Stay a bit longer? Just in case. Still feeling a bit woozy from the surgery.”
Well, he wasn’t going to have to ask twice. She nodded and perched gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Belatedly, she realized that while she’d been in Lockwood’s room many times before, she’d never actually sat on his bed before.
Lockwood motioned for her to come closer, and she settled in against his headboard, their shoulders just barely brushing. He let his hand fall palm up on his lap, the invitation clear. She clasped it in hers, and they were both quiet.
“Thanks for coming to the hospital with me,” Lockwood said softly. “And for all of this.”
“I know you’d do the same for me.”
He nodded. “In a heartbeat.”
She let her head fall back against the bedframe and felt her eyes drift shut. A wave of fatigue washed over her, and she tried, but couldn’t hold back a yawn.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” Lockwood said quickly. “I didn’t even realize… did you sleep at all?”
She shook her head. “Not really, but I’m fine to stay with you for now. I want to make sure you have everything you need.”
“You should get some rest,” he said, his brow furrowing in concern.
“I’m not the one who just had surgery, Lockwood.”
“Well, we should both get some sleep in that case. There’s more than enough room here for two, if you don’t mind.” Lockwood shifted to lay down and looked up at her expectantly.
Lucy hesitated a long moment, before accepting the inevitable. Despite what she’d just said, she was exhausted, and it would be more convenient to take a nap here where Lockwood could easily wake her if he needed anything. As she moved to lay down beside him, he held up the side of the blankets so she could crawl under them.
“Here,” he said. “You’ll be warmer like this.”
I’ll be warm because I’m next to you, she thought, averting her eyes. But once again, she was too tired to even consider disagreeing. It was cozy under the blankets after all.
“Who’s taking care of who here again?” Lucy asked as she tucked herself in.
“Hard habit to break,” Lockwood admitted, a small smile coming to his face. His hand found her palm again under the blankets, their fingers threading together.
There was still a sizable distance between them, and the only place where they were touching was their hands, but it was strangely intimate, being here together in the quiet of Lockwood’s bedroom in the dim early morning.
It felt like Lucy could say things here that she couldn’t say in the harsh light of day. Lockwood seemed unusually open, and he couldn’t very well run away from her, so she impulsively decided to take advantage of the moment. She rolled on her side to face him, and he angled his head to look at her.
“I was worried about you tonight, Lockwood. For a minute—” She hesitated, willing her voice to not go shaky. “For a minute, it reminded me of the Fetch.”
Lockwood’s eyes were dark and serious. “I wondered. You seemed… concerned.”
She nodded. “Most of the time, I don’t worry about it any longer, but… well, sometimes it’s still difficult not to think about.”
“I understand that.” Lockwood paused for a long moment before speaking again. “I worried about you a lot when you were gone, Lucy. Sometimes it kept me up at night, wondering if you were okay.”
“You make it sound like you’re usually known for sleeping through the night.”
He grinned at that, clearly more comfortable with their usual banter. “Everyone’s got flaws.”
“Well, regardless, you shouldn’t have done it. Tonight.” She shook her head. “You were protecting me again.”
“You can say that, but you know I’d do it all over again.”
“I know.”
“That’s just what we do, Luce. We look out for each other.”
“You’re right about that, I suppose.”
Lucy closed her eyes again. She could feel the slow current of exhaustion creeping over her as the adrenaline of the night continued to fade.
“Talk to me if you don’t mind, Lucy,” Lockwood asked softly. “Just until you fall asleep.”
“About what?”
“Anything.” He shrugged. “Did George get everything wrapped up with last night’s case?”
Lucy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he would opt to talk about work. She searched her mind for another topic, but she wasn’t capable of being a thrilling conversationalist at the moment.
“Yes. Did you see the Source? Quite a large knife. He seemed very attached to it.”
“That’s not exactly pleasant dreams material, Luce.”
“You said anything so don’t get picky,” she scolded. “Also, we’ve experienced far worse. It wasn’t a murder weapon or a moldy bone or a severed body part. He was a chef. It was just a tool.”
“I suppose you’re correct. Bit of a sad situation though, wasn’t it?” Lockwood mused. “This dying of a broken heart business, if George is to be believed.”
“I guess.”
There was another long pause before Lockwood spoke again.
“Sounds like he was dreadfully lonely. I—well, I suppose I’ve known what that feels like.”
“How it feels to be abandoned by your wife?” She raised an eyebrow.
“No. Loneliness.” He gave her a thin smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
If the past twelve hours hadn’t already felt like a knife to her heart, those words were what twisted it. The ache in her chest expanded until Lucy felt like she couldn’t contain it any longer. “Lockwood, I—”
“Don’t worry, Luce. I don’t feel that way any longer. Now I have you… and George and Holly… And I’m grateful for it.” He squeezed her hand.
“I won’t leave again, Lockwood. I’ll never—” She started and stopped, the emotions from the past hours still too close to the surface for her to trust herself to speak.
“And I’ll always be there for you, Lucy. No matter what,” he said softly.
A heavy look passed between the two of them before Lockwood closed his eyes, shifting ever so slightly nearer to her. “You know, I think you’re right about that nap…”
She hummed in agreement, letting herself lean a bit closer as well. “Promise you’ll wake me if you need anything?”
“I will.”
“Goodnight,” she mumbled. “Or good morning, I guess?”
He laughed softly. “Good morning, Luce. I’m glad you’re here.”
Lucy’s breathing fell in tandem with his, deep and slow, and she felt herself drifting off. The next thing she knew, Lockwood was snoring softly and she was joining him in sleep. Their fingers were still linked in the swirl of the blankets, as the sunlight grew brighter outside.