Disclaimer: *owns it* Not in denial or anything.

Haunted Kisses

The first time he kissed me, I didn't even register it until it was too late to react.

The kitchen was brightly lit with some rather tarnished silver chandeliers Lockwood had dug out from the basement somewhere and George had gone to town and bought a few boxes of Arif's Assorted Variety Doughnuts - chocolate covered, jelly-flavoured, you name it, it was there. Though I suspect now that one of the crucial ingredients to making said - admittedly marvellous - jelly was liquor.

Which explains why I felt a little tipsy that evening and woke up the next morning with a bit of a headache. And when I say a bit of a headache, I mean a pounding, crushing, bash-your-head-in type of headache.

Where was I... ah, yes.

Our thinking cloth was strewn with crumbs and Lockwood had tuned the radio into a station which played the latest artists non-stop. I had never been one for music, but this evening, I was too happy to care. That, and the liquor was affecting my brain rather heavily.

George had gone to get a bottle of Coke from the basement, leaving me and Lockwood laughing about some rather ridiculous joke. I can't recall exactly what it was, something about a chicken crossing a road. I was leaning against him in a very familiar way which I wouldn't usually do, trying not to spit out my ginger beer as Lockwood told me the tale of how he'd searched through a whole mansion for the Source of a particularly annoying Raw-bones who had followed him around the house, screaming something about Banana Split cookies being the best ones. Eventually, Lockwood had traced it back to the small coin in his own pocket which the owner of the house had given him as preemptive payment and destroyed it.

I raised my eyebrows. "Why Banana Splits? Everybody knows Thin Mints are the best."

Lockwood shook his head. "Ah, but Ms Carlyle, said ghost had been poisoned. Once upon a time, he might have favoured the Dark Ghana."

I laughed. "Oh, and that's supposed to explain his obsession with Banana Split cookies?"

"Perhaps the Ghana were poisoned when he ate his afternoon tea," Lockwood hypothesized. "Who knows, maybe he now holds a grudge against all the Ghana in the world..."

"...And has made it his mission to advertise the rival cookie flavours?" I asked him. The man smirked. I fell back against his shoulder as we laughed and while I was still doubled over...

...Lockwood put his arm around me and brushed his lips against my cheek, before letting the arm fall to his side and taking a sip of tea.

I laughed on for a few seconds before realizing what exactly had happened. The snickers stumbled down my throat and I brushed a lock of dark brown hair behind my ear, stealthily touching the warm spot on my cheek as I did so. I didn't know what exactly to do - it was too late to react with an expression of shock or amusement - so I did the best thing I could: I took a sip of ginger beer and acted as though nothing had happened.

"I'm still calling dibs on Thin Mints though," I told him and he smiled at me.

And then George was back, demanding we acknowledge the existence of Ginger Coconut Biscuits as well.

I hate Ginger Coconut.

He doesn't know why he does it, or why Lucy acts as if nothing happened, but he is kind of glad she does. Otherwise, neither of them would be able to figure out what to say to one another whenever their paths cross. Though when he thinks about it, he is more than a little tempted to bring her lips to his again…

Oh Lord. He knows why he did it now - it's staring him clear in the face. Slowly, insidiously, Anthony Lockwood finds himself falling for Lucy Carlyle.

The second time was out on a case - an old couple had reported sightings of a ghostly grey figure in the fields behind their garden and strong feeling of discomfort and fear radiating from it. They also reported they'd had several sleepless nights due to the insistent shivers crawling down their spines and that their house had become rather chilly as of late, even though it was early autumn and not yet time to stack up the firewood quite yet.

So, naturally, Lockwood and I went to check it out. We'd waited a day for George to finish his research; then we set out to the edges of the city. Lockwood had read out the information to me: 94 Sheridan Road had been built about fifty years ago, about when the Problem first became widely acknowledged.

The house had only seen one set of owners, the old couple who resided there as we walked: Adalin and Josef Currel. Both had been employed at the Fittes Agency as young children, which explained why they still retained the sight.

There had been a few reports of Type Ones lurking in the area: just your usual, run-of-the-mill Shades, Hazes, Lurkers and a Stalker or two. All of them seemed to have been exclusively male - the field had been a battleground for an assault against the German troops once.

Hence, we speculated, a Shade or Lurker of some nameless soldier who died in the war and whose remains never received a proper burial. If so, it would be quite hard to locate the Source. I remind you of the case of Penny Nolan and the water meadows of my childhood.

Not many Type Twos had manifested - a few Spectres and Wraiths around the area, although none of them actually seemed hostile. Most just wandered aimlessly, and, when approached, began to whisper the gory details of their deaths.

When we arrived, we were greeted by coffee and a plate of cheese and crackers. Lockwood declined, but I took one and smiled politely as the two elders showed us out back of the house and into a small section of fenced-off garden with a stone patio, a patch of grass and a rather sad-looking aspen in the corner.

Over the fence, the wheat field loomed, an expanse of soil ridges filled with cropped-off stalks - the harvest had already razed the land. Beyond that, about a hundred feet away from us, the tree line of a forest stood along the edge of the field.

We walked out into the field as the sun set, drawing our rapiers as we navigated the treacherous trenches - I stumbled more than once. The harvest had not left the field bare, so ankle-high wheat stalks still hindered our way. Lockwood and I walked in silence before I stopped and closed my eyes, putting up a hand. I could hear him stand beside me, but my physical senses were not what I needed right now. I took a deep breath, slowed my heartbeat and listened.

Crickets chirped around us and a crisp breeze blew through the wheat stalks. That was on the worldly level. If I strained my ears, I could hear something else as well, something static-y like a radio, a rustling, crackling noise that seemed to peak in volume almost enough to be conceived as a voice at times. I opened my eyes. "I can hear static, like from an untuned radio, and it's like somebody is whispering, but I can't quite make it out."

Lockwood nodded and surveyed the night in front of us. "All right. Let's keep on going, but be aware."

We continued on. Mosquitoes buzzed. Stalks rustled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The static at the edge of my hearing became clearer. "I can distinctly make out whispering now, but I don't know what the ghost is saying," I whispered.

Lockwood checked his thermometer. "It's getting colder, too - fourteen degrees."

We advanced another few metres before cold dread began to slow my footsteps. "Malaise setting in," I reported, crossing my arms and stomping my feet. The temperature read ten degrees.

Lockwood glanced at our surroundings. We were in the middle of the field. Around us was nothing but space. "I don't like this. We're too out in the open."

"I don't, either," I admitted. "Let's get on with it. The sooner we finish, the better."

The Ghost-fog curled up from the ground not two steps after, thick tendrils creeping over the ground, choking the wheat. We waded through it. Hisses could be heard as the greenish mist met our gleaming rapiers. I stopped suddenly, closing my eyes. Lockwood stepped next to me. "What is it, Luce?"

"Whispering - no, talking. I can hear muttered words. I think it's 'dead, gone, kill, dead, gone, kill' over and over again." I opened my eyes, yet the incessant mutter didn't stop. In fact, it only got louder.

Lockwood grumbled next to me. "Well, isn't that cheerful. Oh, look - there it is."

I followed him as he advanced, and slowly, I began to see it, too.

The apparition glowed with pale Other-light. It was just about as tall as Lockwood, and clad in a startlingly clear olive-green military jumpsuit.

Lockwood stared at it with a strange look on his face. "A Spectre, Lucy. My, I've never seen one as clear as this bef-"

He cut off in wonder as he regarded the Visitor's face. I held my breath, and the Spectre looked at us solemnly. The face was not the clean-shaven one of a young man who'd signed up for the army to protect his family... no, instead, short, curly hair and long eyelashes framed freckled cheeks and plump lips were drawn together in a weary frown.

"Well..." Lockwood muttered. "I'll be damned."

I shushed him as the apparition spoke. "Did you kill him?" Her voice was soft and raspy, as with a hinge that creaks because it hasn't been used in a long time. I shook my head in wonder.

"Lucy?" Lockwood asked. "What did she say?"

"She asked us if we killed him," I responded. "Who do you mean?" I softly asked the ghost.

She took a step forward and Lockwood drew his rapier. I clasped a salt bomb in my hand and brushed my hair from my face.

"Did you kill Jim?" Her voice became sorrowful, and I had to concentrate as not to be drawn into a powerful ghost-lock. We'd underestimated the case. Again.

"He promised me..." the ghost continued. "Then, he was dead."

"Lucy," Lockwood's insistent tone jolted me alive. "What's is she saying?"

"She thinks we killed somebody named Jim," I managed. "I think he was her lover… then he died somehow."

"I came after him, to punish them. But they got me first." The made a dreadful, heart-wrenching sound like a sigh and a sob mixed together before staring me in the face. "Did you kill him?"

I shook my head slowly. "Her husband was a soldier," I told Lockwood. It was all coming together. "He died in the war, and she went after him to avenge him - but she was unsuccessful."

Suddenly, the ghost disappeared. "Killed."

We stood there in silence for a few moments, before running forward. Ghost-fog curled away from us, disappearing into the ground. My psychic senses had gone deaf, and all I could hear was our gasping breaths, the slap of our shoes on hard-packed soil and the roar of blood in my ears.

We stopped, panting.

The whole field was dead silent. And I mean everything was silent. Not even a breeze whispered through the wheat anymore. I flicked on my torch and spun it around, pointing it here and there. Lockwood glanced around. His eyes, bright and alert, gleamed in the dark as he scanned the rows of wheat.

Nothing...

I lowered my torch. "Seems like she's gone... wait." I pointed the small circle of light at the ground in front of me. "Look! Are you-"

"Lucy!" Lockwood sprang into action at my side, flashing up his rapier with his right and snaking his left arm around me, pulling me back. I grunted as I was wrenched off-balance, my jaw snapping upward - Lockwood had caught my neck in the crook of his elbow in an effort to pull me back.

My eyes widened as the Spectre loomed before me, eyes bright with malice. "Killed!" the raspy, cry voice intoned before swooping in. I stared at it, frozen in shock and terror.

Lockwood's rapier slashed through the apparition. The figure shuddered, and dissolved grudgingly into Ghost-fog.

Lockwood was breathing heavily. Neither of us spoke for a minute. When he did, his voice sounded choked. "God, Lucy... she nearly had you. You were leaning over and then, suddenly, she just... appeared."

I coughed weakly, clutching at his arm around my throat. "Wonderful. I would greatly appreciate if you stopped strangling me now."

Lockwood immediately let me go, before pulling me up again and hugging me close. I hugged him back, the side of my face pressed against his chest. I was only little more than two years younger, but he still towered half a head above me. His arms were around me, supporting me against him, my cheek pressed against the scuffed leather of his coat.

"So close," he whispered, his lips pressed into my hair.

Through the slowly ebbing Ghost-lock, I suddenly noticed just how close we were. It wasn't that I didn't like it. It was actually quite nice, but you didn't hear that from me. Lockwood's head is big enough as it is. I realised though, that we were standing much closer than an employee should be to her employer... no matter how charming, handsome and witty said employer might be. And...

...God. Was he kissing me right now?

We broke apart, and Lockwood gripped my hands in his and stared at me, his dark eyes intense and searching. "Are you okay? Did she get you?"

I sincerely hoped the moonlight didn't pick out my apple-ripe cheeks as I replied, rather flustered: "No, Lockwood, I'm fine."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Good, good. For a moment..." His voice wavered. "I thought I'd lost my finest operative."

I stared at him. This uncharacteristic sentimentality was getting out of hand... Somebody had to bring us on the right track again. I smirked perkily. "Well, you know what they say - a miss is as good as a mile, right?"

Lockwood stared at me for a few moments before clapping me on the back, the twinkle in his eyes returning. "Of course, Lucy."

I smiled at him innocently. "So... does that mean I get to brag to George about being your best operative?"

He looked at me, aghast, and I couldn't help but snicker at his indignant look. "You wouldn't dare."

I winked, before bending down and plucking up the ice-cold brooch I had glimpsed earlier in the light of my torch, lying askance between stalks of wheat, and handing it to him. "See here, for example. Your best operative, Lucy Carlyle, just solved the mystery of the Source of the Field Spectre. Has a bit of flair, doesn't it?"

I spun on my heel, picking my way back to the houses through the seeding trenches, listening to Lockwood's protesting cries. "You're never going to let me live this one down, are you, Lucy? Luce! I spoke in a moment of weakness!"

I laughed quietly, telling myself my cheeks didn't feel the least bit warm when I thought back to Lockwood's actions that night.

She is the one who brings the two of them back on track after his breakdown, and he thanks and curses her for it at the same time. On the bright side, things aren't awkward between them even after he's hugged her and kissed her - again. Then again, he still doesn't know if she regards him with the same level of affection as he does her.

Perhaps he'll never know... but that does not mean Anthony Lockwood will stop trying.

The third time started as an argument of slightly petty nature.

"I should have brought the chains."

"For the last time, Lucy, it wasn't. Your. Fault."

I banged my head on the table. "If I hadn't left them, we might have gotten away easier."

Lockwood squeezed my arm, but retracted his fingers when I winced.

The case had not gone well, and I was to blame. Sure, the Poltergeist was vanquished, but our group had sustained several nasty injuries - all of us had been Ghost- touched, in George's case twice over. I had bruises and scrapes that stung like hellfire over my arms and legs, and Lockwood had sprained his right wrist. It was in a sling over his shoulder now. All because stupid me had forgotten the chains and left them hanging over the coat rack.

"Luce, look on the bright side. We're still alive, and none of us have permanent injuries." Lockwood covered my bloodied hand with his - the one that wasn't in a sling - and smiled at me. I looked down. Failures like mine tonight couldn't be made better simply with a smile and a handshake. Or even a hug.

"It doesn't matter that we're alive. I failed, that's what matters."

George pitched in with his version of supportiveness and arched his stiff back. "Damn right you failed. We survived this time - please don't try something like that again." He groaned as his spine popped and cracked. "I don't think my back will survive if you do."

Lockwood drew his mouth shut, giving our friend a glance. "George, shut up. This is not the time."

The large boy shrugged. "I'm going to bed now, if you don't mind. I've better things to do than listen to Lucy moping all night." He nodded to both of us, then stepped out of the kitchen and closed the door softly, leaving Lockwood and I slumped over our steaming teacups - two very battered, very depressed psychic investigators after a not-so-good night's work.

I stared silently at the curling mist above my cup while Lockwood took a sip of his, considering me with bright, thoughtful eyes. He set the cup down on the table, then leaned forward on his elbows, studying me. I avoided his gaze, rubbing my blue right hand stubbornly.

"Lucy..."

"Don't," I interrupted. "I told you, it doesn't matter that we got away. I failed in my work as an agent."

Lockwood looked down for a second. "We learn from mistakes. Take this as an opportunity. That's what life is - a finite line of constant learning."

I stared at the cup, not really seeing it. My Ghost-touched hand tingled as I remembered that incident at the Wytheburn Mill, years ago... "What worth is learning new things if we must give up lives in order to learn them?"

Lockwood sat back, tilting his head curiously. "This isn't about tonight, is it?"

I looked up. He could read me like one of his gossip magazines... though I fancied I had a great deal more bluntness and sarcasm in me. "It is about tonight... kind of, I guess. It's just... nights like these bring back those memories."

"The ones from your last case at Wytheburn?"

I flexed my pale, scraped fingers, picking at a scab. "Yeah."

"You still feel guilty, don't you." It wasn't a question. I looked up and nodded at him.

"If only I'd convinced Jacobs... maybe Paul, Norrie, and the others would still be alive." I sighed and took my first sip of tea, not even reacting when it burned my throat, sliding down it, scalding hot.

Lockwood stared at me, then drained his cup and stood up. "You know, George has a point."

I watched him incredulously. "What?"

"Moping doesn't help, Lucy. You can't go on through life, thinking what if this, what if that," he told me, placing his dirty cup and saucer in the sink. "We can't change the past, but we can change the way we act in the future, and that's the important thing."

He stepped back next to the table, leaning over me with a twinkle in his eyes. I was still staring at him, probably with a simple-minded expression of perplexity on my face. "What if's are for ghosts. And you know what we do with those, don't you?" I glanced at his rapier, which leaned against a chair.

Lockwood covered my Ghost-touched right hand with his left - his right was still in the sling - and smiled reassuringly at me, that charismatic smile that made you want to follow him to the end of the world. I stared at him, not knowing what to say.

Then, swiftly, Lockwood gripped my hand in his, lifted my blue, lifeless fingers to his lips, and kissed the back of my hand, like a gentleman would that of a lady who he'd been introduced to. Only I wasn't a lady - a lady would have giggled and blushed. I just stared like the witty person that I was.

He winked at me and left the kitchen, leaving me to incredulously consider my hand.

After a few minutes, I gave a rueful smile and stood up to discard my cup. The tea had gone cold anyway.

Another kiss, another situation, and this time he doesn't even give her time to react, leaving as soon as he can as to avoid confrontation. And he winks at her that time. Winks. Like he's flirting. He feels half elated, half mortified. And to top his frustration, she still acts as if nothing happened, so he goes along with it.

Perhaps she doesn't like him back, but is too polite to tell him so. He immediately discards the thought, for there is one thing wrong with it: Lucy Carlyle is most definitely not polite. He sighs. As of late, Luce has been a mystery to him.

The fourth time, it was me who kissed him... and it was a matter of life and death.

Oh, you're laughing now, are you? Hilarious, really.

It's especially hilarious when you've just watched your comrade fall two metres off a cliff because he got caught in the ghost-lock of a Solitary and went suicidal as a result.

Are you still laughing?

I thought not.

I screamed as Lockwood stood teetering at the edge of the cliff, the Solitary beside him. It had adopted the guise of a young boy in a sailor's outfit - or so Lockwood had told me before he'd up and left to confront the ghost.

I turned my attention frantically to the heap of bones on the ground, digging around in the pockets of my coat for a Seal - anything to stop the apparition from taking my colleague to an early grave. My breath was ragged, my eyes riveted to Lockwood's long, thin figure as he stood at the edge of the cliff.

Well, it wasn't really a cliff - more of a two-and-a-half metre fall down a steep ravine. But it would be enough. Around my friend, Ghost-fog swirled over the edge of the rock, and beside him, the small figure goaded him on. I couldn't make out Lockwoods face in the darkness and the other-light wasn't bright enough to see anything but two pinpricks of light where his eyes were, but I imagined he had a serene look on his face like always, an expression of careful neutrality.

At last my finger touched cold silver, and with a sob, I threw the net over the pile of partially decomposed bones.

The Solitary vanished, and Lockwood fell. I screamed his name as he flipped in midair, landing on his back on the hard-packed earthen ground with a sickening crunch and a poof of dust.

I stumbled over to him, tears pooling under my eyes. Dropping on my knees beside him, I frantically scanned his prone form, hiccups forming in my throat. Lockwood had fallen more or less directly on his back and lay there, stunned, his legs and arms stretched slightly out from his body, rapier still ready in hand. His face was smooth and relaxed, eyes closed and brow unwrinkled and if I hadn't known any better, I'd have assumed he was fast asleep.

My cheeks hot and wet, I pressed my ear to his heart, calming my breath listen, both in the physical and psychic sense, hoping against all hope for that steady reassurance, the beating sound that would tell me his blood still flowed.

Nothing.

I started hyperventilating and sobbing at the same time. I touched his face, slapped his cheeks, did everything in my power... to no avail. Desperately, I started to apply pressure to his heart, trying to get it to pump again. I pressed hard, one, two three times, yelling his name.

Still nothing.

Finally, I wiped my face with my hands, looking at his serene face and, before I knew what I was doing, pressed my lips to his, breathing air into his mouth. I pumped his heart once more before repeating the kiss and suddenly, I felt a stutter beneath my hands...

...and a cough against my lips. I opened my eyes, staring at the man's face. His eyes cracked open and I leaned back. His gaze was clear and he stared at me for a moment. I stared back, waiting.

"Lucy?"

I was going to sentimentally break down in tears and thanks the heavens that he was alive any minute now...

"Oh, thank goodness. Your brain works again." Not meaning I didn't thank aforementioned heavens in my thoughts that you're alive, you idiotic excuse for a leader.

Lockwood blinked. "What happened?"

"You got yourself Ghost-locked. Then, you went suicidal and jumped two-and-a-half metres into a ravine. I think I can stop feeling stupid about forgetting the chains now, eh?"

Lockwood tried to sit up, before groaning and letting himself fall back to the ground. "Well... I'm alive." He touched his cheeks, wincing and rubbed his neck, before exclaiming in wonder: "Being alive hurts."

I stared at him incredulously before shaking my head and punching him in the shoulder. I helped him up, and we collected our rapiers. We made our way slowly back to the town, me supporting him all the while.

X

He knows she's kissing him - in fact, it is probably the pressure of her lips on his which sends his heart a-pounding and ties his soul back to his body. He doesn't call her out on it, though; doesn't allow himself to hope. She's probably doing it because he is about to die. He glimpses her face, stained with tears, her eyes red red and puffy, yet her typically dispassionate response to his state infernally perplexes him.

He mulls it over without conclusion on more than one occasion, and it frustrates him to no end. Falling in love is hard, he concludes.

Behind us, the Ghost-lamp flickered to life, and I took a deep breath of the crisp, chill air. It was fresh and lively with the cold breeze that carried the scent of new growth - which was to be expected from a late spring English night.

Lockwood had looped his arm through mine with a charming smile when we had vanquished the Phantasm around midnight and had collected our payment from the eternally thankful owner of the shed, and we made our way home.

It was a good hour walk, and there were no buses, so we made due on foot, navigating by the light of the hiccuping Ghost-lamps. The case had been successful, easy and quick to solve, with the Source being a pair of old, dusty leather boots, lying in the corner of the shed.

Now, we were walking side by side, discussing said case.

I shook my head. "Why a pair of shoes, though?"

"Maybe they were her Sunday best?" Lockwood flashed a clever smile and I leaned into him.

"I've yet to meet a person who values their clothes more than their very bones."

"Well, not all families could afford gold jewelry. So I guess boots had to suffice," he shrugged. The Ghost-lamp went dark, and his arms tightened around mine.

I shook my head again. "I don't think I'd ever value anything, especially not shoes, over my own bones," I told him.

He tilted his head. "Not even if they were finest, mustard-yellow hand-crafted buck leather?"

I stuck my tongue out at him. "I hate mustard."

He snorted and we both laughed. Lockwood put one arm around my shoulder. When I looked at him, I could just make out his eyes in the dark. They were twinkling in that special way of his. I smiled, suddenly nervous, and leaned in...

...just as he pulled me to him by the waist and our lips crashed together.

If I had to describe the sensation, I'd say it was a feeling like floating. My heart felt light and my stomach fluttered. My head didn't know what to think, so I just leaned forward and buried my hands in his hair. His arms were around my waist and we stayed that way for I don't know how long.

Eventually, we broke apart and just stared at each other with smiles on our faces, until I realized what had happened. I'd kissed Lockwood. Oh Lord. My thoughts descended into panic as my mind ran through possible scenarios, none of them good.

Instead, Lockwood took my hand in his and smiled tentatively. "So, does this actually make us 'official'?"

Me, being the eloquent country-bumpkin that I was, made one of the most intelligent responses known to man. "Huh?"

Lockwood tilted his head. "I must say I'm a little disappointed, Lucy. I've been trying to tell you I like you for months now."

"Well, you certainly haven't been trying hard enough then, have you?" I was probably the reddest, most flustered and at the same time the most snide country bumpkin in England right then.

Lockwood's face held that intense expression again, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Meaning?"

"Meaning yes, of course. God, Lockwood, aren't you dense, thinking it was going to be anything else."

When we entered our front garden at one o'clock in the morning, we each had one arm around the other and I had my head on his shoulder. We made our way up the porch steps, halting in front of the door.

Lockwood looked at me. "I'd have to say that was one of the most successful cases I've had in a long time."

"I think we brought this one to a satisfying close," I agreed.

He hesitated, then leaned in and pecked me on the lips again. I leaned into the kiss.

We were interrupted by the front door, which suddenly and unexpectedly opened. We broke apart to see a tired George staring at us.

Well, wouldn't this be fun to explain... Lockwood and I were no doubt both cherry-red, and it didn't help that George was staring at us both like Visitors caught in broad daylight.

Eventually, Lockwood decided to open his mouth. "Ehm..."

George grunted, a smirk on his face. "Well, finally. Took you long enough."

Lockwood and I exchanged a glance, perplexed, while our chubby friend snickered.

I put a hand on my hip. "Something funny?"

George rolled his eyes at us. "You two are! I've been waiting for this day for half a year!"

Lockwood raised one eyebrow. "You... have?"

"Wait," I asked. "You were..." I gestured between me and Lockwood.

George raised his eyebrows. "Well, why do you think I've been letting you two lovebirds go out on cases alone for months now, genius?"

We both flushed, and George snickered again. "Well, good thing that's over. You two were frustrating to no end!" He held open the door. "Come in, then. This is a reason to celebrate." His shoulders drooped. "Although I suppose I'll have to make due with being treated like a dog now."

I gave him a smile. "I'll get out your food bowl if you sit and stay."

Lockwood and I entered the house hand in hand as George scoffed.

Lucy Carlyle is perhaps one of the best things that has ever happened to him, Lockwood muses as he presses his lips to hers. Later, he revels in the sense of achievement and bliss he gets from just one of those instances.

And when, two weeks later, a photo of them kissing is on the front page of one of his gossip magazines, he shows her. She tells him it comes with being an agent of one of London's most high-profile agencies, and laughs.

And that laughter is almost as good as the amazing kiss she gives him afterwards.

They definitely don't end up making out - no, George, they d... Fine, maybe a little.

GORGEOUS COUPLE IS GORGEOUS.

Sooo... my first Lockwood&Co. oneshot... I feel kinda 'meh' about this one. But I can assure you I absolutely am in love with Lucywood... Locklyle... whatevs.

Please tell me how I did, and if I can improve. I'm not sure if this is my best work, because I can absolutely not see Lucy and Lockwood acting all Romance-y together (even though I ship them). So, I hope this stayed true to the original characters.

On a completely different note, am I the only one who thinks that George would wildly support LockwoodXLucy? I always imagine he kind of puts up with them, but on the inside, he actually squeals whenever they kiss.

Also, I'm pretty sure Lockwood is a boss at raising just one eyebrow. He just seems like a person who'd do something like that. It just makes him more badass... not that he isn't plenty badass already.

Beaucoup des petits gâteaux, mes copines!