It was a fine day in London that evening. One of the few days that it was slightly sunny, with little sky coverage. A small breeze waft through the air, rustling trees and bushes. Kids played in the streets like they used to while adults chatted while shopping or taking a leisurely stroll. It almost made it seem like there was no Problem at all in London and that everything was normal. Haunting Calls for the larger agencies in London were very few in number, and for the smaller agencies, even fewer were dispatched, however, the normal hustle and bustle still applied to the large urban town.

However, 35 Portland Row was stiller than a hill in winter. The house seemed like it was abandoned and left to rot due to the lack of movement. The dust that covered house was still. The windows lay opened, but no light nor movement came from inside. The light that poured into the living room was dim since the house faced south instead of west. I lay on the couch in the living room, drawing to my heart's content on this fine day. My back pressed against the armrest, facing the tall, navy blue armchair with a sleeping teen rather than the chimney.

George had left early that morning, his ongoing search for the solution to the Problem thriving in his mind (and on the thinking cloth). As of late, his findings had become more and more inconsiderable. He would come back on his free days ranting about something Fitties had done, like when they checked out the clippings in the archives dated in the 1990's. Except, they only checked out all of the murders and hauntings in that time. Ever since our visit from our not-so-friendly neighborhood London agency boss, things like this have been popping up everywhere for the agents of Lockwood and company. Even Kipps was dealing with his jabs from Penelope Fitties. But, we have managed to survive a few months through, what I like to call, The Penelope Blockade or PB for short.

Kipps didn't like the title, but I was able to receive praise from Holly. Speaking of Holly, she was off visiting family over in Cardiff for a few days. It was very quiet and a bit dusty without her constant upkeep of 35 Portland Row. I was a bit sad when I heard she was leaving for a bit. Although we still had our ups and downs, I had gotten so used to having her around even her leaving for a bit pricked at my heartstrings. It was nice to have another girl in the company to talk to, and I wish I would have realized that sooner rather than later.

And then there was Lockwood.

He slept in the armchair I faced, bangs covering his face while the other half was bathed in the faint evening light coming in, all of his facial features looked so calm and peaceful with his head tilted downward and eyes softly shut. One of his arms rested on the armrest of the chair while the other lay on his lap. His bottom half was covered with a soft, wool blanket. The coat he always had on his person when we went on cases donned his sleeping figure. He wore a tan sweater under his long coat that crumpled in his position, one I wished I was wearing.

Yes, the day was rather nice, but the draft in the large house was very nasty. Holly and I had recommended insulation these past few months, but Lockwood refused, saying that the draft helped us acclimate to miasma and cold chills during cases. We both knew he was lying, but we never pressed on after that. Lockwood was Lockwood after all and he still was the same mysterious boy we all knew and loved. However, at this moment in time, I regretted not pushing the handsome brunette in front of me.

I looked down at my light aqua sweater over a white spaghetti strap and cursed. It also didn't help that I wore a skirt with stockings, and hadn't bothered to grab a blanket from the closet in the basement. The only warmth I had was on my neck. My hair was getting long again, and I was due for a trim. My cold right hand gripped my pencil tightly, reminding my frozen body part that the object was there. My sketch pad rested in my lap, and all I could hear was the small scrap of my pencil against the page and the chattering of teeth.

The chattering came from the skull, which rested in the kitchen behind me. I pondered the skull's behavior of that day as I drew. He had been rather quiet the entire morning and most of this fine afternoon. It was very unusual for the Chatty Cathy skull, but suspicion was far from my mind as my hand flew across the pad, etching in every single detail I saw. I hadn't known what I was drawing until I had the basic sketch on the page. I kept looking up, pausing to drink in the detail, and turning back to the lead on the thick paper. I kept at it as quickly as I could, while the light still shone on his face. Looking back at the pad, and then up ahead once more, I declared the drawing finished. I closed the pad and took it with me to the kitchen.

Moving from the couch to the kitchen, I felt my body warming and the cold cracking with the strides I made toward the stove. Setting the drawing pad on the thinking cloth, I put the kettle on and I looked to the cupboards. Sighing, and opened the one on the far right. The one with several tea boxes inside. Each member in Lockwood and Co. had their own tea box. Even Kipps. Although, we had a big earl gray box for cases. Lockwood usually picked off the earl grey (he drank it plain). George was a black tea person with pounds of sugar poured inside. I, personally, preferred chamomile tea with some clover honey.

I stared into the cupboard and groaned. Per George, the tea remained on the top shelf. Usually I just asked Lockwood when he made a cup for himself, so I wouldn't have to make a fool of myself, much to George's (and the skull's) delight. I opened the cupboard underneath and used it as a small stepping stool. I reached with my hand, the tip of it barely snagging the edge of the box.

"I'M BORED!" A raspy voice screamed beside me. It must have sensed the fact that I was already teetering back and forth, trying to get to the box and that I was too distracted to notice its presence. I caught the box, but not before falling to the floor, the bags spilling from the cardboard and onto my lap. I landed on my rump a few inches away from the table, luckily, but impact still hurt. I shot the skull a dirty look as I regained my senses.

Getting up with an angered huff, I rubbed my bottom and gave the skull a rather rude gesture before I went to pick up the bags that had spilt. I wasn't done, picking up half of them before the kettle began to whistle like a mini train. I turned off the stove and began to pick up the rest of the bags. Finishing, I placed the box on the counter, not bothering to reach up there again, I grabbed a mug a tied the tea bag string to the handle.

"I still find how you tie the string around the handle odd." A smooth but groggy voice sounded behind me. Turning, I saw Lockwood in the doorway. His hair was a bit disheveled and his eyes only half open. He reminded me off a kid who had just woken up from a nap, the one I must have woken him from. A smile lay upon his sharp features. I frowned at his comment.

"It's not odd," I stuck my nose in the air, sticking my nose in the air. Lockwood chuckled slightly and walked toward me as I went on preparing my tea. He ruffled my hair as he passed me. I glanced over to my side and saw that he had put my tea box away to grab his own and take out a bag. I turned my attention back over to my pouring of hot water and winced when the water hit my finger. I stuck my finger into my mouth quickly, and kept pouring.

"On a different note, good morning Lucy." I paused, replaying the sentence he had just uttered before correcting him.

"Lockwood, it's almost 5 o'clock." I finished preparing my tea and turned around to face him. He was staring at the clock, his brows pulled inward, creasing his forehead.

"Was I out that long?" His tone sounded perplexed as his head turned my way. I giggled in slight amusement.

"Since you came back yesterday night from the burners, you've been immobile. Even George actually tried to wake you." He moved my way and grabbed the kettle, mug in hand and poured himself a cup. I stared at his face a bit. Last night he had come back from a very rough case and what's worse is that he went alone. George thought it would be a type one, but he was wrong as it turned out to have been a type two. George thought he would have had enough sense to leave.

But again, Lockwood is Lockwood.

In my distracted thoughts, I had failed to see him glance my way.

"Staring is rude, Luce." I blinked and his dashing smile came into few. He was only a few inches away from my face, which felt like it was boiling. As I looked up, looking like a deer caught in headlights, his smile widened. God, he was handsome. Even I, Lucy Carlyle could admit that. The way his lips curved into his eyes, the way his cheeks dimpled, how his dark eyes lit up with all sorts of emotion... I huffed, puffing out my cheeks, trying to dismiss my girly thoughts. I only allowed myself to think these things in the privacy of my room.

"Well, I was thinking, not staring. So there." I took a sip of my tea and turned to face the table instead of Lockwood, my back leaning on the counter side. I could feel Lockwood's gaze as he waited for his drink to settle, pondering what he should say next. I waited, taking small sips here and there before he finally spoke up.

"It's about last night, isn't it?" He asked me, staring off into the room same as I did. I bit my lip, wondering if I should lie, but chastised myself to tell the truth.

"Yes" I took another sip, looking at the rim of the cup, waiting for the next reply. I heard a small sigh escape Lockwood. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him shake his head. I knew that shake, and immediately my hands tightened around my cup.

"Lucy, I was perfectly fine-" I tried to let him finish, but my mouth and ears weren't having it. I spoke up, cutting him off. It wasn't a yell, but it wasn't a whisper either. As I spoke, my hair fell, hiding my face just enough to provide a small sense of security.

"Lockwood, what on earth were you thinking?" I couldn't see him, but I knew that he was staring at me incredulously. The room lay dead silent, not even the skull had bothered to stir at my shaky voice. I heard his breath hitch for a moment before he spoke.

"Luce, I don't follow." I still felt his gaze. His dark eyes looking my way and drilling a hole into my side of my skull.

"Lockwood you were dealing with a highly malevolent type two cold maiden. You could've been ghost touched or worse, killed. Why didn't you leave, or at least called for backup? The case wasn't that far from here and the skull could sense the bloody ghost from here." My knuckles were white from gripping the mug. A little more and it would have probably-The mug split into my hand, cutting the side of my palm. It wasn't loud, just a small crack and small plinks as the cold clay pieces and remaining tea hit the ground. I didn't notice at first, I just kept on reaming Lockwood.

"We can't be Lockwood and Co. without you, dammit! You never think about how we would feel if we had to be the ones to deal with your ghost! I left to make sure I'd never hurt you, but you ended up throwing yourself into worse situations! I come back and nothing's changed at all! Even Kipps is getting worried for you! Holly's been biting her nails, George has been getting less and less sleep, and I haven't been able to stop bloody thinking about you since you showed up at my small apartment months ago!" I didn't know when I had started to tear up, heck I didn't even know I was crying, maybe it was before the mug broke, but I believe it was when I mentioned him coming back as a ghost. Even saying the thought was enough to hurt me.

Why?

Well, I knew I had feelings for Lockwood ever since day one of meeting the charming teen next to me. I would never have admitted it to myself then, but after Aickmere's and the trip into the beyond, I couldn't get him off my mind. Which led to thinking about him and all his quirks. The way he would nibble slightly on the end of his pen when he was in deep thought. The childlike way he would hide George's glasses in the morning. Or even when he ran his fingers through his hair when he was worried or tired.

It took me a while to see why I was thinking of him so much. Why my face felt three times hotter when he praised me. Why my stomach lurched when he responded to George's comment about the Persian lights. Why his bright grin always made my lips curl into a smile and my skin feel like it was bathed in sun's rays. Why I regarded his opinion above anyone else's.

I was in love.

But, I wasn't about to tell him that.

I took a moment to render what I had said.

Actually, I may have already subtly said it.

I still wasn't about to say it out right any time soon.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I stole a look at Lockwood through my hair. I blinked a few times, my vision blurred. He wasn't there. I looked around the room and saw him looking at my sketchbook. He was flipping through all of the drawings I drew of him. I froze, looking at his face. I don't think he had seen me, or was even listening to the last part of my spiel. He hadn't listened to a word. Not a word. He flipped through the book, his eyes widening with every picture.

"Luce, why are all these drawings o-" He glanced up at me, seeing my face. The tears streaming down my face from when I spilled out my worries. His face went from confused to horrified. I had never, ever cried in front of anyone. I had never broken down, or shed a tear in the company, not even when I had left. I refused to show that kind of weakness. In my emotional state, I hadn't realized I was crying until his expression became worried.

"L-Luce?" I looked down, wiping my cheeks with my thumb. I took one step before snatching the sketchbook out of his hands. I didn't get half way through the kitchen door before my arm was grabbed, jerking me back to face Lockwood. I didn't look at him.

"Luce, those drawings are the- your hand!" I glanced at my hand at his gasp, blood dripping down the tips of my fingers. I stung now that I paid attention to its presence. Luckily it wasn't the hand I had used to grab the book out of Lockwood's hands. However, I wouldn't have cared, nor did I care about my hand. I was livid. He didn't bother to listen to me talk, he didn't even have the decency to look at me as I talked, and he looked at my sketches without my permission. All I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cease to exist. Perhaps if I wanted to disappear, I should have a better reason that'll give me more time to be alone.

"The drawings, Lockwood? You want to know about the bloody drawings?! I'll tell you what, you really don't care what you do. No matter how much we try to tell you. You are so dense, I can't even begin to explain. So you want to know what the drawings are. Do you?" He didn't speak. He didn't answer. I yanked my arm away, throwing away any cup shards that still remained in my hand. Turning around, I walked toward the stairs and stopped just before I began to start my trek up to the attic loft. I was going to leave a mark. I didn't care if I'd regret it later.

What I hadn't noticed was George had come back early and had been keeping quiet in the doorway throughout my talking. How much he had heard, I still don't know. I took a deep breath, and said the thing that I hadn't ever thought I'd have the guts to say.

"Those sketches are of the one thing I can't live without."

With that, I ran up the stairs, leaving Lockwood confused, hurt, and with an even more confused Cubbins. I reached the loft in record time, locking my bedroom door behind me. My back was pressed against the door as I panted heavily. My hand throbbed as I sat there in the confines of my own room. As the pain began to rise in level, I looked at it. It wasn't going to need stitches, but it was deep enough that would re-open if I wasn't careful. I also noticed small bits of clay stuck to the torn skin. I needed first Aid, but I wasn't about to ask Lockwood for help, nor was I going to go down the stairs to get the kit.

I glanced about the room, my eyes landing on a dirty, sweater I used on cases. Quickly, I ripped the fabric and made a make shift bandage out of it. My hand still stung, but the pain was subsiding a bit. That had to be good, right? I didn't know what to feel, but the emotion that stuck out was hurt. I curled up into a ball on the floor, tucking my legs into my chest. Hours past as I sat there, silently sobbing until I shut my eyes, exhausted from the day's event and all of my emotions.


A/N: This will be a three shot, and the next chapter will be in Lockwood's POV. it'll be a bit smaller in size, and I don't know when i will update this, but it will definitely be before September! IS ANYONE ELSE HYPED FOR THE NEW BOOK OMG! Again, so sorry for the LASP delay. I will try to make it longer for everyone. I am trying to fix mistakes and Make a few changes, not to jurastic, but its still worth a re-read to understand the next chapters fully.

Stay tuned and Thanks for Reading

~Pheonix