A/N: Hello and apologies for the delay! Thanks so much for your kind reviews and helpful feedback. It's great to have readers actually reading my drivel, let alone enjoying the ride! Again, thank you!
Updates will be sporadic. My New Years resolution is to focus more on my personal writing. *snorts* We'll see how that goes. I don't believe I'll be abandoning this little project...just updating only when I feel I have something worth sharing. With that said, I hope you enjoy Incident 4!
Incident 4
I am, first and foremost, a person of action. George often chastises me for this—acting without thinking—but even he's got to admit my knee-jerk reflexes have saved Lockwood and Co. on numerous occasions. There was the Screaming Staircase fiasco, of course—when I unclasped Annie Ward's locket hoping against hope that the vengeful spirit within wouldn't murder us all. Then there was my lucky reaction at the grave of Dr. Bickerstaff; I skewered his ghost moments before its hands throttled George's neck. And of course there was the lesser-known but no less admirable Lucy Tea Tray Rescue™. George had gotten out the fine china because he was too lazy to do the dishes, and right before the delicately-furnished cart crashed down the open basement door, there I was again—acting faster than thought. Action was my go-to. It had saved us too many times to doubt its place in my life.
But when it came to what to do about what was happening between Lockwood and me, I was uncharacteristically stymied.
If I had difficulty facing Lockwood after the second incident, you'll understand when I say that I could hardly look him in the eye after the third. A full day had passed, and the same barrage of questions warred on with each other in my brain, pinnacling to one prevailing query: Where had this sudden change of behavior come from?
Despite my previous thoughts regarding Lockwood's sudden affinity for embarrassing me, I had difficulty believing that his escalating behavior was the product of his own ego. He respected me, for one thing—we oscillated saving each other's skins too often for this to be untrue. Naturally, my own ego told me other things. My heart would leap. Perhaps he thought of me as often as I thought of him—! And almost painfully I would bring myself back to reality to focus on more probable explanations.
Yet try as I may, I couldn't pin point the answer, and I knew I wouldn't discover it without asking Lockwood head on. Despite my desperate need to take action, this was also the one thing I could not do.
Presently, I polished my rapier at the kitchen table for the third time that day, determined to wax every nook and cranny of its intricate hilt till it shone at the slightest tilt of my arm. It gave me something to do; kept me busy so I thought less about things I couldn't change. Lockwood and Co. had a case that night, and I'd already checked and rechecked our supplies half a dozen times. I knew I'd check them again.
"Fastidious today, aren't we?" It was George, leaning against the doorframe of our little kitchen. The fading light of day streaming in from the window outside slated against his spectacles, concealing his eyes so it was as if I was looking into a blank mask. Considering that George is rather inexpressive at the best of times, it unnerved me.
"Aren't you always saying better safe than sorry?" I said, returning my attentions back to the rapier slung across my lap. George didn't respond; the weight of his silence made me glance up at him again.
He had taken off his glasses, giving them a contemplative rub on the hem of his jumper. The words he said next came out of his mouth like an apology: "I can't tell you what he's thinking." My heart crashed like a stone through the tiled flooring.
George continued, "You know how he is, Luce. Couldn't face an uncomfortable emotion if he were slapped in the face with it—let alone an emotion he doesn't understand." There was a pause; George was waiting for me to respond, but he seemed to reconsider. He eased himself from the doorframe, leaving the room.
OoOoOoOooooo
The case that night didn't give us much cause for trepidation, but it didn't give us much cause for excitement either. Our client—an old bachelor who had recently moved into a flat in Westminster—had called us about a "dark, loathsome shape that haunts the shadows, never approaching, but radiating melancholy." Despite the fear saturating the man's voice on the other end of the line, I stifled a yawn upon listening to his morbid account; this was classic Type One behavior. Later, George's perusal of the archives would turn up nothing of particular interest; there had been a death in the flat a few years prior—an elderly woman who died peacefully in her sleep, surrounded by loved ones. In other words, hardly the makings of a Type Two. I wrote down the bachelor's information and thought little of the case until we were on our way to Westminster a day later.
That isn't to say that we were stupid about it. When George was satisfied with the information he had dug up (done in record time, I should mention. That's how lackluster this case was), we packed our chains and magnesium flares just as we always did. We'd been in the business long enough to know that Visitors weren't always what they seemed to be. But the truth of it was this: we couldn't get ourselves overly invested because, nine times out of ten, these kinds of cases were usually just a typical Type One—more interested in reliving its past one reenactment at a time than imposing itself on the living.
We arrived a bit early, but Lockwood's finger was just considering approaching the buzzer before the bachelor himself appeared at the complex's entrance—a younger, balding man with a slight pouch at his belly and wide, anxious eyes. We exchanged a few words. He left the key with us and departed. Without further ado, we entered the complex with our duffle bags in hand, made our way up to flat number 308, and let ourselves inside.
The place was small. A kitchen led straight into the sparsely furnished living room, and from the living room the lone bedroom and connecting bathroom. We took our readings, and soon found ourselves again in the living room, all looking at the same corner where a large, antique armoire stood in semi-darkness.
"Doesn't seem to be our client's style," I said, and it was true. The massive and ornate armoire stuck out like a sore thumb in comparison to the cheap furnishings offered by the rest of the flat.
"Quite right, Luce," said Lockwood. I could sense his dark eyes glance at me, but as I had been doing for the past 24 hours, I pretended not to notice. I kept my stare fixated studiously and guiltily in the corner. He spoke on, "I'd be willing to bet that armoire is a leftover from the old lady who died here, judging from the make. Probably an heirloom. I'm surprised the family didn't take it."
George cleared his throat, checked the readings at his belt. "Safer bet they couldn't get it down—look at the size of it. It didn't fit through the door. I suppose they figured it wasn't worth the trouble to take it apart. Also, temp's gone down."
"Right," said Lockwood. "Let's deal with this efficiently."
It wasn't too long until true dark had descended upon London, and the tell-tale Visitor made its appearance. It lurked in the corner where the armoire stood as a darker patch of darkness, as far away from the flat's lone window as possible, shunning the meager light the window shone. Sobbing sounds emanated from that same corner. A feeling of soft sorrow weighed against my chest—poignant, but weak. I brushed it aside like a flyaway cobweb.
In a matter of minutes, Lockwood had pelted the area with salt and iron fillings, dissipating the apparition so that we could go to the area it had manifested and seek out its Source. He and George stood guard, rapiers held at the ready. It was my turn to enter the unknown. Wiping the sweat of my palms on my leggings, rapier in hand, I eased open the armoire door.
And was blasted off my feet by a torrent of sound and wind.
All three of us cried out, all three of us lifted bodily from the floor. I smacked painfully against the far wall—not an amazing feat, considering the diminutive size of the space—but that also meant I hit it harder than I would have if the room were bigger. My ears rang; lights danced in my vision. Dimly, I was aware of the clanging of my tumbling rapier, the cries of Lockwood and George, and then the familiar scattering sound of iron fillings. The lights in my vision grew dimmer, and I felt my eyes droop.
OoOoOoooo
I rose to consciousness slowly and steadily, like a diver out of the depths of an ocean. Blinking in the light, I looked around. I was lying on a gurney in the back of an ambulance, disinfectant wafting in the air. Beyond the open doors, I saw George getting a bandage on his arm tied tight. When he saw me, the knot now secure, he hurried over.
"Lucy! Are you alright? You hit that wall hard."
"I'm fine." I sat up, gingerly touching at a tender spot at the back of my head. My mind was clearing. "George, your arm… And Lock—?"
"Both fine. You got the brunt of the blast—a very powerful echo, actually. Some salt and iron thrown in and presto—no ghostly traces. DEPRAC's axing the armoire now as we speak."
"DEPRAC's here?"
George shrugged. "You've got to admit it's a bit unusual, that powerful of an echo, even if the Source was the armoire itself. Obviously, the Visitor had been a Type Two all along—but it made no go at us aside from that blast. Quite interesting, really."
I rubbed the sore spot at the back of my head again. Powerful echoes like this were unusual, but not unheard of. There was little a team could do to prepare for such an event. "Yes, exactly what I was thinking," I replied. "Fascinating." I peered past George. "So…"
"Where's Lockwood?" George's glasses glinted, and even his placid face couldn't hide his amused smirk. "Oh, he's been more or less at your side the entire time you've been out, but he keeps getting sidetracked. The emergency services made the mistake of saying you were probably fine—they think you passed out more from the psychic blast than actually hitting your head. He's over there, quibbling with the driver to escort you to hospital."
I followed George's finger where he pointed, and as soon as I did, the emergency services technician saw me as I was: alert and okay. Pausing mid-sentence, she gave Lockwood a smart tap on the shoulder, jabbing a gloved finger my way. Even at this distance, I could see his eyes widen in surprise upon catching mine. My heart clenched in my chest.
"That's my cue…" said George, shuffling past the gurney. He hopped out the back.
Coat flowing out behind him, Lockwood rushed towards me and alighted into the ambulance, his expression an odd mixture of utter relief and concern. In an instant he was there, reaching out to me, clutching the arms of my shirt sleeves in his gloved hands. Just for a moment, he pulled me towards him, but stopped, reconsidering the gesture. Instead he squeezed my arms, said, "Lucy, are you hurt? Did it touch you? How's the head?" He glanced me over, as if expecting to find that I was missing a limb or something. I noted a small cut above his eyebrow, the salt dusting his coat. My heart gave a happy beat.
"I'm fine, Lockwood," I said. And because I wanted him to believe it, I gave him a weak but certified Lucy Carlyle grin, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since our last embarrassing incident.
Lockwood froze and blinked. Then he smiled—a big, glowing, Lockwood-megawatt smile that reached his eyes and warmed me from the inside out. And then, swift as anything, he kissed me.
"Good," he said, parting. "Stay here, I'll be back in a heartbeat. DEPRAC's wanting details." I watched him head off, leaping out of the ambulance, the warmth of his mouth still lingering on my lips. Before I knew it, I was calling after him.
"L-Lockwood!" I shouted, frustration prickling in my voice. Lockwood stopped mid-stride and turned.
"Alright, Lucy?" he said.
"You can't just-" I swallowed. The reality of what had just occurred finally sunk in; the words were robbed from my throat. My face heated; I was losing ground, and fast. "D-Do you, um-? Er, what I mean is-"
Without hesitation, he strode over again, peeling off his gloves as he did so. Stuffing the pair in his coat pocket, he hopped inside the ambulance, took two easy steps, and encompassed my face in his large hands, ushering me close to him. His voice dripped, low and desirous, "Sorry, I thought I was clear the first time." Tilting his head, Lockwood leaned down to close the space between us.
"W-wait!" I gasped, and obediently he paused, almost statue-like, breath intermingling with my own. I tried to clear my head; his proximity made it hard to think, but at the same time my embarrassment made me irritable and so sharper than I otherwise would have been. Before he could find a chance to misinterpret me, I said, "You can't pull something like that and run off!"
He grinned, shoulders relaxing. "Oh?" he said, and there was a promise in the inquiry. I froze; Lockwood moved. Carefully and purposefully, he placed his thumb against my lips. It was a test—to see if I would pull away. I could've. I didn't. His voice purred, "What would you have me do then?"
There was a hot tightening in my lower stomach; I took a shaky breath, fighting to clear my head—but his warm breath was against my face, the smell of his soap in my nose, his slender hand on my chin, his finger on my lips. It was a trifle difficult. "Why," I said simply, trying and failing to ignore my mouth's slight movement against his finger.
Lockwood's dark gaze now fixated near my chin. He brushed my lips over with his thumb, the joint gently parting their seam. They trembled underneath his touch, and the corner of Lockwood's own mouth curled up. "Why," he intoned. It was like he wasn't listening.
I closed my eyes. "Why this…all of a sudden?" I tried to say it with some semblance of patience, but it came out in a rush.
We shared a brief silence, and then his finger traced over my lips again, featherlike and…inquisitive. Finally, he spoke, so softly—like he was afraid I might run away. "That night after Christmas, in the receiving room. You were staring at me, and I guess you caught yourself because you turned a bit red." Here, Lockwood chuckled quietly at the memory. I tried failingly to put on an indignant frown. Lockwood spoke on, even softer now, the tip of his thumb gently probing my cupid's bow, melting away my failure-of-a-scowl with each soft nudge. "I realized I was quite happy that you..." he trailed off. "Well, I won't speak for you. But realized I wanted to be the sole reason you blushed. All the time."
As if in answer, my current blush redoubled its efforts, and Lockwood gave a satisfied sigh. "Ah, there it is," he said knowingly. He reached up, brushed my cheek with the back of a hand, stray fingers sweeping at my temple. The heat in my face flared at the new contact like a fire to gasoline.
I swallowed, looked at him hard through my embarrassment. "That is the most lunatic reasoning I've ever—"
"Perhaps," he said, cutting me off. His hand smoothed up into my hair to ensnare there; his voice dropped deliciously: "But you don't have the same view I do."
Hesitantly, as if to gauge my reaction, Lockwood's thumb slipped to my chin. Gently, but firmly, he tilted my face up towards his own.
Unlike the first, this kiss lingered, soft and sweet and patient—if not a little clumsy. We were both new to this.
Soon we heard a party approaching; it was DEPRAC, exiting the flat with George. With a smile on those expressive lips, his slim hand disentangling from my hair, Lockwood left me. But the kiss lingered on me still.