Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucy Carlyle swore that if there was an ‘other side’ she was certainly being mocked by it now.

Or perhaps it was just the glittery pink hairband, currently circling the door handle.

She couldn’t remember exactly when that had become standard protocol for her and her newest roommate, Holly. It was a silly thing, a piece of girl code akin to referring to a crush as “pineapple” or meeting at the loo together. Unfortunately for Lucy, it was as clear a signal as any that Holly had brought someone over for the night yet again and that their shared dorm was absolutely off limits.

Granted, she didn’t quite have a problem with Holly. Yes, her roommate was overtly primped and coiffed for the average broke college student (aka Lucy), and she never did seem to lose that politely saccharine smile—but for the most part, there wasn’t any essential reason to dislike her. Well, aside from the fact that lately Holly seemed to be bringing over a different girl every night, leaving Lucy stranded in the Portland Row residence hall.

It took all her effort to bite back the string of awaiting curses because, today, naturally, of all days, this situation had seemed to unveil itself at the most inconvenient time. Lucy had just come back from a class in which she had to present a piece on forensics worth over half her grade, along with two midterms to boot. She was exhausted both mentally and physically and had pretty much survived on nothing but tea for the past forty-eight hours.

Taking a quick glance at her phone, she noticed the time and winced internally. That damned pink hair tie was still hanging looped around the handle, and Holly hadn’t given her any other kind of signal as to when she’d be done.

Staring the elastic down with as much annoyance as she could muster at the late hour, Lucy quickly began to consider her options.

One: she could knock on Kat Godwin’s door down the hall. Assuming the girl would so much as open the door a few centimeters to answer. The two had never really gotten along, despite Lucy’s best attempts to at least be cordial with her. If she were being rather honest, something about Kat made her come across more as a frigid icicle than a human being.

Okay, so that option was definitely out. Two: she could sleep on the couch in the common room. That wouldn’t be too pathetic, right? Surely loads of people have resorted to it before.

I’m so screwed, she thought, slumping down to rest her weary head against the plastered wall that had long since dulled with age. She closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of faint laughter a few doors down and the hum of the air conditioner. Lucy prayed the walls were just thick enough that she wouldn’t be able to overhear... whatever Holly was getting up to with whoever she was getting it up with. The thought was enough for her to begin scrambling away from her current position, but not before--

“Are you alright down there?”

Lucy started, her eyes opening wide for a moment before focusing on the boy in front of her.

He was clearly tall with a slender sort of build, dressed in a freshly pressed collared shirt and a skinny black tie. His voice held more of a polish to it than Lucy’s own northerner accent. If she hadn’t known any better, she would’ve assumed he worked a nine-to-five office job in some sleek, open-spaced office. The only thing likely stating otherwise was his rakishly tousled dark brown hair and a soft look in his eyes as he looked down at her with polite puzzlement.

Something about his gaze caused Lucy’s heartbeat to slightly offset into an irregular rhythm, though she did her best to ignore it.

She must have hesitated too long, staring at him like the complete sociopath she was, because he repeated himself, this time with a hint of concern lacing his tone. “I said, are you alright down there?”

“Wha—oh! Yeah, yes. Perfectly fine. Just enjoying the fresh, recycled air while my roommate catches up with... a friend,” she trailed off lamely, not wanting to get into the specifics of the evening.

“A friend,” he echoed skeptically, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes. A friend. You’d be surprised about how many of those you can make here,” Lucy replied curtly.

A pause. Followed swiftly by a sharp bark of laughter from the boy.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but...you got sexiled, didn’t you?”

“I, uh, I guess that’s one way to put it.” Her cheeks heated with mortification. God, could this get any worse?

He chuckled, leaning against the doorframe in disbelief. “That’s a pretty impressive feat this early in the semester.” The way he smiles at her has Lucy rooted to the spot. Like the rays of light refracting in a pool of water, it’s almost like he can discern just how tired and out of her depth she is. She shakes the thought away, annoyed.

“All right, you’ve made your point, stranger. I didn’t ask to be made fun of.”

“Lockwood.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name is Anthony Lockwood.”

He clears his throat, gaze assessing her once more in a way that makes it hard not to fidget underneath the weight of it. “Do you have anywhere to stay tonight, Miss—?”

“Carlyle. Lucy Carlyle. And no, I can manage just fine on my own. Besides, Holly, my roommate, she won’t be much longer now.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Just then, a loud thump, followed by a throaty moan, reverberated from the walls of Lucy’s dorm. She freezes, wondering if the university would give her financial compensation if she chose to crawl into a hole and die right then and there.

“Seems your definition of finishing up might be different from theirs," and though Lucy had screwed her eyes tightly shut in embarrassment, she could practically hear the grin in his voice.

Silently, she weighed the dilemma at hand. She barely knew this Lockwood. Yet, for a reason she couldn’t quite name, she trusted him. Besides, it wasn't like she had a lot to lose (apart from her dignity, anyway). And who knew how long Holly would take? For what it was worth, the girl had an almost inhumane amount of stamina. Bearing in mind just how long she had taken the last time–

Christ, she was totally spiraling.

Lockwood was looking at her expectantly, as if he had already discerned her answer before she even voiced it aloud.

Lucy audibly cleared her throat. “Is that somewhat–implied offer still on the table?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She quickly grabbed her stuff, following Lockwood to his room just a few doors down.

“Sorry about the mess, the only company I usually ever have here is George. Though he tends to be the source of most mess-making in general,” Lockwood said apologetically.

It was more spotless than Lucy’s own room, which seemed to be pretty in line with his whole demeanor, as far as she could tell. The crumbs and ancient-looking textbooks littering the nearby table, however, were not.

“Is George your roommate?” she asked, despite not seeing another bed in the room.

“Just my suitemate. I got lucky with a single room. Not that there’s anything wrong with a roommate, but George can be more than enough to deal with as is,” he responded with a shrug.

Lucy’s insides twisted, feeling slightly guilty for intruding on his personal space. Evidently reading her expression, Lockwood quickly replied, “You’re more than welcome to stay, though. I mean it. Wouldn’t want you to be waiting out in the hall all night." The warmth in his eyes thawed something in her, and she found herself chasing that comfort like one chases a flame.

She watched as Lockwood made himself at home with one of the nearby desk chairs. With the exception of a few trinkets scattered throughout and an extra couch that oddly resembled the one from the common areas, the room was sparsely decorated.

Feeling exhaustion from the long day creeping up on her, Lucy took that as her cue to cozy up on the plush (and likely stolen) couch.

“So, did you have a long day too?”

They talked for hours into the night, although it hardly felt like it. Lockwood, she learned, was majoring in criminal justice. It made it easier to bond over their equally egregious workloads. Yet, even without bemoaning homework, Lockwood was a surprisingly easy person to talk to. It was as though she were catching up with someone she’d known for a lifetime. When she had briefly asked about his parents, he had stiffened, and Lucy decided to quickly change the subject even as she privately tucked his reaction away in the back of her mind. Their conversation resumed as normal, and before she knew it, the clock on his desk read 1:27 in the morning.

Lucy hummed, her brow furrowing as she grabbed her phone to scroll through any potential notifications.

“Everything okay?”

“Holly still hasn’t given me the all-clear signal yet, so I don’t know if it's okay to go back.”

His eyebrow quirked at the statement. “The all-clear signal?”

“Well, usually she leaves one of her hair ties looped over the door handle, so I know she’s in there with someone. And if I’m not out there when she takes the band off, then she usually sends me a bow emoji, which she hasn’t yet. (Holly had told her it was the closest thing to a hair tie emote.)

"Oh, is that why that hair tie was there? I assumed it was a potential gang symbol.”

Lucy chucked a nearby pillow at his head. “It is most certainly not a gang symbol,” she laughed.

He laughed with her, and the sound of it seemed to brighten the stars. “I’m just saying, at that point you might as well just put a sock on the door.”

She rolled her eyes in an effort to contain her smile, failing hopelessly. A quick glance back at her phone had her grin faltering a little. She’d thought her roommate would have been done by now, and the lack of a signal had Lucy trying to quell the rising tide of nervous panic.

“Hey Luce?”

The nickname sent pleasant shivers down her spine as her eyes lifted to meet his.

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t you just stay the night?”

She blinked at him, stunned by his suggestion.

“Or not! You really don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just wanted to make sure you had a place to stay, since it doesn’t seem like your room will be free anytime soon.” He raked a hand through his dark hair, a tinge of pink lingering on his cheeks.

That last part must have been her imagination, though.

“Lockwood?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d love to. If you’ll still have me, of course.”

His answering smile could have blinded the room, and Lucy would have gladly lost her sight to the expression if it meant she would always hear it in the cadence of his voice.

Lockwood made quick work of any pillows and spare blankets he had lying about. Before she knew it, she’d been covered in a mountain of them.

A strange, small part of her was disappointed when he offered the couch to her and not his bed. She squashed the feeling as soon as it arrived. Because that wouldn’t be awkward beyond belief.

Lucy dug herself out from underneath the mass of blankets, brushing her mussed fringe from her face. Her eyes locked with Lockwood’s, and the two exchanged heartfelt smiles.

“Night, Luce.”

“Goodnight, Lockwood.”

Chapter Text

Less than a week later, Lucy is wandering back from class when she receives a grand total of five bow emojis and an additional shiny scrunchie wreathed over the dorm room handle.

So much for a heads up.

With a quick pivot and a groan that could rival a ghost, she decided to head down the hall to the study room in hopes that she’d at least be able to finish up her paper on fingerprint analysis. 

Thankfully it's not an unreasonable time of night, but the combination of her roommate’s track record and the multitude of bow emojis has Lucy more than a little worried she’ll be without a bed to sleep in yet again.

Unless…

Nope. Not going there.

She hadn’t seen Lockwood since their chance encounter a few nights before. Nor had she really expected to. It was a one and done deal likely made out of pity, and Lucy has no intention of pushing her luck with him.

It isn’t until she’s plopped down into her chair at the study room, putting her head down in frustration and muttering about ‘stupid boys’, that she notices the bespeckled boy sitting across from her. 

He peered at her with owlish eyes over a textbook that was more than half the size of his head. Face twitching as though he was having an oncoming aneurysm.

“Do you mind? I’m in the middle of something over here.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, I imagine you would be,” he replied shrewdly. 

Lucy scoffed in indignation. She was about to tell this boy just exactly where he could shove that book of his when a figure pushed open the door to the study room.

“Hey, George. Sorry I’m late, the coffee place was having a hard time comprehending your simple order of a grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip, mocha. I can’t imagine why,” Lockwood said sarcastically. Somehow, he managed to deftly balance his bag in one hand and a quivering cardboard tray of drinks in the other.

“Probably because I asked for two pumps.”

“Ah yes, that must be it. Silly me for forgetting.”

It was at that exact moment that Lockwood caught sight of Lucy, and his smirk morphed into a knowing smile that illuminated the depths of his dark eyes.

“Hiya, Luce”

“Hey,” she said, smiling tentatively in return.

George–whom she had finally realized was THE George, as in Lockwood’s suite mate–was glancing rapidly between the pair of them.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed dramatically. “You two know each other, don’t you?”

“Only in passing,” Lucy answered at the same time Lockwood responded “We do.”

He winked at her, mouthing ‘ he’s in a mood today’ before breaking their eye contact and turning to his weird mate with zero social skills.

“How’s the research going, then?” The boy set down the tray and handed George his drink, who took it sullenly, slumping back in his chair.

“Terribly,” he lamented, “what with the little information I’m being given, at this rate my thesis will be definitively nonexistent.”

“Cheer up. I’m sure if you dig around a bit more with outside information you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for,” Lockwood supplied, not unkindly. “You’re undoubtedly the best researcher I know.”

“Speak for yourself,” George grumbled quietly. “You’re not the one double majoring and carrying a course load the size of a woolly mammoth."

He ignores that last bit, turning to face Lucy once more. “What about you? Since I can’t imagine you came here for the pleasure of George’s company.”

“Hey!”

“Well, I figured I’d just wrap up this essay. Besides, it's not like I can go back to my room wi–,” Lucy clumsily attempts to catch herself, not wanting to embarrassingly admit to Lockwood that she has nowhere to stay for the night…again.

He sees right through her though, as he had the last time. And she can't help but think that he stands up a little bit taller and his cheeks become a little more flushed as he quickly deciphers her words.

She hates herself a little for the small tingle that forms in her chest because, really, she shouldn’t be getting her hopes up.

Lockwood hums and it brings her back to the present. “Why exactly can’t you go back to your room, Lucy?” The mirth on his face suggests he already knows the answer.

Lucy foolishly turns to George in a silent cry for aid, but the boy only stares impassively at her, amused at the ongoing display.

Jerk , she thinks, peering shamefully back at Lockwood before confessing “Holly is currently…occupying the space,” and then she adds, apparently unable to stop herself, “I was wondering if I could crash at your place tonight—if it's not too much trouble.”

She hopes she’s not imposing, even as she injects her voice with a confidence she doesn’t altogether feel.

“Why, I’d be honored to. Especially since you asked so nicely,” his lips turn up at the corners and Lucy finds herself rolling her eyes in an effort to look away from them.

Just then, George slammed his textbook closed with a resounding thump, causing them both to jump. “God you two are insufferable. I’ll be taking my studies back to my room. I suggest with my absence you’ll be able to get one yourselves.” He briskly packed his things and without so much as a farewell he was gone.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your mate is really strange,” Lucy said.

Lockwood snorted. “He means well, though I’d have to agree with you.”

She gathers her books, deeming her school work a lost cause for the day and without another word the both of them head to Lockwood’s dorm. He holds the door open for her with a gentlemanly “after you” that has Lucy trying her damnedest to keep the rogue from her cheeks.

Perhaps she has a medical issue of some kind.

Unexplainable facial reactions aside–she opts to settle into the couch, tucking her legs in and is surprised when Lockwood follows suit instead of lounging in his usual desk chair.

He stares at her expectantly, prompting her.

“So.”

“So?”

“Why were you embarrassed to tell me you got kicked out of your room again?” His question caught her off guard. It didn’t help that her answer was something she didn’t quite know how to voice.

“Well, for starters, I wasn’t kicked out –more like subtly nudged to leave (that wasn’t entirely true considering all the bow emojis in addition to the scrunchie) and…I dunno,” Lucy shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

Her eyes flitted up to Lockwood, hesitant, but he was only looking at her earnestly. He seemed to be genuinely curious.

Lucy sighed.

“Have you ever been let down by a person? I feel like for me it's been more times than I can count. My mum, my friends, N—anyways, I guess, after a while you just learn to stop believing that there are people out there that you can rely on. That you can trust.”

Lockwood folded his hand over hers, turning them until both their palms were facing upwards.

“You can trust me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her expression softened, the corner of her lips ticking up. “Even when you act like a cocky asshole?”

“Especially then,” he teased and Lucy laughed.

She noticed then that their hands were still interlocked, and with an awkward cough she pulled away.

Lockwood seemed to notice, but stayed silent on the matter, instead asking, “I think there’s some pie in the fridge we could heat up. Are you hungry?”

Lucy probably should have been more self-conscious of the complete and utter demolition of her pie, but at that point she had been too hungry to care.

Who knew getting sexiled could make you so famished.

She still hadn’t received word from Holly, and yet as she scraped off the remaining crumbs of her food she realized that she was far less perturbed by the thought than she had been only days prior.

They had easily gotten lost in conversation, interspersed with their munching but for the last few minutes had since lapsed into comfortable silence. Lucy turned to Lockwood, amusedly taking note of the fact that the usually finely straightened collar of his shirt was slightly askew.

“You know I really should be thanking you.”

He turned towards her as well, head tilted in question. “For what?”

“You’ve given me a place to sleep now on more than one occasion and now food too, I’m practically a boarder.”

He chuckled. “You are not a boarder, Luce.”

“Says who?”

“Well for one, boarders are supposed to pay rent. If anything you’re more of a freeloader.”

Lucy flipped him off. “I am not .”

“Mmm I’ll be expecting a stipulated sum next time.”

“Next time?”

There was a pause. For a brief moment, it seemed as if they were the only two people on the continent. Perhaps in the world, as Lockwood beheld her with a faint tenderness in his expression. It made her feel hazy and muddled and more so it felt intimate .

“Next time,” she echoed again softly, and they both knew she wasn’t referring to rent.

Soon after they had commenced the ritual of laying out the mound of blankets and pillows on the couch, before individually preparing for bed themselves, followed up with them each kindly bidding the other goodnight from their respective spots of the room.

When Lucy drifted off that night, it had been with a smile.

Chapter Text

Sleep was somewhat of a foreign concept to Lockwood, tumbling in and out of dreams that often left him restless. This was unfortunate for him, as what had been his usual remedy: a slice of toast and tea, had mysteriously vanished the other day along with a small package of crisps.

Thanks a lot, George , he thought, still half-asleep.

He had been tossing and turning for nearly half an hour now and was beginning to weigh the merits of rendering himself unconscious with a conk to the head when he heard someone cry out just a few feet away.

Lockwood jolted fully awake at the sound, scanning the room until his gaze laid on Lucy’s squirming form in the dark. Her face pinched tight as she shouted once more, this time on the fringes of a broken sob. He threw his covers back immediately, rushing to kneel beside her.

“Lucy, Lucy ,” his voice bit out more urgently as he called out for her a second time.

He put his hand on her shoulders, shaking her firmly as she continued to thrash in the throes of her nightmare.

“No, no, no,” she pleaded

“Lucy, please, you have to wake up!” Lockwood was near shouting now, struggling to find a way to rouse her.

He shook her again, harder this time, and finally her eyes popped open. Wide, and brown, and swimming with a sort of grief Lockwood realized he knew all too well.

She was trembling slightly as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings of his room. Chest heaving as she fought to gather her bearings.

Eventually, Lucy’s focus had shifted to his, her voice wavering as she spoke.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The words sunk like a pit low in his stomach, and he gently slid his palms from her shoulders, down to her arms, until he had reached her hands.

“It's alright, Luce. It isn’t your fault,” Lockwood murmured, reassuringly.

She sniffles, and a tear slips out. Then another one. Before he can even think more of it he pulls her to him. In less than a second her arms have wound themselves around him as well. And it's all soft embraces and moonlit whispers as he trails his fingers in a soothing circular motion along her back.

It's alright.

It's alright.

It's alright.

I’m here.

He hardly knows this girl. She hardly knows him. Yet he believes he could remain inexplicably intertwined with her forever.

They stay like that for a while. Neither one seemingly ready to let go just yet. Eventually they do, though, and Lockwood hears a small sigh escape Lucy.

He doesn’t want to press her about it. About why it looked as though all the color and life had been drained from her face. Why she had struggled up until the last few minutes to gain a foothold of composure. It wasn’t that he was afraid to know the answer, but suddenly he found he had become afraid for her .

Instead Lockwood asked, hands lightly pressed on both her arms, “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. I get them sometimes, the nightmares,” she said.

“How long have you been getting them?” He then silently cursed himself, thinking this probably did in fact count as pressing.

“Ever since I transferred. My time at my last school…it ended poorly,” she left it at that, and though Lockwood found himself curious to know more, he didn’t ask any further questions. He doubted she was ready to clearly answer them in her state.

At his concerned look, Lucy added assuredly, “Really I’m fine. You should probably go back to sleep now, anyways. We have class in the morning.”

“Will you be able to? Go back to sleep, I mean.”

“I…probably not,” she admitted.

That settled it for Lockwood, then. He continued to hold her arms, guiding her gently until she was sitting on his bed. Lucy looked up at him with confusion but didn’t argue.

“Stay with me tonight,” he proposed. “If you have another nightmare, I’ll be right here and you won’t have to worry about being alone to face the dark.”

“I can’t, Lockwood. You’ve already done so much for me and I–.”

“Then what’s one more thing? If you don’t want to, that's fine. I promise I won’t add the extra fee to your rent,” he teased, if only to lighten the mood.

A moment passed and for a second Lockwood thought he might’ve been too bold in his prior suggestion, but then Lucy nodded slightly, as if coming to a decision.

“Okay,” she said.

She paused for a moment before claiming half of Lockwood’s bed, the opposite side of which he sleeps on. He watched as her brunette hair fanned across his pillow, and he can’t help but think that he prefers the look of this much more than his barren sheets alone.

"Are you sure this is alright?" Her gentle, quiet question, spoken as though to a child, calms the nervous energy coursing through his body. She slowly snuggles in, tucking her arms beneath her legs till she looks perfectly at home.

She’s pretty, is all he thinks before quickly realizing she had asked him a question.

“It's really no trouble, Luce. Would you rather have stayed somewhere else?” He really does want to make sure she’s okay with all of this.

“No,” she said firmly, without hesitation. Then her voice takes on a more sincere tone, “You irk me sometimes, but I like spending time with you, Lockwood,” and it's the way she utters it with a sort of reverence that leaves him stunned.

He leaves it at that, climbing into his side of the bed in the absence of words.

There is something stirring in his chest, though he cannot divulge it. He hopes that his answering smile is enough to convey his gratitude as he turns over to face her.

“Goodnight, Luce.”

“Night, Lockwood.”

They’re both awoken hours later to the sound of Lockwood’s shared bathroom door being slammed open like it's the beginnings of an MI6 raid.

Turned out it was just George.

“Oi, Lockwood! We need to hurry up or we’re going to be late for—Christ alive, what is she doing here?”

His initial shout had him and Lucy scrambling for purchase among the tangled sheets (and twisted limbs, Lockwood realized). She blinks groggily and he can’t help but smile slightly at the way her hair has stuck up from sleep.

The spell is broken, however, when she checks the clock off to the side and her eyes widen.

“Shit I need to get to class!”

She practically trips out of the bed in an effort to grab her bag and phone. In an awe-amounting ten seconds, Lucy had grabbed the short ends of her hair in a ponytail and donned her coat. She looked down briefly to assess the clothes that she was still wearing from the previous night, before seemingly coming to the conclusion that there was no time to change.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Lucy hollered, and then she was out the door, bag in tow.

Lockwood and George turned to one another, both boys having been confounded by the speed of her departure. 

The former opened his mouth, about to explain Lucy’s presence in the first place before he is swiftly cut off.

“Don’t. I don’t want to know. Let’s just get to class.”

Despite being a course taken only at the halfway point of the semester, Professor Barnes is far less accommodating with Lockwood and George’s minute tardiness. He scolds the two profusely before eventually returning to his lecture, and they take that as an excuse to find their seats.

Lockwood catches a pair of eyes on him then, and he turns to find a girl in a familiar blue sweater staring on at them in befuddlement, mouth agape. He goes over to her, George reluctantly following close behind, and grabs the chair beside her.

“What on Earth are you both doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Luce,” Lockwood said. “Those five minutes without you were absolutely maddening .”

“Ever the flirt,” George muttered under his breath.

“I can’t tell whether you’re stalking me or pranking me,” Lucy remarked. Though judging by the slight upturn of her lip, she seemed pleased to see them there.

“You’re taking Sociology, aren’t you? We’re required to as well for our majors,” Lockwood explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Huh, well I suppose that makes sense,” she said, her voice now becoming hushed. “Just try not to be too distracting. It’s hard enough as is trying to do homework with Holly’s escapades. I’m not about to get thrown out of class as well.”

“Never,” Lockwood grinned.

“No, for once I’m with Lucy on this one,” George nodded in sober agreement. “Lockwood, make sure to close that cavernous mouth of yours.”

He scoffed but chose not to say anything further for both their educational sakes.

For a split second he had wanted to turn to Lucy to ask if she was okay after the previous night, but then thought better of it, resolving to ask her later when they were both alone.

Tuning back into the lecture, Barnes continues, “throughout the course we will be discussing the systematic organization of social interaction, social organization, and social change. Now if you’ll kindly open the handout in front of you to page 4…”

The class carries on for another half hour or so and then they’re all filing out one after the other. Lockwood, Lucy, and George manage to all slip out together in one piece and keep at a small distance from the crowd.

Lucy stops them. “Which classes are you two heading to next?”

“Medieval history,” George answered.

“Principles of analysis,” Lockwood said.

She side-eyes him. “You’re kidding.”

“I never kid about such matters.”

“Seems we’re constantly getting stuck together.”

“That we are. Walk you to your next class?”

Lucy gives him a trepidatious look but concedes, “Alright. At least with me I can promise we won’t be stumbling in late to this one.”

“You’re both at fault for that,” George said, “You need to start setting an alarm, Lockwood.”

“I would, but doing so would just remind me of my inability to sleep properly, and then I would become terribly sad.”

“Oh come off it, the pair of you,” Lucy reproached, though she had looked mildly concerned when he had brought up his frequent lack of sleep.

They parted ways with George as he had to go down a different hall to get to his next class. Lucy and Lockwood headed down the hall to theirs, the worry on her expression fading slightly once they had found the classroom.

At the end of the day he was just happy he got to walk with her.

Chapter Text

Lucy isn’t sure if it's coincidence, or maybe she’s been given a repertoire of supernatural support, but Holly starts to bring more and more hookups to their dorm room. She’s sure she’d have it in her to complain, if Lockwood didn’t keep offering up his place as consolation. ( Although spending time with Lockwood does far more than ease her, rather she feels more elated than she’d care to admit) . All that aside, life goes on; albeit with the addition of his number in her phone and escalated risks of cardiac arrest (mainly when she spends time with him, which increases at an alarming frequency).

She’s worried it had been too good to be true when she shows up at his door, pillow tucked under the crook of her arm, and he answers with a vexed grimace that causes Lucy to freeze in her tracks.

This is it. The moment where Lockwood has decided she isn’t worth the trouble. That she’s too pathetic, too overbearing, too everything . She watches as he clears his throat and she swears she can feel her heart drop to the pit of her stomach.

“So…I’ve got some bad news.” Lucy manages to hold her tongue as he continues. “My couch kind of got confiscated. That bastard Quill Kipps threatened to write me up if I didn’t put it back.” The scowl pulling at his face is enough for the worry to lessen in her gut, replaced quickly by anger reserved for their notoriously high-handed residence advisor.

“How did Kipps even find out about that?” Even the name leaves a sour taste in her mouth. His need for approval to higher ups often came at the expense of students being victimized by his ridiculous power-trips.

Lucy didn’t care very much for that sort.

“It was a stupid bet we had made in class. He was sore that he lost, and I think he was looking for an excuse to take it out on me afterwards, " A frustrated huff escapes Lockwood, as he tries his best to brush off his annoyance. From what he’d told her these past few weeks, he and Kipps weren't exactly on...great terms, to say the least. Most of the time, Kipps went out of his way to give the boy a hard time, which only made Lucy's anger flare up even more.

“That, two faced, asshole ! He had no right to just snoop around like that! Ugh, Lockwood, as soon as I see him he’ll be wishing he…”

“Whoa, Luce, there’s no need to call the calvary just for me.” His calming smile pacifies her, even as she wants to remind him that he most certainly is worth it. All of his graces and little imperfections, his patience and his persistence.

She recalls a poem she had once read in English class. What had been the saying?

I’ll take care of you

It’s rotten work

Not to me, not if it's you

With him, Lucy finds caring to be second nature.

“Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that if you had wanted to take the couch it's not here anymore, so I dunno if you still want to stay the night,” Lockwood says.

“...Oh.”

There’s a moment of silence, followed by a strange feeling that has her almost downright relieved at the prospect of not having to take the couch, something she had done in a horrid attempt to quash the electrified tension between them these past few weeks.

“Well, it's not like this is the first time I’ve taken your bed, right?”

She tells herself it's just for the sake of avoiding any more nightmares.

Deep down she knows that’s not what she's really avoiding.

She goes home that weekend to visit her family, and by the end of the weekend she’s questioning exactly why she even went home to visit her family.

The whole affair finds Lucy that Sunday afternoon sitting in her car while rain drums on in heavy droves. Initially, she had planned to wait out the storm, but she just might have to abandon that notion and make a run for Portland Row at the rate the weather is going.

She’s pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes, trying to erase any agitating thoughts or feelings on her mum, when someone knocks on the passenger side window. Lucy jumps, knuckles white as she grips the side of her seat in fright. It’s Lockwood, of course. Of course . “Prick,” she shouts to him, while he laughs. “You can stay out there, just signal to me when the rain makes you lose feeling in your fingers!”

“Come on,” he urges, “you know you missed me.”

And shit, she kind of did. Like, a lot. At least enough for her to unlock the door to let him duck inside. He does, utterly drenched and with his usually perfectly-styled hair matted to his forehead in a way that Lucy finds endearing. There’s a boyish tilt to his mouth as he says, absurdly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Lucy says in return, feeling stupid, maybe even a little giddy. He smells like rain and lavender. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t, but I was heading back from the dining hall and saw your car. Figured I’d stop by,” he responds with a shrug.

“I didn’t see you . You appeared out of the blue like a wraith.”

“Terrible visibility. Your car is likely to be swimming in this kind of rain. Also, you want to tell me why you looked ready to gouge your eyes out before I popped over?”

“Ugh, perhaps your eyesight is too exceptional for your own good,” she groans, then perks up. “Hey do you need a towel? You look like you could use a towel. Here I think I’ve still got one in the back–”

“Lucy.”

“What?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not,” she lies, “I just don’t want you dripping all over the passenger's seat.”

“Alright fine, but I’ll be waiting for your answer.”

She hands him the towel, and Lockwood starts to dry off clumsily in the cramped car while still facing her. Lucy waits a beat, then, exasperated, huffs “Oh just let me .”

She grabs the towel from him and begins to dry him off in an earnest, gentle manner that has her thinking of the domesticity of it all. She doesn’t dare look at Lockwood, but she can feel his eyes on her, trailing the movements as her brow furrows in concentration.

“I don’t think my mum ever truly wanted me. She wanted someone to provide for her, yes. To support her rationale, to follow her every lead with no questions asked.”

Lucy twisted further in her seat, moving the towel to Lockwood’s hair before continuing.

“What she really wanted was my father, but he passed so long ago I think she’s  forgotten who used to bear the weight of those burdens.”

“I’m sorry,” Lockwood says, eyes still on her. “I know what it's like to lose a parent. Both of mine are gone.”

She nods, and because that feels inadequate she adds softly, “I’m sorry too.”

He waits for her to resume, she pushes on.

“When I saw her this weekend, there was this look in her eye. She had been so angry when I left home for university and as I sat with her at the table she just continued to stare on as if I was a stranger in her home. As if, after all this time, there was still not a part of me worth wanting. And with all the memories that come up being back in the countryside as is…”

Lucy brings the towel to the small crevice where Lockwood’s neck meets his shoulder, and she swears she feels him shudder.

She plants her mouth into a firm line, attempting to reign in her emotions. “I guess I should have been used to it by now, should have expected it. But, God , if I hadn’t hoped I’d be wrong, just this once.”

Lockwood grabs her wrist, gently, halting her progress with the towel. Her heartbeat quickens.

“Luce, there is not a part of you that isn’t wanted. Your mother may not be able to see it, but you are worth the time, the effort, without having to make yourself feel any less than what you are.”

She sniffles, wetly. “Maybe I’m just the problem, though.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, “but only because you aren’t the idealized image of who your mum wants you to be, and that’s okay . You shouldn’t have to be.”

Lucy looses a heavy sigh, and realizes somehow, talking to him, that weight becomes just a little lighter. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“You must hate me a lot, then.”

“Mm, that’s awfully presumptuous of you.”

“Well when you’re frequently right you can afford to be presumptuous,” Lockwood retorts.

“Not that frequently, clearly.”

“Damn. I guess I’ll just have to pack up my presumptions and take them elsewhere,” he shakes his head in mock despair but a grin begins to spread across his face and before Lucy knows it she’s grinning in turn.

“How was your weekend?”

“Ah,” he shrugs, “the same old stuff. I stayed here, hung out with George. He didn’t have any ongoing due dates to send him into a manic frenzy, which was a relief.”

She hums. “I can imagine.”

“I wish you could have been here.”

“So do I. If only so I could have continued to avoid my mum and everyone else entirely.”

“Hey,” he says softly, tenderly, “we’ll go carefully.”

It's at this precise moment that Lucy notices he’s still holding her wrist, his thumb stroking the base of her palm. The sight makes her melt and at the same time every nerve within her feels alight with a charge that had been previously unknown.

A forbidden fruit, a languid descent into indulgence.

She meets his gaze, only to find he’s already looking at her. And for the life of her she can’t help the magnetic pull that shifts her view a little lower down to his lips.

“Lucy.”

She looks up again, and she knows she isn’t imagining it when she sees that his gaze has fallen to her lips as well, as though transfixed.

“Lucy I–”

A booming clap of thunder snaps them out of their conjoined reverie. They both look away from the other, whether out of embarrassment, or something more, Lucy can’t tell. Either way, that Something is beginning to feel far more encompassing than she had initially thought.

The notion should frighten her, and yet that feeling of hanging on the precipice with him is intoxicating. 

She wonders what it would be like were they to fall off together.

Lockwood sits up, stretching out his legs. “Come on, let’s head back.”

“What about the rain?”

“We’ll run fast.”

“Bad visibility,” she reminds him. “You could run into a tree or I could get lost and then we’d both be done for.”

“No we won’t,” Lockwood responds.

“How do you know?”

“Hold my hand,” he says.

Her heart leaps into her throat and burrows there. Her tongue tastes metallic. “And what if you get lost?”

“Then you’d be the one running into a tree and we’d have a good laugh about it later.”

She snorts. “I’m not sure I’d be the one laughing with brambles in my hair.”

“No, but I would,” which causes them both to laugh out loud. For a second, the raindrops still and it's just the two of them. A girl and a boy getting lost in the intimacy of each other, the twining of words and barely grazed skin.

For that one second, Lucy is in love.

They get out of the car.

Chapter Text

“Right. Now that we’ve gotten syllabus week out of the way, I would like to graciously welcome everyone to this semester’s Sociology 101 course. If you happen to be attending in error, there’s the door. If your heads are currently screwed on right, do stay seated.” Barnes pauses to survey the gathered assembly of students before him, his hands laced behind his back. “It's nice to see not nearly as many of you be mentally checked out as last week. Brings a nice glimmer to my eyes just to think of it.”

There’s a few barely-stifled snorts that circle from Barnes’s deadpan delivery. Lockwood, for his part, chuckles under his breath. To be honest? Once you get around his sternness, Barnes is a decent professor. He’s surely a lot more amiable once he’s had his morning coffee.

“This week, we’ll be covering the various intersections of sociology and sexuality. Although this topic may not come across as traditional to the course I can assure that it is vital to understanding all aspects of sociology. What motivates and shapes us? How far will we go to reach these goals? I want you all to consider this as we move throughout the semester. Which is why for your first homework assignment I will be expecting a two page reflection, double-sided. Though I will extend the mercy of double-spacing as well.”

Lockwood raises his hand. Barnes rolls his eyes, but calls on him.

“Isn’t that just four pages, then?”

Barnes stares him down. “Your point?”

“No point, just clarifying. I’m a bit slow on uptake, you see.”

That earns him a few snickers and even Barnes can’t seem to stifle his smirk. It takes a few moments before the professor snaps out of his reverie. “Alright where was I? Ah, weekly reports. Those will be a page minimum, typed accordingly. I won’t mark you down if you go over the page limit, however there will be some eye twitching on my part. You will also need a notebook designated solely for the purpose of this course. Tuesday class time will be focused on in-depth group discussions and exercises on ethics. Make sense so far?

A chorus of nodding ensues. Barnes continues circling the table. Thursdays will be subject to analysis and our typical lecture style. In addition, any assignments are to be completed and turned in before the lecture begins that day. This schedule may be rigid to some, but I can assure you it is in your best interest to stay on top of your workload while you are in my class. Otherwise, there’s the door. Understood?

No one objects or leaves, so Barnes continues. Lockwood turns his head over to Lucy, whose head is bent over her notebook, carefully sketching something he can’t quite make out from his angle. Strands of hair spill out over the left side of her face and Lockwood has to suppress the urge to tuck it back.

George mumbles to himself just then, some nonsense about Barnes presumptions on theory, that causes Lucy’s chin to lift ever so slightly. Her eyes meet Lockwood’s in a knowing look because that’s just George and he doesn’t even bother to hide the way he’s looking at her this time. He knows she knows he’s looking, teeth around his pen, and the thing is…she looks back. Eyes grazing every inch of him, making his nerves sing.

Thorough searching's completed, their eyes meet again. His lip quirks up. Hers do too. They both look away. 

God, what are they doing? What the hell are they doing?

“He checked me out.”

“The professor? Because that seems a bit skeevy.”

“No!” It takes Lucy a second too late to realize she’s in the library. Behind a large wooden desk, the head librarian glares at her. Lucy has a sneaking suspicion she's just been put on a watchlist.

Skull smirks at her, seemingly coming to the same conclusion. In the short span of the semester it was a surprise that the two had ever become friends. Though the spiky haired boy would deny it if the term were ever brought up by Lucy. Or by anyone.

At Lucy’s prompting they had both settled themselves in the library for a quick study session in between classes. Although at the moment little studying was actually occurring.

“ Him . Lockwood.” Lucy covers her face with her hands. “He checked. Me. Out.” The emphasis of it just makes it sound more real. She can’t take the easy way out and delude herself any further. Shit. “I swear, he was definitely looking .”

“Ohhh you mean the pretty boy you’re always hanging on lately. I would have thought you’d already be snogging. Aren’t the pair of you basically flat mates now?”

“Yes. No. Ugh,” she groans into her palm. “It's complicated. And we definitely aren’t snogging .”

“I can’t imagine what’s stopping you. Wait, don’t tell me,” he leans in a conspiratorial whisper. “You have a massive wart in some place unmentionable and the shame of discovery could kill you.”

Lucy shoves him, roughly. “I could throttle you right now.”

“I’m correct though, aren’t I?”

“Not about the wart, you loon. I just–don’t want to lose another friend. Not after the last time.”

Skull opens his mouth to speak but the corners quickly morph into a scowl at an approaching figure. Lucy turns to his line of sight and for once finds herself wanting to throttle someone more than the boy across from her.

“Sorry, was I interrupting something? Please continue as if I’m not here.” Kipps’s smile is all teeth as he casually strides over with two hands in each jacket pocket. From their seated position, he looms over them, coming to a full stop at the head of the table.

Lucy’s pretty sure she catches the librarian shaking her head out of the corner of her eye. Good thing to know she isn’t at the top of the watchlist.

“Actually, we were just leaving,” she says primly. She gathers her stuff and Skull watches her with a raised eyebrow as if to say he would much rather stick around to torment Kipps.

“Hang on,” the ginger stops her with a hand to her arm and it's all Lucy can do to count to three in her head. Lest she do something stupid and “accidentally” kick him in the balls.

“You know Anthony Lockwood, don’t you? I’ve seen you two walking through the halls together.”

“Yes and I’m failing to see how that concerns you,” she says stiffly. Kipps seems to get the message and retracts his hand.

“Tony and I go way back. Always poking his nose in places where it doesn’t belong. That’s why I have to look out for him. He’s almost like a little brother to me.” As if to further embellish his faux-sincerity, he places a hand to his heart, nodding solemnly.

“Somehow I don’t think the feeling is mutual,” Lucy deadpans.

Kipps frowns, the false pretenses vanishing along with his smile. “I figured since you and him are so chummy you could pass on this smidge of a reminder,” he leans forward, eyes narrowed in contempt. “Tell him to keep out of my way in class, or else I’m going to be taking away more than just a scrappy couch.”

“Oh well then it would seem I need to pass on a reminder as well.”

“Really? And what would that be?”

Lucy takes a step forward. Another.

“This,” she says sweetly.

Before stomping hard on his right foot.

Kipps swears loudly, and the librarian begins walking over, likely to reprimand him for the commotion.

It could have been worse, she thinks, I could have kicked him in the balls.

Aloud, she says to Skull, “let’s get out of here.”

Skull looks like he could award her a congressional medal of honour. “I’ve never been more proud. Truly a sight for the ages.” he quips as the two step away from the chaos.

Lucy just rolls her eyes. “Someone had to put him in his place. I hope he keeps away from Lockwood, though.”

He scoffs at her. “Lockwood can handle that mess. What you should really be worried about is handling your mess with Lockwood.”

Skull promptly leaves it at that, heading in the direction to his dorm. Lucy stares after him. There’s a truth to his words and she knows that. Knows that this want and quite possibly this need is beginning to consume her. A decay but not the rotting kind. The kind where pieces of you slowly fall away until you are laid bare for that person. Stripped of all your defenses.

And it scares her. It shouldn’t scare her but it does.

She can’t help but think that when Lockwood looks at her in knowing experience he’s just as scared as she is.

The next week of classes proved to be aggravating for Lucy, George, and Lockwood. Lockwood himself, had been faced with multiple demonstrations of convict criminology, whereas Lucy and George had been saddled with a handful of essays to complete in a time crunch that left their schedules in disarray. Overall, that Saturday left them all feeling just content to curl up around the table in Lockwood’s room. The afternoon sunlight flickering in interludes of warmth.

Then George says, “Let’s get drunk.”

They still, and Lockwood knows that during the few times they’ve proposed rebelling, they haven’t actually done much–well, rebelling.

Lucy sets down her forensics textbook. “On what though? I don’t have anything.”

They both look at George, who scoffs. “Naturally. I’ve got a case of single malt hidden from the prying eyes of our resident asshole: Kipps.”

Lockwood’s brow raises. “Where did you get that?”

“Flo gave it to me. Said she owed me one for helping her pass her last exam. Really generous of her.”

“I’ll say,” Lockwood looks to Lucy, his sidelong grin proving contagious. Every time she smiled at him he could swear his soul lit up.

“I’ll go grab the bottle from my room. Maybe by then you two will stop ogling each other. It's making me sick.”

Lockwood gives George a dirty look. Lucy looks away fast but not fast enough to hide her faint blush.

George backs away, his hands in mock surrender as he goes to retrieve the bottle.

His return has them grabbing for three mugs and Coke from the mini fridge, and after two of those Lockwood is–fuzzy, for lack of a better word. Maybe not drunk, but definitely tipsy.

He turns to Lucy doing a straight shot of scotch out of his blue mug (he took the pink one) and the sight has him feeling like he needs to air the room out. His dorm had become a little too hot.

“This is a formative experience,” George says after doing a shot of his own. “Our rite of passage into adulthood.”

“Dear Lord this is how it starts. George’s slip into alcoholism and insubordination. Next thing you know he’ll start listening to heavy metal,” Lockwood sighs in resignation.

“At the very least I could rock a mohawk. That’s more than you could do.”

“I would never subject my hair to such travesties.”

Lucy hiccups then, cutting off their debate.

“Sorry,” she apologizes with a grimace, “I think it's been so long my tolerance’s shrunk to the size of a pebble.”

“No worries,” Lockwood waves off her apology. “How long has it been since you drank?”

“Not since my time at my last school. Holly usually goes out but most of the time I’m too busy to go with her. Plus, I need enough time to get out of our dorm before she brings back another girl.”

“You should barricade the door next time,” George replies with a subtle hint of eagerness. “Give her a taste of her own medicine.”

Lucy snorts. “As tempting as the idea sounds, I’m pretty sure she has someone in our room right now. There were multiple hair ties on the door handle, so either she’s in there with multiple people which is highly unlikely, or she’s gonna be in there for a while.”

“It was worth a shot,” George shrugs, then shakes his head. “Girls can be so confusing.”

“Tell me about it,” Lockwood says, staring directly at Lucy.

“I’d have to say boys definitely rank higher on the confusing scale,” she retorts, staring right back. He grins.

“You think so?”

“Oh I know so,” Lucy affirms.

“Seems we’ll have to put this scale of yours to the test.” He hadn’t realized how close they had shifted to one another. Their hands were nearly touching. Perhaps the alcohol was to blame, but he gently sweeps his thumb across the back of her hand anyway.

Lucy’s voice is a touch breathy as she replies, “preferably soon.” Her eyes widen immediately, as though shocked by her own boldness.

George, oblivious to this exchange, asks “do you suppose I could pull off a leather jacket to go with my mohawk?”

It seems their trio mixed with alcohol had some interesting effects, indeed.

Chapter Text

When he finds out Lucy’s sick, he doesn’t even think twice before running down to the nearest pharmacy in the freezing sleet, grabbing cold medicine and lozenges and DayQuil off the shelves, and a pint of ice cream as an afterthought. By the time he gets to her dorm it’s almost dark out, and she’s lying stomach-down on her bed, taking careful notes for one of her classes. “I got all the essentials,” he says stupidly, while she drops her pen in shock and rises to her knees with a, “You’re shivering,” before clambering off her bed. She grabs the blanket hanging off the edge of her bed, but instead of just tossing it at him she actually wraps it around him herself, rubbing her hands along his arms to create friction, and he’s grinning. He’s so enamored with her, she smells like lavender and wood smoke and God if she doesn’t do it for him even with her nose all red at the tip.

“Idiot,” she says, in an irrevocably fond way, and it feels like a kiss. Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “What’d you mean by ‘the essentials’?”

So he upends the bag on her bed, and she lunges for the meds. “Thank God,” she says. “Skull had some stuff but it was way expired so it didn’t do much good and I have the worst sore throat.” She cracks the bottle and downs some without measuring the dose. “You’re an angel, do y’know that?”

And he knows she doesn’t mean it like that, but his heart still stutters in his chest because he’s a sentimental screwball with a penchant for self-destruction, and loving Lucy Carlyle in silence is nothing if not detrimental to the state of one’s health. Keeping all this in is probably more damaging to his lungs than the frigid late-autumn air. “Holly?” he asks, for a change of subject.

“Out with a friend, I think,” Lucy says, clambering back onto her bed and going for the pills next. “Holly has been completely neurotic about my cold. She’s been spraying Lysol everywhere and for once she hasn’t been bringing people over to spend the night so I finally have the place to myself. Anyways, I think they went to get dinner or something.”

“Mm,” Lockwood says, and strips his jacket. He tries to quell the feeling of selfish disappointment that this likely means she won’t be staying with him anytime soon. It’s not that he’d mind sharing a bed with her cold, but the thought of asking aloud has him fearing he’ll overstep.

Although sharing a bed as often as someone like Lockwood did with a girl who was not quite his friend but also not quite something more was probably already overstepping enough.

Christ he needed to stop overthinking. “What’re you working on?”

“Physiology vocabulary.”

“Can I help?”

“If you don’t mind risking a cold,” she says, and if his previous thoughts are any indication, he sure as hell doesn’t. Which is how he ends up sprawled on her bed with her pacing the floor about thirty minutes later. 

“Mediastinum relates to…?”

“A membranous partition between two body cavities or two parts of an organ,” she recites.

Lockwood nods and sets that flashcard aside. “And the pericardial cavity is…?”

“The space between the layers of the pericardium that contains fluid that lubricates the membrane to allow easy heart movement.”

Lockwood sets that card aside. Reads, “And describe the difference between cephalic and caudal.”

She turns abruptly to face him. “Now you’re just making stuff up.”

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and fails miserably. “I’m just reading what the cards say.”

“Ugh—um okay, cephalic refers to the head of the embryo and caudal serves as—shit, the back of the skull’s cranium?”

“The posterior tail,” he confirms, and she lets out a miserable groan that is swiftly cut off by a series of sneezes. 

“I think that’s enough studying for you today,” Lockwood says. He places the flashcards carefully on her end table.

Lucy flops down on her bed beside him. “I think you might be right.” She closes her eyes for a moment, cracking one open to peer up at him and ask, “if I said now would be the perfect time for ice cream would you disagree?”

“Luce, I could never say no to that.”

“Did you ever wanna be anything else other than a defense attorney?”

Lockwood manages to swallow after having had ice cream shoved into his mouth by her. He’s practically hanging off her bed now, and she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and they’ve abandoned all pretense of studying. “Okay,” he says roughly, “this has to stay strictly between us, and you can’t judge me for it, alright? I was really young.”

“Promise.”

“A knight .” 

And she kind of melts a little, because he says it in this shy way and refuses to meet her eyes, and she can kind of picture him as a kid in a little red cape and trousers two sizes too big, marching across the living room with a plastic toy sword. “A knight,” she repeats softly. 

“Yeah, like a proper knight. Armor and all. My mother actually made a full blown suit for me once.” He chuckles. “Anyways, I thought I’d travel around, fight off monsters, rescue people... live by a strict code of honor. It was just a silly phase.”

“No, it’s sweet,” she insists, scooting closer and reaching for another spoonful of ice cream. 

Lockwood flushes, adam's apple bobbing. “I spent months with my father teaching me all different kinds of fancy sword-fighting techniques. ” 

“Do you still remember how to do any of them?”

He starts to grin. “Some. It was mostly just lunges and parries though, nothing complex.” 

She raises an eyebrow at him, and then asks, “Did you grow up in King Arthur’s court or something?” 

“Pardon?”

“Well, you said your mother crafted you a suit of armor, and your father taught you sword-fighting,” she points out.

“Actually it was really just basic fencing techniques–”

“Whatever. I feel like this is a natural conclusion that I’ve drawn here.”

Lockwood shakes his head. “No, I didn’t grow up in King Arthur’s court. My parents' home did come about as close as anywhere can though.”

Lucy hums. “Where did you grow up anyway? I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned it.”

Lockwood’s smile fades slightly, replaced by a quieter expression, as if the question had taken him somewhere else entirely. He looks away, fidgeting with the cuff of his sweater.

“Oh… you know. Classic London townhouse, towards the heart of the city.” He shrugs. “Pretty empty. But I liked it that way. It’s cozy.”

Lucy chews on that. Eventually, “So it was just you there?"

"Mostly," Lockwood replied, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “It was quiet a lot of the time. My parents…well, they were gone when I was still pretty young. Car accident. It was just me after that.”

He says it simply, without bitterness, but Lucy can hear a kind of lingering loneliness in his voice, buried beneath his usual bravado. She leans in a bit, expression softening.

“That sounds tough,” she says quietly. “How’d you manage being alone like that?”

Lockwood shrugs again, giving her a faint smile. “Oh, I got by. I had… well, my parents left me enough to get by. And the house was full of weird old things—books, maps, strange collections. There was always something interesting to keep me busy, you know?

Lucy watches him closely. Carefully, she asks, “So, you just… grew up on your own, in that old house?”

“Pretty much,” he says, almost as if he hadn’t really thought about it before. “It was… quiet, yeah, but I didn’t mind it. I guess I always sort of made it a game. Pretending I was the lord of the place, setting my own rules, even if there was no one there to follow them.” He lets out a small, self-conscious laugh. “It sounds a little stupid now.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid,” Lucy replies, her voice softer than she intended. “It sounds... lonely.”

Lockwood’s gaze shifts to her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to respond, but then just shakes his head with a small smile. “Maybe. But you get used to it, after a while. Besides,” he adds, clearing his throat, “it gave me plenty of time to dream up even more of those knight fantasies.”

She laughs lightly. “So that’s where your ego originated from.”

“Undoubtedly,” he gives her a wry look. "Though, I guess at some point I’ll get out of my thick skull."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, and then Lucy spoke again, her tone thoughtful. “Guess it makes sense why you’re always so set on helping people. You spent all that time thinking about what it meant to be a hero, and now you basically are one.”

“I don’t know if I’m exactly living up to any grand heroic ideal.”

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job,” she says, voice hardly above a whisper.

He glances over at her, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Thanks, Luce. That… that means a lot.”

She smiles, offering him a gentle nudge. “Anytime, Sir Lockwood.”

Once Lucy begins recovering from her cold, their weekly sleepovers continue with relative consistency – barring exams, because Lucy learns that they have radically different study schedules. While she likes to wake up early with a structured plan to get schoolwork done so that her evenings are free, Lockwood tends to just do whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like.

("I’m a big believer in the art of improvisation. Besides, I’ve got a solid memory. Never forget the important stuff," so he says, and Lucy would have knocked his teeth out if he didn't flash her that perfect smile of his.)

Everything starts to fall into a routine, one that becomes familiar at a startling rate, and it just makes sense that they start grabbing lunch together in between classes or waiting for the other to finish before heading home. No matter how many times she sees him, Lockwood never fails to make her heart thrum against her ribcage, and it was painfully, frighteningly, amazingly addicting.

She also learns that waking up next to Lockwood is quickly becoming her new favourite thing. The feeling of his soft murmurs rumbling across her pillow makes her voice catch in her throat, and she secretly revels in the look in his eyes when he wishes her good morning. On the off chance they woke up with limbs awkwardly wounded around each other, Lockwood would crack one of those quiet jokes of his, easing the tension. Lucy would laugh softly, and they’d carry on, comfortable despite everything that was…or wasn’t. Otherwise, she'll spend those precious moments in the morning wondering how she got here, how she doesn't want to leave, and how their fingers would fit together.

Dean Fittes’ Annual Gala was something of a tradition, a high-society event that the students at the university had been buzzing about for weeks. The moment Lucy had stepped inside, she was swallowed by the grandeur. The venue wasn’t half bad, really. Polished marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers, the soft hum of string music filling the air, and the murmur of well-dressed students and faculty scattered about the room.

It doesn’t help that she’s feeling wildly out of place, though.

Her dress, a dark blue, fitted at the bodice with a soft, flowing skirt, feels more sophisticated than anything she's ever worn before. It wasn’t a showy gown, but it was enough to make her think she was both underdressed and overdressed in equal measure. She smooths the fabric nervously.

George was by Lucy's side, adjusting his glasses with a look of disdain. "This whole thing is a bit much, isn't it?" he mutters, his voice barely audible over the music. "A gala? Please. It's just a way for the Fittes family to remind everyone they're untouchable."

Lucy snorts. "Well, let’s just find Lockwood and then we can get this over with–"

The moment they lock eyes, Lucy’s heart stops.

He’s decked out in this tailored black tuxedo, the white shirt beneath it contrasting sharply with his dark jacket. The suit seems made to fit him, all lean muscles and agile footing–and shit, it's the way he’s looking at her that has her remembering the night they first met. When he gazed down at her with warmth but quiet intensity, reserved only for her.

He’s looking at her that way now.

Within a few moments Lockwood has treaded over to their side of the ballroom.

You look…” he trailed off, his voice a little softer now, almost lost in the music.

“What?” she asked, unable to utter more than a single word.

Speaking. Talking. The moving of the mouth, the vocalization of words

He opens his mouth to answer but no sound comes out, and George chooses that moment to pipe up, “you know the origin of that phrase actually pertains to the English Royal Navy’s excessive use of cat-o-nine-tails, which they used to flog sailors into submission and silence.”

They both turn to her. “Thank you for that insight, George,” Lockwood says. “Really.”

George just shrugs. “I’m gonna go see about the food situation,” he says, and leaves them without another word. 

The music had shifted into a waltz at some point in the evening. As more couples began taking to the dance floor, Lucy caught Lockwood’s eye from the corner of her vision. Without a word, he reached out for her hand, his fingers warm against her skin.

“You owe me a dance, Luce.” He smirks, a challenge hidden in his playful tone.

Lucy blinks, caught off guard by. Despite the lulling melody, the atmosphere that practically crackled around them was anything but that. “What?” she asks, for the second time that night.

“A dance,” he repeats, eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on. You can’t avoid the dance floor all night.”

She hesitates, glancing down at her dress and back at Lockwood, who is already pulling her toward the center of the floor with that trademark grin of his. His hand slides to her back with surprising ease, guiding her effortlessly into the rhythm of the waltz. She laughs.

“Lockwood, I—”

He interrupted her with a look. “Shh. Just follow my lead.”

And she does.

He spins her, and she somehow comes back closer. She is flush against him like something that belongs there, and one of his palms is pressed against the small of her back at the place where there’s no dress and just bare skin. His other clasps her own, a pale thing that is somehow rough and elegant at the same time, gentle and reassuring, his hands are beautiful, he is beautiful, he smells like bergamot and some kind of rich black tea, and it’s as if the pores of her senses have opened, as if she has opened. Lockwood twirls her around the dance floor, and Lucy feels a rush of warmth flood through her, not from the physical closeness, but from something deeper, something that seems to settle into the very core of her being. He guides her with such quiet confidence that she can’t help but feel weightless in his embrace, like time has slowed and nothing else exists beyond the two of them. Her breath catches, not just from the whirlwind of the dance, but from the simple reality of being this close to him—so close that it felt as if their hearts might beat in sync, if only for a moment.

And all at once the fear kicks in. She casts her gaze downward and then, dizzy, steps back. 

(and i found myself thinking, as i often did, that i trusted him with everything in a way i hadn’t trusted anyone else)

“Luce? You okay?”

“I—” a hand over her stomach, a tear-soaked glance around the room. “I’m… I have to go.”

“What? But—” he reaches for her, but she steps back and turns away, her chest heaving. “Luce, seriously, I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything,” she says, shaking her head. “You didn’t do anything, I promise. I’m so sorry, I just–”

He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t, because he’s not privy to the way her entire world has shifted on its axis with the accidental acknowledgement of the simple truth that she loves him, she is in love with him, she loves him so bad it feels like she could drown on it, this is a thing that she has never felt before; it is immeasurable, it’s in her veins, it’s in her bones, it's in her blood, its in the very air she breathes. She was born with it, and somehow, she’ll die with it.  It’s like a part of her DNA. And now that she knows, she can’t unknow it. It feels like I was running toward something I didn’t know I was supposed to find, only to realize I’d been running in circles all along, Lucy thinks, feeling the weight of it settle in her chest. She didn’t even realize she was falling until she was already gone.

“Lucy, talk to me. Please. Tell me what’s going on.” 

She stops and rounds on him. They’ve completely left the party by this point and stand behind a wall of fairy-lit shrubbery, and she can’t help it. He looks wretched, distraught, and so confused. She can’t stand to see him like this, it hurts her, and so she does the only thing she can think of to fix it (while also very likely making it worse): she kisses him. 

It’s a rough, intimate thing. It’s her surging forward and lifting her hands to his face, and him stumbling back a pace with shock before falling into it, into her, his mouth is sweet like champagne and moves against her own with the same ease they have conversations. He cradles her neck in his hands and she tugs at his lower lip and it’s fireworks in her chest, it’s sparks flying and embers glowing. It runs like an electric current down the rungs of her spine, is felt from the soles of her feet all the way to her scalp, warm. 

She pulls back, breathless, and finds him stunned.

“Lucy,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, the weight of the moment lingering between them.

She smiles gently, her own breath still unsteady, but her hand resting comfortingly against his chest. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. The kiss had said everything.