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You could always tell when it was Quill in the shower on the landing. Not because of the steam escaping from under the door or the fact that it had been 20 minutes with no signs of stopping. But because Quill was the only member of the agency with a warbling throaty baritone that could be heard from every corner of the house.
“What even is that?” Lucy asked, below in the kitchen with the rest of the team.
“Bowie,” replied Lockwood instantly. “Not one of his more popular hits, it must be said.”
“Oh.”
…
“What’s this one?”
“Blackbird. He sings it all the time.”
George rolled his eyes. “I keep expecting him to buy some little round John Lennon glasses to go with his black turtlenecks.”
“I think it’s actually quite nice,” said Lucy.
…
“What the hell is that?”
“I…” Lockwood tilted his head, listening for a moment. “I have no idea. Holly?”
“It’s Les Miserablés. It’s the opening song.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, eyes going wide. “Oh no.”
“It’s fine,” said Lockwood. “The hot water will run out eventually.”
“Eventually.” George looked at Lockwood pointedly as Quill hit a particularly penetrating note.
Lockwood sighed. “Let me get the wrench.”