Chapter Text
Anthony Lockwood is not a particularly murderous person.
He kills ghosts, of course, but they’re already dead, so he doesn’t think that quite counts. He’s good with a sword, certainly, but he’s never used his rapier to gut another person. At most a nick. Perhaps, one time, he imagined shoving the blade through Kipps’ shoulder, just the once but Kipps was being such a bellend and--
The point is, Anthony Lockwood isn’t in the habit of hating. He’s been depressed, lonely, enraged, mortified, desperately hurt, but he’s never been engulfed by an anger so vivid and red-hazed the only recourse was revenge and death.
He never was, at least, until this moment.
Penelope Fittes is going to die. And Anthony Lockwood would very much like his blade to do the honors.
“Lockwood,” Lucy croaks, her free hand clutching weakly at his lapel. “Are we almost home?”
He meets Flo’s gaze in the rearview mirror. They both know the drive will be an hour at least, even with the way Flo is flying through the streets.
“We’re close,” he lies softly, pulling the blanket tighter around Lucy as she shivers. Beside them, Kipps takes off his coat and rests it across Lucy’s legs. “Just close your eyes. Go to sleep for a bit--,”
“No,” Lucy rasps, digging her head into his shoulder. Even in the dark, Lockwood can see the deep shadows under her eyes. She’s gaunt, pale and ghostly, and Lockwood can tell she lost at least a stone. “I don’t want to dream. I don’t want to—don’t make me see them. I can’t—I can’t….” Lucy trails off. Lockwood can feel her tears beginning to soak his collar.
He is going to kill Penelope Fittes.
“You don’t have to,” Lockwood whispers into her hair. “You won’t ever again. Just relax.” He runs the fingers of his free hand through her hair. “Flo, could you turn up the heat?”
“It’s full blast Locky,” Flo informs him quietly. “You want some music, love? Kipps, c’mere and go through the cassettes.”
Kipps obliges, climbing nimbly over the console and into the front seat.
“Do you like the Beatles?” He asks Lucy gently.
Lucy mumbles her answer into Lockwood’s chest. Lockwood finds himself barking out a startled laugh.
“What--,”
“She says that’s a stupid question,” Lockwood relays with a small grin. “’Course she likes the Beatles, who doesn’t like the Beatles, Kipps?”
“Alright, alright,” Kipps grumbles, but Lockwood can tell he’s grinning a bit, too. He puts the cassette in the player.
By the time the last strains of Blackbird peter off, Lucy is asleep.
***
***
***
The next time Lucy wakes, it is to whispers.
“We have no idea what they did to her, we have no idea what they gave her, Lockwood. She needs hospital--,"
"What, so Fittes can take her back again--,"
“You’re being stupid--,”
“And you’re not seeing the whole picture!”
Lucy opens her eyes. Lockwood and George immediately stop arguing.
They’ve put her in Lockwood’s room; it’s still the dead of night, based on the black sky out the window. She’s covered in at least four blankets but can still feel herself shaking. Someone brought her pillow and duvet down from her bed in the attic, and the familiar smell, the small but poignant kindness makes her eyes well up with tears.
“Hi, Georgie,” Lucy whispers. George gives her a small grin and gets on his knees beside the bed so she doesn’t have to crane her neck. “Missed you.” Lucy drags her index finger over a small hole in the cuff of his shirt.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
George swallows thickly. “Are you hurt anywhere? We saw—on your back--,”
Lucy’s mouth goes dry as she realizes she’s no longer in a hospital gown but her own familiar nightdress.
“Flo saw,” Lockwood cuts across quickly. “She um, she helped—not us—and now she and Kipps are returning the cab so….” Lucy’s never seen Lockwood so flustered.
“Oh, that’s…that’s fine,” Lucy replies awkwardly. “Marks are from needles. They took my bone marrow, I think. Hurt like mad for a few days, but it’s not so bad now.”
George looks like he’s going to cry. “Lucy, you need--,”
“No more doctors,” Lucy demands. “I’m not leaving. I don’t—I don’t want to--,” she can feel her lip trembling and bites on it to hold steady.
“You’re not leaving,” Lockwood agrees, sitting down on the bed and grabbing her hand. “No hospitals. It will all be fine." He glares pointedly at George. George grimaces.
“My aunt is a nurse,” George tells Lucy quietly, turning back to face her. “If I call her, would you let her check you over? She’ll come here; you don’t have to go anywhere. Is that alright?”
Lucy closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Why can’t she stop crying?
“Lucy, you don’t--,”
“Lucy,” George cuts Lockwood off. She opens her eyes and meets his gaze. “Lucy, you’ve got a fever, and there are bruises and needle marks all over you and we have absolutely no idea what kind of drugs they’ve put you on or what they do. I know you’re frightened. We’re frightened, too. I don’t know how to make you feel better.”
Lucy thinks it may be the first time she’s ever heard George willingly admit to not knowing something.
“Okay,” Lucy concedes softly. “Okay.”
***
***
***
“Got an extra cuppa for me, Georgie?” Flo asks loudly behind him. George startles and turns around, so engrossed as he’d been making the tray for Lucy that he’d completely missed Flo entering the kitchen and slumping down in one of the chairs.
“Course,” George mutters, pulling a mug down from the cupboard and stopping short. There’s a chip in the lip of this mug, and an odd stain at the bottom of the cup. George realizes this is the mug Lucy had been using the day she was taken, the mug they’d found chipped on its side, against the leg of the table, cold tea settling into the rug around it.
P. Fittes visited 4pm had been written in Lucy’s loopy handwriting on the corner of the Thinking Cloth.
With a long breath, George throws the mug in the bin and smiles slightly at the shatter it makes at the bottom.
“I mean, if you didn’t want to give me tea--,”
“Just not that mug,” George finally replies to a very confused Flo. “Here you are.”
He joins her at the table for a moment, buries his hands in his hair.
“How is she?”
George sniffs and looks up. “Exhausted.” He says. Frail, he thinks. It’s not a way he’s ever fathomed describing Lucy before. “Where’s Kipps?”
Flo gestures over her shoulder as she sips her tea. “Keeping watch at the front window,” she finally answers. “He’s worried Fittes will follow.”
“Barnes said they couldn’t.”
Flo shrugs. “DEPRAC may be in charge, but people like Fittes and Rotwell paid their way. Who knows what those agencies have gotten away with through the years. Who knows how many more Lucy’s are locked away in their basements.”
George shudders, then stands and goes back to the tray.
“You can sleep in Lucy’s room if you like. Nobody’s using it.”
Flo raises he eyebrow. “Not even Locky? That boy hasn’t slept more than two hours straight in three weeks. He’s going to crash soon.”
“Oh, I know,” George says with a snort. “It just won’t be in Lucy’s room.”
With that George picks up the tray and leaves Flo behind in the kitchen.
The house is silent as George slowly eases the door to Lockwood’s room open. Lucy is on her back, eyes closed, pillows piled high behind her.
Lockwood is curled around her like an overgrown housecat. His feet are splayed on an armchair pulled up to the bed, his legs lay perpendicular to Lucy across the bottom of the bed, and his torso wraps around parallel to her, his head lying on a pillow dragged down from Lucy’s pile and resting next to Lucy’s abdomen.
They’re holding hands.
With a decidedly unfond sigh, George quietly tiptoes himself and the tray to the nightstand by Lucy and lets the tray down gently. When he looks up, Lucy’s hazel eyes are open and studying him.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Lucy shakes her head. She doesn’t let go of Lockwood’s hand.
“When is your aunt coming?” Lucy whispers. There’s resignation in the set of her mouth, but a strength in her eyes 35 Portland Row has desperately lacked these weeks without her. George can’t help but grin at the sight.
“Tomorrow morning, straight away. How are you feeling now?”
“Still tired.” Her eyes flutter slowly, as though answering for themselves. “We have to get him back.”
“Who’s that, Lucy?” George asks, pulling the duvet up to Lucy’s chin, then pulling another blanket from the basket by the bed to cover Lockwood. Lockwood grumbles nonsensically for a moment and pulls himself closer to Lucy.
“The skull,” Lucy rasps. “They took him, too. He asked me…. He asked me to get him out. I can’t leave him there George, I can’t--,”
“We won’t,” George promises, giving her free hand a quick squeeze. “We’ll get him back. Just get better first yourself, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Lucy whispers. She looks down at Lockwood thoughtfully. “How is he?”
“Better now,” George answers honestly. “Much better.”
“And you, George?”
George clears his throat. “Just glad you're back. It’s not the same around here without you, Lucy.”
Lucy grins and squeezes his hand back.
“Love you, too, Georgie.”