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Lucy awoke in the new year feeling…well, confused was one word for it.
Her head rested on something bony and warm—a shoulder, she realized. One of her arms lay on top of an abdomen with her other arm pinned beneath it, and her legs were tangled up with a different pair of legs, one of which had a rather pointy knee digging into her thigh. And the shirt against her cheek smelled exactly like Anthony Lockwood.
However, none of that was the confusing part, given that in the past few months she and Lockwood had made quite a habit of falling asleep in each other’s beds—sometimes after difficult cases, sometimes after nightmares, one time because George had managed to spill a dismaying amount of salt on Lockwood’s bed.
The confusing part, then, was that Lucy and Lockwood were not actually in anyone’s bed but rather curled up on the floor of the landing in front of George’s bedroom. Moreover, Lockwood was still in his clothes from the night before while Lucy wore her pyjamas. More moreover, she had a bloody awful headache.
Actually, that last part wasn’t particularly confusing, as Lucy was quite sure that last night she’d drunk enough to sedate an elephant, which probably accounted for the other, actually confusing bits.
“Lockwood,” she croaked, shaking his arm halfheartedly.
“Mmph,” he responded, unmoving.
“We need to get up.”
“Mm mn.”
“Uh huh.”
“Mm mn.”
“Mm. Mm mn,” Lucy relented, letting her eyes close again.
Some time later—perhaps a minute, perhaps an hour—there was a muffled mix of voices somewhere downstairs, and clunking footsteps made their way up the staircase.
“Christ, you two haven’t budged a bit,” George muttered as his head crested the landing. “Come on, then, sit up. I have aspirin.” Carefully holding two glasses of water, he jabbed his foot into Lockwood’s side, and Lockwood grunted.
“Five more minutes,” he groaned.
“You said that an hour ago. Get up before I pour this water on you.”
“Go for it,” Lockwood murmured.
“On you and Lucy,” George said pointedly, and Lockwood and Lucy both opened their eyes to squint at him.
Then Lockwood closed his eyes again and gave Lucy’s back a single, clumsy pat. “On your own, Luce.”
“Sod off,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
A few more kicks and twenty minutes later, Lockwood and Lucy sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on toast as the aspirin started to kick in. If their shirts were a bit damp, no one said anything about it. (Well, Kipps did, but Kipps didn't count.)
George was frying an egg for Flo, who leaned on the counter next to him sipping at a mug with three tea bags in it. Holly was putting away dishes that she had washed earlier in the morning, and Kipps was doodling something indiscernible on the thinking cloth.
“Where's Kat and Bobby?” Lockwood asked in a toneless voice, slouched in his chair.
Without looking up from his drawing, Kipps answered, “Went home a couple hours ago.”
“What about Jemma?” Lucy added as she regarded her toast with nauseous disdain.
Holly paused her bustling at the mention of her girlfriend. “She has to work this morning, so she left early last night. You don't remember that?
“...No?”
“Because you asked me about it three separate times last night.”
“Well, alcohol isn't exactly known for improving memory,” Lucy grumbled.
“Yes, well, that's certainly true. I must admit that my own memories of last night are a bit blurry.”
“Does anyone remember what happened last night?” Lucy asked.
“Not really,” Kipps said with a shrug, and Lockwood shook his head slowly.
“I do,” Flo declared. She took another sip of tea. “Georgie and I finally snogged.”
George's spatula clattered to the floor, his eyes round as saucers as everyone stared at the two of them. “Flo!”
"What? We did! And it was very nice! Midnight and champagne and all that romantic stuff. Nothin' to be embarrassed about."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Kipps piped in with a shit-eating grin.
“Congratulations to you both,” Holly said with a smile, handing George a clean spatula and picking up the one he'd dropped.
“Thank you,” Flo replied, self-satisfied. “But the real question is…” She took another sip of tea, looked directly at Lucy and Lockwood, and waggled her eyebrows. “Did you two finally snog?”
They both grew bright red, and Lucy choked on her toast as Lockwood spluttered, “We don't—I mean, that's—I don’t think—”
“We just established that we don't remember last night, Flo,” Lucy snapped.
“But maybe you'd remember that, hm?”
“Obviously not!”
“Obviously not you don't remember, or obviously not you didn't kiss?” Kipps asked, and Lucy shot him a venomous look.
“I don't think you did,” George said, clearly glad that the attention was on someone else now. He clicked the stove off. “You two really weren't together all that much during the night, and I saw Lockwood alone right after midnight. I'm not sure about right at midnight, though, since I was, well…”
“Mid-snog?” Kipps offered.
George glared at him and asked curtly, “Why are you still here, again?”
“Taking advantage of the free eggs and toast.”
“Well, not free anymore. I rescind my offer of breakfast, so pay us back for what you've eaten.”
“Fine. Take it from my paycheck.”
“Lockwood, take it from his—”
“George,” Lockwood cut him off wearily, his head resting in his hands.
“Well,” Flo said, setting her tea down with a loud thud. “I saw ol’ Locky and Lucy together right before midnight. Staring at each other all lovey dovey like.” She scooped the fried egg from the pan onto the spatula and took a bite. “So, could'a happened.”
“I dunno, that's sort of just how they look at each other,” Kipps pointed out, and everyone but the “they” in question bobbed their heads.
“Alright!” Lockwood exclaimed—a little too loudly, it would seem, as both he and Lucy winced. “We’re done talking about this. Anyone who wants to continue with the topic can consider themselves off our next case.” He took an aggressive bite of toast, causing crumbs to fall on his shirt in a way that somewhat undercut his glower, but still, the kitchen fell silent.
“Well,” George ventured after a moment, “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Good, you need it,” Kipps muttered.
“Thank you, Kipps,” George responded and clipped his drawing arm as he passed, which took Kipps’s drawing from "Indiscernible Mess" to “Indiscernible Mess With a Line Through It” (ink on fabric). Kipps huffed indignantly, and everyone else returned to their previous activities—Holly to her tidying, Flo to her egg inhalation, and Lucy and Lockwood to their misery.
Upstairs, the bathroom door slammed shut. And then, a few seconds later, it creaked back open.
“Hey team,” George shouted down the stairs. “Why is Lockwood’s rapier shoved down the shower drain?”
A keen observer to this scene would notice a multitude of things in the ensuing chaos. Lockwood paled, dropped his toast, and dashed out of the kitchen, while Lucy remained with her face scrunched up in utter confusion—reasonable reactions, the both of them. Also reasonable was the way that Holly and Kipps stared at the ceiling with their brows tightly furrowed. Peculiar, however, was the wide-eyed look that the two of them shared a second after, not to mention the speed with which they, too, bolted from the room.
Lucy glanced questioningly at Flo, who shrugged and shoved the remainder of the egg into her mouth. They both trailed up to the bathroom, where they were greeted with the sight of Lockwood standing in the tub, tugging with both hands at the hilt of his rapier as if he were trying to draw Excalibur. George stood off to the side, giving suggestions to twist it this way, or angle it that way, or perhaps if you turn on the water…
Meanwhile, Holly and Kipps, standing by the sink, noticed Lucy’s and Flo’s approach and quickly stopped the whispered conversation they were having. They both stared at Lucy intently.
“What?” she snapped.
“Nothing!” Holly said.
“You just, uh…you…look terrible,” Kipps suggested, evoking a snort from Flo.
Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you still here?”
Before Kipps could offer a retort, Holly cleared her throat and in a calm voice declared, “Everybody out, please. I need to use the bathroom for a moment.”
George and Lockwood froze and turned toward her. “What?” George protested. “But we're—”
“It's an emergency.”
The two boys gave her a dumbfounded stare. “What's the emergency?” Lockwood asked.
“It's…my period.”
With the practiced speed of people accustomed to avoiding confrontations surrounding such topics, both of their expressions turned carefully neutral. “Oh,” George replied. “Well, I guess. But hurry if you can because—”
“Yes, yes, I will. Now get out, please.” Holly waved her hands impatiently towards the door, but as everyone dutifully filed out, she grabbed the arms of Lucy and Kipps and pulled them back in. “Not you two,” she hissed.
Lucy, George, Lockwood, and Flo immediately turned toward her with expressions in varying shades of incredulity while Kipps leveled at her an Are you serious? grimace.
“I…” Holly glanced between them. “...need help.”
“You need help…from Kipps?” George questioned.
Holly blinked at him. “Yes,” she said after a moment, and then she shut the door and locked it.
Outside the bathroom, George turned to Flo and Lockwood. “That seems suspicious, right?”
“I don't know, George.” Lockwood shrugged. “Probably best to leave it alone. This type of thing is beyond our understanding.”
“I really don't think it is.”
“Well, maybe we could understand it, but do we need to?”
“If they're doing something suspicious, yes!”
“The correct answer is no. We just bring the heat packs, the tampons, and the chocolate. Metaphorical chocolate, anyway. Lucy usually prefers—”
“Custard, yes, I know. But—”
“What do you think Holly prefers?” Lockwood mused. “Fruit?”
“I don't think it’s actually about her period, Lockwood!”
“Soup?” Flo suggested.
Lockwood hm’ed. “Could be soup. Shall we make some soup?”
“C'mon, Flo,” George insisted. “Don't you think she's being suspicious?”
“Sure, but I could go for some soup. We can torment ‘em later.”
George sighed. “Fine. Let's go make soup.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, Kipps stared at Holly with an expression that was equal parts dread and dismay. “That's the best you could come up with?” he asked. “Flo is never going to let me live this down.”
“Oh, she'll get over it.”
“She definitely will not.”
“Well, it's all I could think of! We need to talk about this alone!”
“But it didn't have to be in here! Or right this moment!”
“Yes, well…maybe I panicked a little. But it's done now, so no point in arguing about it.”
“Holly.” Kipps placed a hand on her shoulder. “I mean this in the worst possible way: you have become very Lockwood & Co.”
“Oh, this coming from you.”
“Excuse me,” Lucy interjected, her voice sharp and her arms folded tightly against herself. “Could one of you tell me what’s going on before I get sick in the toilet?”
“Funny you should say that…”
“Quill!” Holly chided, sending him a glare. She turned to Lucy. “Okay, I have good news and bad news. The good news, or at least I think it's good news, is that you didn't kiss Lockwood last night. The bad news is, it's a bit worse than that. Or I would say it is, anyway. Would you say so, Quill?”
“Mm, depends who knows about it, I suppose.”
“That's a good point.”
“Holly!” Lucy huffed. “Tell me what the bloody hell happened.”
“Right, yes, sorry. So…”
— Dec 31st, 11:59pm —
“Ten!” Holly and Kipps shouted at each other, more or less in sync with the radio and with the rest of their friends gathered in the living room.
“Nine! Eight!” They both grinned clumsily at each other, a bit of bubbly sloshing dangerously close to the rims of the teacups in their unsteady hands.
“Seven! Six! Five!” Maybe Holly couldn’t kiss her girlfriend at midnight, but getting pissed with Kipps had proven to be a surprisingly enjoyable alternative.
“Four! Three! Two! One!” They clinked their teacups together with the carefulness of people who knew they were drunk and were trying not to seem so. But it was a moot effort, as just then—amidst a chorus of “Happy New Year!” from their friends and loud cheering from the radio—Lucy hurried by, jostling Holly’s elbow and sending a splash of champagne hurtling to the ground. Kipps stared at the spill, aghast, as Holly watched Lucy bolt out of the room.
“S’Lucy okay?” she whispered loudly over the sound of a crowd singing Auld Lang Syne over the radio.
“I dunno,” Kipps replied, and then his eyes widened. “Oh my god, what’s wrong with her? Is she okay?”
“I dunno!”
“We should check on her! Oh, but…” Kipps glanced forlornly at his teacup.
Holly waved a hand. “Chuggit,” she declared and promptly followed her own instructions, tipping her head back to down the bubbly in one go. The coughing and the twisted face that this elicited did nothing to dissuade Kipps, who followed suit right after.
“Burns,” he croaked with a wince, but Holly was already pulling the teacup out of his hand, placing it on the nearest table, and then dragging him by the wrist up the stairs. The bathroom door was open, but this struck them as odd since they could hear the shower running.
“Lucy?” Holly called quietly as they rounded the corner. Lucy sat in the bathtub with the shower curtain open, and Holly immediately put up a hand to cover Kipps’s eyes at the same moment that he shut them, though it quickly became apparent that neither effort was necessary.
“Lucy, why’re you showering with your clothes on?” Holly asked, stepping over to kneel beside the tub.
“M’not—” Lucy sniffed aggressively and wiped some of her hair out of her face. “—not showering.”
“Then…what’re you doing?”
This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, and a loud sob wracked Lucy’s chest. “I’d’no!” she wailed. Kipps closed the door behind him. “I- I- I was gonna- I was- was with- Lockwood and then-” A fresh sob rattled her, and she flung an arm towards the toilet, sending droplets of water onto Holly and Kipps.
“Well,” Holly said hesitantly, nose scrunched as she peered into the porcelain bowl, “at least you made it.”
“But dinnit flush,” Kipps muttered and pushed the lever.
“So, you were with Lockwood,” Holly confirmed, “and then you were sick?” Lucy nodded miserably, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes. “Did…something else happen, or…?”
“No!” Lucy cried. “It was- it was going to and then- nothing- nothing happened!” It was going to, Holly mouthed at Kipps, who mirrored her confusion.
“What was gonna happen, Luce?” Kipps asked.
“It was- it was the-” She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face against her soaking wet tights before mumbling something incoherent.
“Come again?”
“Kiss!” she shouted, the word muffled and shaky but unmistakable.
“Oh.” Holly shared a glance with Kipps, who stifled a grin behind his hand. “So…you and Lockwood were going to kiss at midnight?”
Lucy nodded. “Think so,” she mumbled.
“And then you had to throw up because you were nervous?”
Lucy lifted her head at that, sporting an offended scowl. “No,” she spat, dislodging the water droplets that were gathered on her lips, though they were quickly replaced. “Cos the vodka.”
“Oh. I see. So you drank too much, you had to throw up, bad timing, and you didn’t kiss Lockwood?” Lucy burst into another sob, which Holly took as confirmation.
The shower, Kipps mouthed questioningly, gesturing at the stream of water.
“Oh, yes. Okay, and how did you end up in the shower?”
“I dunno!” Lucy whined. “It’s just where I- where I cry.” Holly and Kipps nodded at each other as if to say fair enough.
“Well, how ‘bout we switch to warm water, yeah?” Holly suggested gingerly. “And then you can finish your cry, and we’ll get you into some nice, dry pyjamas.” She reached over to turn off the water but paused with her fingers just shy of the faucet handle. “Lucy, do you realize you’re sitting in three centimeters of water?”
“What does that even mean?” Lucy demanded.
Kipps peered over the side of the tub. “It means you’re sitting in three centimeters of water, Luce. I dunno how she could be clearer about that.”
“I told them to unclog this drain,” Holly hissed, and Kipps started to nod sympathetically before realizing that she was talking entirely to herself. “A month ago—a month ago they told me about it, and I said no, that’s one thing you can do yourselves.” She twisted the handle hard into the off position, and the water stopped.“Sure, they said, no problem.” Gently, she grabbed Lucy’s arm and started pulling her upright. “C’mon, Lucy,” she encouraged and then sharply ordered, “Kipps, go find something to unclog this!” Kipps scrambled to his feet and scuttled off without a word. “But did they do it?” Holly continued in a harsh whisper, “Nooo, of course not!” As Lucy tried to step out of the tub, she tripped slightly on the side, and Holly caught her with a soft, “Oh, Lucy, love, be careful.”
Once Lucy was back on both feet, Holly attempted to pat her dry with a towel, occasionally pushing her back onto balance or murmuring “it’s okay, it’s okay” at a new wave of tears, all the while muttering under her breath about dignity and self respect and taking care of your house is the most important self care.
Kipps returned a minute later and proudly held out his selected declogging tool.
Holly gave him a flat look. “Is that Lockwood’s rapier?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to grab Lucy’s rapier. She’s got enough to deal with!”
Holly considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Right, fair enough. You take a crack at it, I’m going to get Lucy changed.” And she guided Lucy out of the bathroom, leaving Kipps to stab at the shower drain with their boss’s favourite sword.
— Present —
“And then once you were back in dry clothes, you seemed perfectly fine again, so we all returned to the party,” Holly finished. “Well,” she amended, “fine as in no longer on the verge of tears. Not fine as in…sober.” Lucy stared at her blankly and silently, and Holly shot a mildly concerned look to Kipps. “Um. And…here we are.”
“Yeah, and I saw you and Lockwood stumble off up the stairs towards the end of the party,” Kipps added. “If you’re wondering about that part of it.”
Holly nodded. “Right, yes. You both seemed very…out of it. I’m surprised you even made it up that one flight of stairs.”
Lucy continued watching them wordlessly, motionless aside from her eyes flitting between them.
“Uh, you okay, Luce?” Kipps asked hesitantly.
She took in a slow breath, released it, and then finally asked, “You unclogged the shower with Lockwood’s rapier?”
“Well, clearly not successfully,” Holly replied. “But yes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Did it?”
“Alright now,” Kipps protested, “you’re the one who had a cry in the shower with your clothes on.”
“Well, I was obviously drunker than you two!”
“Oh, you were absolutely plastered, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t getting there ourselves!”
“We seem to be getting off track,” Holly interrupted, holding up a hand against further remarks. “The point is, all three of us were drunk, all three of us did stupid things, and all three of us are going to keep our mouths shut about it. Yes?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Agreed.”
—
Kipps broke by lunchtime. Or, more accurately, Flo got him to admit that there was something to tell, and then between her, George, and Lockwood the speculating got so outlandish that Holly had to tell the story to save their reputations.
Fortunately, Lucy wasn’t subjected to this circus as, after the bathroom revelations, she’d excused herself to her room on the premise of feeling unwell. Which was true—she did feel a bit nauseous, but she wasn’t sure how much of that was due to her hangover and how much was due to the knowledge that she’d been this close to kissing Lockwood…and instead vomited, cried, and just generally embarrassed herself to a degree that she could only dramatize in her imagination since she didn’t even remember it.
So excuse her if all she wanted to do was lie face down on her bed with the lights off.
When she heard a rustling at her door, she almost ignored it, as she was rather invested in her newest topic of contemplation—that is, whether crying would make her feel better or simply dehydrate her further. But it continued, the scratching, and though Lucy couldn’t find it in her to care about the cause, she did care that it stopped because it was really quite annoying. She turned her head to the side, ready to shout as much, but there came a knock. “What?” she yelled instead.
“Um, it’s me, Luce.” Lockwood’s voice was muffled through the door. “Can I come in?”
Lucy lifted her head. Was this about last night? It couldn’t be, right? Because as far as he knew, nothing had happened, so probably he was just coming to check if she felt better. Yes, that had to be it. “Uh, it’s locked, one second,” she called and scrambled off her bed and down to the door. She paused, straightened her shirt, and then opened it. “What?” she asked, forcing a monotone voice in an attempt to discourage any sort of lingering.
“Holly and Kipps told us what happened.”
Lucy barked a mirthless laugh. “They—are you serious? What was that, two hours?”
“Um, yes, well, Flo sort of dragged it out of them, and George, and- well the point is…” Lockwood inhaled slowly. “I’m glad we didn’t kiss.”
“Great,” Lucy deadpanned. “I’m so glad you made it a point to tell me that.”
“No, no! Not that I didn’t want…for it to happen, just because...I would've wanted to remember it.” Lucy stared at him, at his cautious expression that was searching her for something, but she didn’t know what he was looking for, and she didn’t know what to say, so she just kept staring at him with her heart in her throat and her hand clamped tightly around the edge of the door.
But he was going to run away, if she didn’t say something. She needed to say something. Because this was always how it went. One of them always got them to ninety percent, but then neither of them would bridge that last ten percent, so she needed to say something before this became another almost-finished sentence lost to the wind.
Except Lockwood didn’t run away. “Anyway,” he continued, “um, I found some mistletoe—you know that tree ornament we have?—and I put it up there,” he glanced up, where the ornament was taped to the door frame, “just to, sort of, make it more festive. But it's plastic, so I think, you know, it could go either way on whether it's valid in the, uh…traditional sense.”
“The…traditional sense?”
“Yes.” Lockwood looked at the mistletoe. Stepped forward so he was directly beneath it. Looked at the mistletoe again. Looked at Lucy.
Oh. In that sense.
“Er, what do you...what do you think?" Lockwood asked, and there it was: ninety-five percent.
The corners of Lucy’s mouth twitched upward. "I think it counts as long as it makes a good attempt to look like mistletoe,” she asserted. Ninety-eight percent.
Lockwood smiled. "Which, it meets that criteria."
"It does."
"So I guess we're basically obligated to—"
Lucy grabbed his face and pulled it down to her own, standing on her toes to meet him halfway. It wasn’t a perfect first kiss—their noses collided, and they were both a bit stiff, and Lockwood’s hand got snagged in Lucy’s hair—but they’d certainly never forget it.
And thank god it was finally over with.