summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
words: 2,086
rating: T
note: helloooo!!! I can't apologise enough for taking so long to update, but the final chapter is finally here! thank you to everyone who stuck around and left kudos and comments, I appreciate you all so, so much!! I hope you enjoy this last chapter :)
“Have you seen my sketchbook?”
Skull chirped. Unhelpfully, he stayed put on his armrest perch, needle-like claws digging into pre-existing rips in the fabric as he tracked Lucy with half-lidded eyes.
Lucy straightened, hands resting on her hips. Strewn around her feet were her various belongings, including the backpack she’d packed and then unpacked in search of her sketchbook, which seemed to have grown legs and gone on a bloody hike while she had her back turned.
A yawn crept up on her as Skull meowed and stretched, back arching against the rising sun filtering through the half-open curtains. Morning had arrived alarmingly quickly; after Lockwood left yesterday evening she found herself physically unable to fall asleep on account of replaying their kiss over and over again in her mind, fixating on every detail (the way he tenderly brushed the hair from her eyes, slender fingers gently trailing down her flushing face until he cupped it with his palm, thumb lightly brushing against her cheekbone as if he were painting minute details on a fragile canvas—)
Lucy rubbed her eyes and shook away the redness blooming in her cheeks. “Sketchbook,” she reminded herself, wondering if it was time to get on all fours and desperately search beneath the furniture under Skull’s judgemental watch. For such a little creature, he contained a remarkable amount of scorn.
The creature in question hopped down from the armrest to the seat of the chair, where he cried out and began kneading (i.e. shredding) the fabric even more. Hands flapping, Lucy shooed him off, then found her sketchbook peering out from between between the cushions.
She shot Skull a questioning look. He was too busy licking his backside to notice.
Lucy flipped through the pages and landed on the sketches for her latest work in progress. In the landscape of a familiar park, a boy and a girl ran through autumn leaves towards the nearest tree to clamber up as their parents watched on fondly, knowing they’d soon be huddled up in a cafe sipping hot chocolates. It turned out Lockwood hadn’t been kidding when he said he wanted to commission her; as soon as she declared Kipps’ painting well and truly finished, he immediately hopped first in line for the next one.
She smiled as her gaze lingered on the young boy. His grin needed altering, it wasn’t quite as wide and gleaming as the real thing yet—though she doubted Lockwood would need much convincing to let her study him for the sake of realism.
It didn’t take too long to repack her bags. As she slid her notebook in and pulled the zipper shut, the front door handle turned. Her head whipped around to look at it in sync with Skull, whose nose twitched as he perked up, trotted over to the door, then turned around and feigned disinterest the second George walked through it.
“Lucy,” he said, before unceremoniously dumping an array of bags on the floor. “Hello. Glad to see he didn’t tear you to shreds.”
Skull circled his feet with an attempted air of nonchalance and purred when George gave him a nice big scratch behind the ears, but soon scarpered back to his armrest perch to watch them both from a distance.
“You were right,” Lucy said. “He is annoying. But also irritatingly likeable.”
“That’s the Skull charm. He manages to wrap you around his little paws without you knowing.”
The door swung open once again.
“Lockwood?” Lucy said.
“Lockwood!”
“George!”
They hugged one another tightly. As she watched them greet each other, faces buried in shoulders, Skull head-butted her and coaxed her into giving him more ear scratches.
“I’d introduce you to each other,” George said slowly as he pulled away, “but it seems you’ve already met.”
Lucy thought back to the phone call Lockwood had taken for her while she was having her crisis and winced.
George frowned. “What?”
She took a breath. “There’s something I need to come clean about.”
“Jesus,” said George. “Don’t tell me you slept with—”
“I lost Skull,” she said quickly, ignoring how Lockwood’s eyes widened. “He got out. We spent ages searching for him but he ended up spending a night outside. We—I—lied to you so you wouldn’t worry. I’m sorry. I can’t apologise enough.”
“Oh. I see.” George turned to Lockwood. “Is it true?”
“…Yes. But it was mostly my fault he got out.” He nodded to Skull, who was still head-butting Lucy and demanding affection. “Lucy’s been amazing with him. She was just about ready to spend the whole night on the streets searching for him until I told her to get some rest. Please don’t hold it against her.”
“Oh, I wasn’t going to anyway. Skull’s a nuisance, I’m not surprised he managed to sneak outside. Thank you for the honesty though, Lucy. I appreciate it.”
Lucy’s shoulders slumped. She caught Lockwood’s eye; the look on his face was undoubtedly one of admiration.
Skull let out a quiet whine when she stopped doting on him to gather her things, but the time had finally come for her to leave. She’d only been in this flat with him for a week, but that little shit had made it feel so much longer.
“Is that the painting?” George nodded to the wrapped canvas leaning against the wall.
“It is,” Lucy said. “It’s finally finished. Thanks again for letting me work on it here.”
“Ask her to show it to you,” Lockwood loudly whispered in his ear.
Lucy shot him a look, but complied when George quirked an eyebrow. Upon the reveal he whistled, long and slow. “Wow. Definitely a Kipps painting. Is that an actual slash in the canvas?”
“Yeah,” Lucy said, “I had some help.” She turned the canvas over and pointed to the bottom corner, where, beside her signature, was a paw print. The matching smiles on George and Lockwood’s faces had Lucy wondering, for a split second, whether they were distantly related.
“Well, I should get going. It was good to meet you both. And you,” she added as she turned to Skull, whose tail flickered as he looked up at her with wide eyes. When she crouched, he gently butted her head. “Goodbye, you bastard. You gave me nothing but trouble and I won’t miss you one bit.”
“I have a few more research trips in mind,” George said. “Would you want to do this next time I’m away? No worries if not, of course.”
“Yes,” Lucy said with no hesitation. Lockwood’s hearty laugh had her grinning ear to ear.
–––
Her phone buzzed as she dumped her bags by the doorway in the same fashion as George. She pulled it from her pocket as she shouted a quick greeting to Holly, who was busy in the kitchen. The smell and sizzles, pops, and crackles of bacon and eggs frying in a pan wafted through the hallway and enveloped Lucy in a comforting, familiar embrace; Holly wasn’t one for fried breakfasts, but she knew Lucy craved them on the weekends.
Sitting in front of a picture of Skull curled in her lap, with a fleck of paint on his ear—she’d set it as her lock screen straight after capturing it—was an email notification from a Q. F. Kipps, confirming when he would pick up the painting.
When Lucy emerged into the kitchen, Holly greeted her with a gleaming smile and a plate of steaming hot, perfectly cooked food.
“Holly,” Lucy practically moaned. “I might end up proposing to you.”
“Oh, I’m not sure how Anthony ‘Legs for Days’ Lockwood would feel about that,” Holly said as she slid into the seat next to Lucy. While Lucy unashamedly ravaged her food like she’d been starving for weeks, Holly carefully cut hers into precise chunks and savoured each mouthful—which isn’t to say Lucy wasn’t savouring hers, she was simply doing so at a much faster, well-practised rate.
“Speaking of,” Lucy said between bites, toying with the runny yolk with the point of her knife, “I might be seeing him again tonight.”
Holly’s eyes widened so drastically Lucy could see it in her peripheral vision. “Lucy Carlyle,” she said, slowly. “You continue to surprise me. Please tell me you’re both acknowledging this for what it is—i.e., a Date with a capital D?”
“‘A proper date’, is what he called it. So, yes.”
Holly excitedly waved her hands, her manicured nails trailing blurred purple streaks in the air with the motion. “Yes! Oh, I’m so happy for you. Both of you. You seem like a great match for each other.”
Lucy carried her empty plate to the sink, popping the kettle on along the way. With her back turned, Holly couldn’t see the smitten smile that crept onto her face. “…Yeah.”
“I can hear your blush.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, though her act of nonchalance crumbled as Holly appeared beside her. Lucy took her plate, added it to the suds-filled sink, and ignored Holly’s all-knowing look.
“Do you want a brew?”
“Green tea, please,” said Holly. “With a side of you spilling every little detail about the past week— oh, it’s like you had a trial week of your future! Your own place with a room just for your art, a good-looking guy, a feisty little cat that matches your personality…”
“And no flatmates prying into my love life…”
Holly playfully swatted her. “I just made you a marriage-worthy breakfast, Lucy.”
“You really did,” Lucy agreed. She poured the boiling water into their favourite mugs—Holly’s, purple with a dainty floral pattern, her name written across it in cursive; Lucy’s, ‘Fuck off, I’m painting’, the memory attached to it making her flush all over again. “So, it started when I thought someone was breaking into the flat, and I panicked and used Skull as my first line of defence…”
–––
One cup of tea turned into three as they both delved into the intricacies of their love lives. It was a conversation topic they’d touched on many times before, but Lucy rarely had much to contribute; it was a nice change of pace to have more to spill than Holly. They allowed themselves a lazy day, lounging in front of the TV, Lucy idly sketching while Holly crocheted. When Lucy eventually remembered to check the time, she realised the day had flown by far faster than she’d anticipated.
“Fuck,” she said, jumping up out of her seat (and the blankets that had been cocooning her). “He’ll be here in an hour.”
“You still haven’t unpacked!”
“I know!” Lucy called over her shoulder. She hauled her bags to her room, upheaved their contents on the floor, and realised these clothes were most certainly not “proper date” material. As if on cue, Holly peered around the doorframe.
“If there was ever a time to wear that blue dress you got from a sales rack on a whim last year, it would be now. Also that one necklace I love. And use that eyeliner that really makes your eyes pop. He’ll fall to his knees.”
“Yes ma'am,” Lucy said. “Hair?”
“I’ll curl it while you do your makeup.”
“What would I ever do without you?”
“Crash and burn, Lucy Carlyle.”
They were, undeniably, a fantastic team. As Holly added one final touch of hairspray, Lucy looked at the final result in the mirror and couldn’t suppress her smile.
Holly let go of her hair with a flourish. “Perfection.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. As her eyes wandered down her reflection, admiring the way the shimmering fabric of her dress hugged her curves just right, she spotted something on her hip. Was that—? It couldn’t possibly be—
“Oh my God,” she said, plucking the cat hair off. “How? I didn’t even bring this dress to George’s.”
The doorbell rang.
Holly jumped. She gave Lucy’s shoulders a gentle push. “He’s here—go!”
Lucy pulled on a jacket as she rushed out of her room, frantically put her shoes on, and hesitated with her hand over the door handle.
“Have fun!” Holly said, following her. “And tell me everything when you get back. Even if it’s tomorrow morning.” She winked.
“Shut up,” Lucy said, though it came out sounding strangled. After a deep breath, she opened the door.
“Lucy,” Lockwood said, sounding breathless the second he saw her. “Hello.”
“Hi,” she said, face warm from the sight of his smile.
He held out his hand. She took it, and away they went.
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
rating: T
words: 1,669
note: heyy it's me again back with ANOTHER au with Skull as a cat, because it's so damn fun to write.
a huge shoutout to my friend @vryfmi for being the sweetest guy ever—his responses to the WIP snippets I shared and his amazing drawings of cat!Skull are things I keep going back to every time writer's block rears its ugly head again, so thank you vry! <3
“How do you feel about cats?”
Lucy looked up. “Cats?”
“Cats,” Holly repeated. She reached out one manicured hand to roll the die and move her piece across the board (Lucy was losing miserably, but it came as no surprise. Holly was a beast at board games). “My friend’s going on a trip this weekend and is looking for someone to cat-sit for a week. He asked me first, but I’m terribly allergic.”
“Which friend?”
“Someone I know from school—George?”
Lucy shook her head. Holly had many connections from her school years (‘posh southern school’, as Lucy once called it, much to Holly’s chagrin) and Lucy was quite content with keeping her distance from them. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s an incredibly smart man. I think he’s going on some sort of research trip.”
As she mulled it over, Lucy rolled the die (a measly 1). “Will he pay?”
“Oh, yes. And he’s promised to stock his kitchen up with nice meals and baked goods.”
This caught her attention. “How long is he away for?”
“A week.”
“What’s the cat like?”
Holly cocked her head. “He’s… interesting.”
Lucy considered this. “And how’s George’s cooking?”
“To die for.”
“I’m sold.”
–––
Lucy checked her phone for the hundredth time.
She stood in front of the door to a flat, overcome with the feeling she was at the wrong place. There was no way an academic who ventures out on research trips would decorate his front door with a sign that said FUCK OFF, I’M WORKING, with a sticker beneath that said COME BACK WITH A WARRANT, right?
Someone loudly cleared their throat behind her. “You gonna knock, or what?”
Lucy whirled around to find a woman—or at least, she assumed it was a woman, but it was somewhat hard to tell beneath the obnoxiously bright puffer coat and wide-brimmed hat. She wasn’t dressed for the weather at all—or, perhaps, she was trying to dress for every single kind at once, if the wellington boots were anything to go by. One of them was tap tap tapping against the floor.
“Er—sorry,” Lucy said, heat flooding her face. “I wasn’t sure if I had the right address. Do you know if a guy named George lives here?”
From beneath the giant hat came a vaguely amused look. One wellington boot took a great big step over to the door, and out of a coat pocket came a fingerless-gloved hand which rapped against the door in a quick, much-too-loud tune. “Let’s find out.”
After a long moment of silent tension (in which Lucy considered whether the cat-sitting gig was worth suffering through the potential social humiliation of it being the wrong door), the door creaked open, revealing a bespectacled man with rather unkempt hair. He squinted at Lucy, but let out a smile upon spotting the puffer coat behind her.
“Flo,” he said in a simple greeting, before turning back to Lucy. “And you are…?”
“Lucy,” she said hurriedly, “Carlyle. I’m here for cat-sitting. We spoke over the phone?”
“Oh, yeah, of course. You’re Holly’s friend. I’m George, and”—an ear-splitting, impertinent meow came from behind him, making him wince—“and that’s Skull. Come in, both of you, but be careful. He’s not meant to go outside.”
“That’s understandable,” Lucy said as she squeezed through the gap he left with the ajar door. “The city can be quite dangerous for cats.”
“Oh, it’s not that I’m worried about. He’s just so fucking annoying, I’d get endless complaints from the neighbours.” George paused. "And, yeah. He'd probably get squashed by a car in the first five minutes.
“He’s a little shit,” the woman—presumably Flo—said as she entered after Lucy.
“Holly did say he was… interesting.”
“That’s one word for him,” George grimaced. “But it’s why I offer food and money for it. Can’t complain about an attention-seeking cat when your mouth’s full of a good curry.”
A small, dark mass circled George’s legs. Skull was a rather lithe cat, and remarkably swift, but what most caught Lucy’s attention was the peculiar markings on his face. Amidst the short, black fur was a cluster of white patches, making his face look like—
“Ah,” Lucy said. “I understand the name now.”
George scooped the black hole into his arms—his sleeves rucked up, revealing an array of undeniably claw-shaped scratches etched across his skin—and gave him a blank stare. Skull stared back, then looked at Lucy, and let out another long yowl.
Both George and Flo frowned.
“He’s usually dead quiet,” Flo said, reaching a hand into her hat to scratch.
Skull continued to stare at Lucy and let out a series of little chirps before wiggling out of George’s grip. Lucy rested her art case—a large, terribly inconvenient thing to carry on the tube, but it was the only thing that would carry all the supplies she needed to work on her current commission—against the wall to free her hands, which she held out to Skull to show him her scent. He gingerly sniffed them before letting out another strange noise.
“He’s usually completely silent,” George agreed. “I’ve never seen him like this before.”
“Does that mean he likes her or hates her?”
George mulled this over. “Maybe both. But before you have a chance to scamper, Lucy, let me show you the kitchen and the freezer stuffed with Tupperware.”
He wasn’t kidding; the freezer truly was jam-packed with servings of various home-cooked meals, ready to be reheated and scoffed. In the fridge was a Swiss roll, freshly baked this morning with the cream still setting, and on the counter was a cooling loaf of bread.
Flo scoffed. “Bloody hell, have you even had time to pack or have you lived in the kitchen for the past week?”
“I’m a master at time management, thank you very much. Use anything you want in this kitchen, Lucy. Also, feel free to use my room for your art stuff. I tidied best I could, but frankly I don’t really care if you get paint anywhere." He eyed her over the rim of his glasses. "As long as it doesn’t get on my comics.”
Lucy blinked in disbelief. A whole week in a nice flat, with a fully-stocked kitchen, no bills or rent, just for looking after one little cat? She couldn’t help feeling like she was swindling this poor man.
George talked her through Skull’s feeding times—a pouch of wet food in the morning, a bowl of biscuits in the evening, be sparing with treats or he’ll just start begging for them 24/7—and pointed out his favourite spots to cause mischief.
“If he gets on the bookshelf, try and get him down, or he’ll gnaw on my books. Also, try and keep him away from the kitchen in general, if you can. He once somehow turned on the hob and almost burnt the place down. And never leave food unattended for long, because he will gobble it all up in a second flat—shit, I need to put that loaf away, actually. Oh, and he can be very trigger-happy with his claws. Try not to startle him.”
Lucy nodded along, wondering if she should be making a note of all this, until George pointed to the small table in the kitchen. “It’s all written on there, in case you forget.”
“…On the table?”
“The cloth,” George clarified. “That reminds me…” He rummaged around in a cupboard and produced a pen, which he handed to Flo. She took it from him with glee and made a beeline to the table. “She likes to leave something on it every time she visits. It’s practically tradition, now. Don’t draw another dick, Flo, be more creative.”
“Fuck off. I’m drawing another dick.”
Lucy felt a weight against her shin and looked down to find Skull head-butting her. When he caught her eye, he let out another yowl.
“That really is weird,” George mused. “You’ve got my number, just in case. The numbers for the vet and their emergency line are on the fridge, too.”
Lucy sucked her teeth. “Hopefully I won’t need those.”
“Nah. You’ll be alright.” He pointed to Skull. “Don’t be a knob. I’ll only be gone for a week.”
Skull head-butted Lucy’s leg again.
Flo rucked up one puffy sleeve to reveal a watch. “We need to get a move-on. Train’s leaving soon.”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute.”
“Oh, are you going with him?” Lucy said, glancing between the two of them. Holly had mentioned George had a research partner. She was certain they were shagging—though she’d phrased it in a politer, more Holly way (something along the lines of “more than platonic”, or “having intimate relations”, or a similarly silly roundabout way of saying it). It only just dawned on Lucy that this may be the shagging research partner in question.
“Yeah. He’d be lost without me.”
“I heard that!” George called from the bedroom. He emerged soon after, sporting a large bag on his back not dissimilar to the one currently weighing Flo down. Stood together, they were an interesting, but definitely odd pair.
Lucy narrowed her eyes. Yeah, she could see it.
She followed them as they waddled to the door, eyes bright and ready to make new contributions to the academic world.
Flo reached for the handle, but George held up a hand in warning. “Watch out for Skull.”
Right on cue, the creature sped for the door. He attempted to whizz through Lucy’s legs, but in one swift motion, she plucked him off the floor and into her arms. In response, he looked her dead in the eyes and screamed.
“Oh, that was smooth,” George said, with a hint of admiration. “Yeah, you’ll be just fine.”
She waved them off down the hallway as George reminded her to call if anything went wrong.
Then suddenly, she was alone.
Skull cried out again and butted her arm.
Well, not quite.
end note: don't worry, Lockwood fans—he may not be present now, but trust me when I say those lanky legs appear in literally every chapter after this one
thanks for reading! comments/reblogs are always appreciated, and my ask box is always open! :)
summary: Lockwood & Co. return home after tackling a tough case, ready to rest up and enjoy their Christmas break.
words: 1,636
rating: T
note: this is my secret santa gift for Daisy (@thesaltwaterdaisy), I hope you like it!! as always, thank you to the lockwood discord for hosting it again :) <3
As Lucy hugged herself to fight off a shiver, the jangle of Lockwood’s keys in 35 Portland Row’s door made relief flood her heavy limbs and aching muscles. Simultaneously numb yet tingling, her feet had been rubbed raw from trekking around in a pair of boots far past the point of ‘comfortably worn in’. Her head throbbed to the tune of an hours-long headache, and stinging cuts littered her calves from tripping over her rapier far too many times to count. But as Lockwood pushed the door open and a wave of warm air rolled over her, it all faded away.
Lucy was home.
And Lockwood & Co.’s Christmas break had officially begun.
“Oh my God,” moaned Kipps. He shut the door and dramatically collapsed against it. “That was a bloody nightmare. Please tell me we’re blacklisting that client.”
Lockwood grimaced as he loosened his tie with a hooked finger. “The thought did occur to me. I’ve never come across someone quite like that before.”
“Well,” Holly said gently. She made quick work of organising everyone’s haphazardly-dumped shoes. “He wasn’t too fond of how you mimicked him.”
“Completely unintentional. It simply happens without me realising.” Lockwood sniffed. “Besides, my Dublin accent is impeccable.”
“Impeccably annoying,” George muttered, worming out of the hallway crowd and towards the kitchen. The click of the kettle perked everyone up, and soon they followed like bleary-eyed sheep.
Lucy hauled the skull jar out of her bag and placed it on the thinking cloth beside one of George’s crude doodles. Stirring at the sudden movement, Skull pulled a face at the drawing—whether it was one of disgust or approval, Lucy couldn’t tell—then cast a judgemental look across the room.
“You lot look like you got hit by a double-decker bus,” he said, before cackling at George’s mid-yawn face. “No, two buses. Consecutively. Then trampled on by horses for good measure.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said. “As if you’re looking any better.”
“I’m dead, Luce. Or did you forget that? Get knocked on the head one too many times tonight?”
“You tell me. You were there the whole night.”
“Unfortunately. That client of yours was a right tosser, wasn’t he?”
Recalling the evening made her groan. She rubbed her eyes in a desperate attempt to scrub it all away.
“Go on, do that again. I bet those wrinkles and eye-bags really turn Lockwood o—”
Lucy shut the jar’s grille. In return, she received a revolting expression and a charmingly rude ectoplasmic gesture.
With the rest of the team distracted making tea and gathering late-night snacks, Lockwood subtly mirrored the gesture back at the jar. He settled into the seat beside Lucy. “What’s he saying?”
“Nothing important.”
“As per,” George added. He doled out the steaming mugs and received a murmured chorus of sleepy thanks. Sitting on Lucy’s other side, George idly picked up a pen and began another thinking cloth masterpiece while Skull watched intently, adding colour commentary that—thankfully—not even Lucy could hear.
Holly and Kipps sat down simultaneously. Their huffs of relief sounded alarmingly similar; they exchanged troubled glances as Lockwood laughed. In the wake of a rather troubling case, it had been far too long since Lucy heard that laugh—not a performative one drenched in politeness, but a true, hearty Lockwood laugh—and the comforting sound of it had her smiling against her mug.
Cupping his mug to coax the feeling back into his hands—or so Lucy presumed, because she was doing the exact same—Lockwood cleared his throat. “Right. Now that case is done and dusted—”
“Paperwork,” said George and Holly, raising their eyebrows over their mugs.
“Now we’ve almost got that case done and dusted,” he continued, “we ought to start thinking about our plans for Christmas.”
Kipps frantically swallowed a large gulp of tea. “Oh, no,” he bemoaned. “Don’t start treating Christmas Day like it’s a case. We don’t need to split up and divvy the responsibilities and tackle this and that, we just need to get absolutely plastered and eat our body weight in food.”
Lucy, who struggled to disagree with that sentiment, looked at Lockwood. Though his tie was loosened and hair had partly fallen out of its styling, he still looked the picture of professionalism. Kipps’ words, however, visibly began to sink in, and Lucy watched closely as Lockwood’s business demeanour wore away bit by bit until what remained was simply a teenage boy living with his friends over the holidays.
“You know what?” Lockwood said, relaxing his shoulders. Kipps eyed him cautiously. “You’re absolutely right.”
“The dinner does need some rigorous planning, though,” George said. “Timings are a bitch to get right. If the roasties burn, I’m killing you all.”
“Duly noted.”
“But we can afford to leave that planning until tomorrow,” Holly said, trailing a manicured finger around the rim of her mug.
“The tree decorating, however, needs doing ASAP,” Lockwood said. “If I have to keep seeing that bare thing every time I lounge in my favourite chair, I’ll soon go mad.”
“Tomorrow,” Lucy promised. Visibly perking up at the first sound of her voice in a short while, Lockwood cast her a gentle smile that made her feel warmer than the tea ever could.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
Once the tea was drained and eyelids had grown heavier, Holly left for home and Kipps retreated into the living room to sleep on the couch in what had become a rather regular occurrence. Honestly, no one minded—slowly but surely, Kipps had integrated himself into the 35 Portland Row dynamic and made it so nothing felt quite right when he wasn’t there.
George watched the door shut behind Kipps before hauling himself to his feet. “I need to sleep for at least twenty-four hours.”
“It would be well deserved,” Lockwood said, watching him go. “Sleep well, George.”
“G’night.”
Lockwood finished the dregs in his mug. “And then there were two.”
Seeing the two of them (almost) alone, Skull began making obscene gestures that Lucy could see in her peripheral but pointedly ignored it. “I’m fucking knackered.”
Laughing, Lockwood rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not surprised. You did really well today, Luce. You deserve a proper break.”
“We do,” she said, lightly drumming her blunt nails against her empty mug. “But right now I’ll gladly just take a proper good sleep.”
“Come on, then.” He stood and held out a hand. Feeling his rough rapier callouses as she entwined her fingers in his, Lucy smiled and let herself be gently tugged upstairs.
When exactly Holly had found a spare moment to wind tinsel and fairy lights up the bannister, Lucy truly wasn’t sure. Part of her wondered how much of a fire hazard it was. The rest of her, however, was in love with its festivity; her inner child lit up with glee as she ran her hand along it.
With a hushed voice, Lockwood spoke over his shoulder. “That reminds me, I have something to show you.”
Leading her into his room, he brushed off Lucy’s whispered questions with teasing smiles. Lucy quietly mourned the loss of warmth when he let go of her hand, but watched intently as he rummaged around in the depths of his cupboard. Behind a myriad of crisp white shirts, smart jumpers, and an alarming amount of old paperwork that George surely didn’t know was stored there was a small box that Lockwood retrieved and held out in front of Lucy.
For a moment, she wondered if he was presenting her with yet another meaningful necklace from his past, but those thoughts were shoved aside by confusion as she carefully opened it.
Inside, sat in padded grooves, were six ceramic bedsheet-style ghosts.
“Look underneath them.”
She carefully pried out the one on the far left. A loop of blue ribbon was attached to its head, and tilting it revealed a flat underside, glazed and white, engraved with a cursive name.
Lucy.
“Oh.” She picked up another—green ribbon, George—and another—red ribbon, Lockwood. Holly’s had a purple ribbon, Quill’s was orange, and the final ghost had a yellow ribbon, though no name on its bottom. Instead, there was a simple drawing of a skull. Her drawing of a skull, taken straight from the thinking cloth. “Oh, Lockwood.”
“One for each of us.” Sheepishness crept into his voice. “I thought it’d be nice to put them on the tree.”
Lucy gently held the ghosts in her cupped palms. “They’re lovely. We could each hang our own.”
“I’d like that very much,” he said, voice dropping even quieter. “Though Skull might struggle with his.”
She let out an ugly snort of laughter. Together, through yawns and drooping eyes, they carefully rearranged the ghosts back into the box. A voice in the back of Lucy’s mind reminded her that her own room was just a staircase away, but as she watched Lockwood change out of his workwear and wind down for the night, she quashed it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Lockwood seemed to catch her make that internal decision. He threw one of his baggier t-shirts at her. As she lacked the frame of a lanky teenage boy, the borrowed t-shirt clung to her torso far more than it ever did on Lockwood, but the soft fabric and its comfortingly familiar smell made her not care at all.
They crawled into his bed together, curling up beneath the sheets and hissing when cold feet suddenly pressed against bare skin. After a moment of adjusting sharp elbows and knees and wrapping their arms around each other in a way that guaranteed intense pins and needles the next morning, they fit together like puzzle pieces.
Lucy fell asleep in Lockwood’s arms, dreaming of little ghosts in trees, fairy lights and tinsel, and home.
Lucy is hiding something. Potty is certain it’s a sinister secret, while Placid isn’t so sure.
Either way, Alfendi is determined to get to the bottom of it… but with repressed feelings and fears clouding his vision, will he be able to solve Lucy’s complex puzzle in time?
words: 9,856
rating: T
notes: this was written for @proflaytonbigbang 2024! I had so much fun participating and it was an honour to be teamed up with such incredible artists, @dreamooarts and @maekyart—their art for this fic is amazing, please go check them out and give them so much love! :)
Lucy was hiding something from him.
It became apparent to Alfendi first thing that morning. He favoured arriving at the office early and settling in while everything was still quiet and calm; it gave him ample time to prepare for the day before his colleagues burst in with a barrage of questions, unsolved cases, and a mishmash of other responsibilities that somehow fell under Alfendi’s authority.
The Mystery Room was tucked into a far corner of Scotland Yard, rendering the route to the dingy office long and convoluted, but Alfendi knew it like the back of his hand. Humming a tune under his breath, he relished the calm atmosphere as he made his way through the winding corridors.
Taking a quick detour into the staff kitchen along the way, he popped the kettle on and retrieved two mugs. A teabag in each; a teaspoon of honey in his, two sugars in Lucy’s. He poured the boiling water into his mug and left the other for Lucy to fill and pick up when she was due to arrive in—Alfendi checked his tattered wristwatch—forty minutes.
He fished for his keys in his coat pocket as he turned the corner and approached the door to the Mystery Room, but stopped short of sliding the key into the lock upon hearing voices on the other side.
“No, he can’t find out. Gotta keep it all nice n’ hush-hush.” It was Lucy’s voice, clear as day—Alfendi would recognise it anywhere. She kept it a low murmur, which was just as unusual as her being in the office right then… if Alfendi knew anything about Lucy Baker, it was that she was loud, proud, and almost always running at least ten minutes late.
He checked his watch again and gently smacked it. Had he forgotten about daylight savings? Was he, in fact, the late one? No, no, that couldn’t be it; he hadn’t encountered anyone else on his way here.
“Good luck pulling that off.” The second person was even quieter and hard to make out, but the whopping sneeze they followed up their reply with tipped him off: Florence. “Al’s impossible to sneak anything by.”
Alfendi startled, grip tightening on his mug to prevent it from shattering at his feet.
‘They’re hiding something from us? What in the hell are those two going on about?’
He shook his head; it was both an answer and an attempt to deter his rousing alternate self. The other Al—or as Lucy liked to call him, Potty Prof—had begun to stir, and he brought along with him the beginnings of a headache. Alfendi scrunched his brow and pressed his ear closer to the door.
“Oh aye, but I bet we can give it a good go. I know it’s normally dead hard to hide stuff from Prof, but he’d never suspect summat like this.”
“I suppose if anyone can do it…” Florence paused to blow her nose; Alfendi waited for her to continue with bated breath. “It’s you. Al’s always been quite fond of you. He’d let you get away with murder.”
‘Fond? Hah! What a load of codswallop.’
No, he had to admit he’d become rather close with his assistant since her appointment. They were approaching one year since Lucy joined him in the Mystery Room, and now Alfendi couldn’t imagine working without her. Fond, however, was a word he would have struggled to come up with by himself.
Lucy let out a laugh. It was a sudden jump in volume from her secretive whispers and sounded much more like the Lucy he knew. “Ee, bit extreme, Flo.”
“I’m right and you know it. Anyway, he’ll be here soon. You’re never here to see it, but Al runs like clockwork in the morning. Always gets here at the same time. I’ll make myself scarce, and you ought to have a good reason for being here so early or he’ll be on your case in seconds.”
“Right you are, Florence. See you in a bit.”
Florence’s wheels creaked as she approached the door.
Alfendi’s head whipped around in a calculating panic. With his long legs, there was a 74.3% chance he could make it around the nearest corner and be out of sight when she emerged into the hallway. If he stayed put, there was only a 47.8% chance he could provide a convincing reason as to why he was lingering by the door. Florence’s gaze had a way of unnerving him at the worst of times, making her remarkably hard to lie to.
‘Christ, you’re making this difficult. Move over.’
Lucy once asked him what it felt like to switch between Placid and Potty. It was hard to articulate, but after a long moment of thought and a few sips of tea (good for the mind, according to his father), he described their control over the body as driving a car. While one was driving, the other sat in the passenger seat, watching passively. Upon heightened emotion or stimulus, the passenger would switch their seats and take control of the car. A more recent development was the discovery they could take the wheel through sheer will and force, which led to Alfendi taking a rare week off work on account of the constant switches and never-ending migraines. In the end, Lucy was the one who helped pull them out of their cerebral war.
It felt like a dagger through his brain as Potty hauled Placid out of the driver’s seat and stomped on the accelerator. In a matter of seconds, he threw himself down the hallway and around the corner, then pressed flat against the wall as he tried to steady his shallow breath and racing heart.
Al listened to Florence roll out of the Mystery Room, close the door behind her, and head off in the opposite direction.
He heaved a sigh and gave himself a well-deserved gulp of tea. Those sneaky pests had been talking about him. About hiding something from him.
‘It’s alarming, but I’m sure it’s nothing a bit of communication won’t fix.’
Al stared at the ceiling, listened to his calmer counterpart’s reasoning, and immediately brushed it off as the words of a hypocrite. Neither of them were capable of clear communication, it’s what got them into most of their messes.
‘You’d think we would learn a lesson from that.’
Not today. Al steeled himself, took another swig from his mug, and strode back over to the door.
‘No, no. Let me handle this.’
He rolled his eyes but grudgingly complied, handing over the reins to their shared body.
Alfendi gently opened the door.
Lucy was nowhere to be seen. He reminded himself to act naturally despite her unexpected absence—after all, he wasn’t supposed to know she was there. Still, he moved with caution as he went through the motions of settling in for the day.
He leisurely sipped at his tea as he booted up the crime scene reconstruction device and wondered just how long Lucy planned on staying hidden. Was she going to try and sneak out and waltz in through the door at her actual start time? Or—
Lucy sprang up from beneath her desk and Alfendi choked so hard on his tea he feared for his life. Placid was once again flung to the passenger seat.
“Morning, Prof!”
“Lucy!” Al spluttered. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Eh-up, Potty! Good morning to you, too.” She smiled from ear to ear and adjusted her wonky cap. “I got you right good there, didn’t I?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he hissed as he made a futile effort at wiping the tea from his clothes (maybe now, he thought, he’d have a good excuse to change out of Placid’s awful attire). “Wasting company time surprising your superiors is not a good look, DC Baker.”
“Ooh, don’t DC Baker me. Besides, it’s not my working hours yet, int’ it?” Lucy gently took the mug from his hands with a grimace. “I didn’t expect you to be drinking summat, though. I’m dead sorry, Prof.”
“You’d better be.” He yanked it from her hands, drained its measly dregs, and dropped it back on his desk. “Why are you early? What are you up to?”
“Gonna interrogate me like some crook?”
He stood up, leaning forward to emphasise the extra height he had on her. “Maybe I will, Baker.”
‘Stop antagonising her.’
Al knew Lucy could take it. She looked up at him with a defiant grin. “Do your worst.”
A twinge of pain in the back of his head signalled a switch, and Alfendi gently shook away the pain. “Enough of this. Good morning, Lucy. Could you help me wipe all this tea from my desk?”
“‘Course, Prof. I really am sorry about that.”
“Water under the bridge, Luce. Though I am curious as to why you’re here early in the first place.”
“My desk’s been all wobbly these past few days, but I’ve had no time to get round to fixing it, you see? Thought I’d pop in a bit earlier to sort it out before getting stuck in our work.”
“Then I arrived, and you thought it a fantastic opportunity to practise the art of surprise?”
“Exactly!” Then came another one of Lucy’s big toothy grins, and Alfendi almost completely forgot about her strange, secretive behaviour.
‘I’ve taught her well. She delivered that lie with a terrifying amount of confidence.’
Of course, he couldn’t let the blatant lie slide. Despite Lucy’s charm and swift conversational skills, Alfendi was still determined to get to the bottom of her hushed exchange with Florence. He simply needed subtlety and patience—both of which Potty lacked, so it was vital to keep him chained to the passenger seat for as long as possible.
—
“Christ, Prof, this one’s hard to crack.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Alfendi reluctantly peeled himself away from the crime scene reconstruction and out of the horribly hunched position he’d been stuck in for far too long. He held back a groan as he stretched his aching back, which let out a series of satisfying pops.
‘You’re making us look like an old man. Fix your damn posture.’
Much easier said than done. When engrossed in the intricacies of methods, motives, and murder, sitting straight was hardly high up on Alfendi’s list of priorities.
Staying put in his wheeled office chair, he pushed himself back over to his desk. Just a few feet away, Lucy perched on the edge of her desk with several papers in hand, teeth worrying the chapped skin of her lips as she concentrated. While Alfendi inspected the nooks and crannies of the crime scene, she had been tasked with analysing the many disturbing letters supposedly written by one of their culprits. Alfendi knew where he currently stood with them—there were too many inconsistencies for them to be genuine, though he was yet to determine who the true writer was—but he valued Lucy’s insight, so kept quiet about his suspicions to see if she arrived at the same conclusion, or was able to point out something he’d missed.
“We’ll find a weak spot in this case somewhere, I’m sure of it. We’re a rather formidable team, if I may say so myself.”
Lucy grinned. “Right you are, Prof. Though if I go on any longer without another cuppa, I might not survive the day.” She hopped off her desk. “Want one?”
“That would be lovely, Luce. Thanks.”
The door shut behind her, rendering the room oddly quiet. He’d worked here for years before Lucy’s arrival, not just in the Mystery Room, but out on the field, across various departments, with the burning determination to make something of himself—just like his father—helping him gain experience and succeed in (almost) everything he attempted. Lucy had only been by his side for a fraction of his career, but she’d crash-landed into it and made such an impact on his entire life that her absences were now painfully noticeable.
Alfendi filled the sudden Lucy-shaped hole with paperwork, as it was rare for the office to be quiet enough for him to concentrate on it.
The minutes ticked by, and Potty became increasingly agitated. ‘Get back to the crime scene.’
Alfendi pointedly ignored the demand.
‘This is my body, and I refuse to let its time on this Earth be wasted looking at reports and stupid official documents. Get back to the murder—I want to take a closer look at the body’s surroundings.’
“You sound like a child on the verge of a tantrum,” Alfendi murmured, absently tapping the tip of his pen against his lower lip.
‘And you sound like a condescending knob.’
Charming.
‘At least get up to see where Baker’s gone off to. It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to make tea unless you’re brewing up for a whole bloody army. She’s up to something.’
Alfendi double-checked his watch. He made a good point. She had been gone for a while, but fifteen minutes wasn’t the end of the world.
‘It is when she’s hiding something from us, you moron. Go and find her, or I will.’
He grudgingly gave in to curiosity and obliged.
As he headed for the door, his eye caught on the papers Lucy left on her desk. They were photocopies of the letters—the real ones were stored away somewhere, safe from the threats of spilt tea and other miscellaneous stains—with red pen scribblings in the margins.
Where words written by Alfendi were small, spiky, and appeared to be running away from something, Lucy’s were large, rounded, and demanded attention. Admittedly, her notes were always much easier to read. He skimmed her annotations and was pleased with what he found; she’d already taken notice of the inconsistencies, and though she was yet to work out what it all meant, Alfendi was confident she wasn’t far from it. A small smile graced his face as he continued towards the door.
As Alfendi approached the kitchen and heard two distinct voices having a hushed conversation—or at least, a poor attempt at keeping it hushed—he was struck by a wave of deja vu. He pressed himself to the wall beside the doorway and caught the tail end of Lucy delivering the same rundown she’d given to Florence that morning. “…and you’ve gotta keep your lips sealed tight, yeah? Don’t want him to catch wind of what we’re doing.”
“Mum’s the word! You can count on me, Lucy.” A stomp and a whoosh of air followed—it didn’t take much to work out it was Sniffer, giving a mock salute. “The Inspector will be none the wiser.”
‘What the fuck.’
Indeed. Alfendi narrowed his eyes.
“Aye, that’s what I like to hear. While you’re here, d’you want a cuppa?”
“No thanks, caffeine sends me a tad haywire. Detective Lawson never let me— ah. Oh.” He took a deep, shaky breath, and sniffed away tears.
Potty mentally rolled his eyes so hard it almost physically hurt. ‘Not this again.’
A spoon clattered in a mug. “Ee, Sniffer, you know he’s not worth all this.”
“I know, I know, but he was my old gaffer for years. Crook or not, it’s no easy feat adjusting to working without him. You’d be the same if it happened to Inspector Layton.”
“I suppose, but… I’ve already proven Prof’s no criminal. If he left this place, it’d be on his own terms.”
“And you’d crash and burn without him.”
“Absolutely not,” Lucy scoffed. “I’d do just fine without him. This gal could thrive anywhere, with anyone, thank you very much!”
It was undeniably true, but that made it no less hard to hear. Alfendi resisted the urge to put a stop to the conversation.
“Ouch! Salt straight in the wound! We don’t all have that ability, Lucy.”
Sniffer was moving back towards the subject of Lawson. Since the incident, Alfendi had learned the best tactic for dealing with Sniffer and his strong feelings towards his ex-boss was to keep him distracted. If he were in Lucy’s shoes, he would gently swerve the conversation in a different direction, wrap it up quickly, and retreat back into the office ASAP.
“Maybe not, but you do have the ability to help me with that project I mentioned.”
The execution was flawless, but the new—or rather, rehashed—choice of topic was questionable.
“Aye aye, cap’n! Just send the deets on over and it’ll be smooth sailing from here. Hopefully. Potentially.” A long, uncertain pause followed, interrupted only by the sound of Lucy stirring mugs of tea. “His shenanigan radar is hyper-sensitive. It’ll be hard to sneak all this under his nose— oh, that was a dodgy turn of phrase. I wasn’t taking the mickey, honest!”
Alfendi slowly raised a hand to the centre of his face as he heard Lucy stifle a laugh. He felt Potty reach for a snarky insult to direct at Sniffer before faltering as the pang of self-consciousness hit him too.
He found one eventually. ‘Dickhead.’
“Don’t fret, I know you meant nowt by it.”
“Oh, it’s all quite thrilling, isn’t it? Our own little espionage mission! Keeping secrets from an Inspector!”
“Eh-up, Sniffer, keep your voice down,” Lucy hissed.
“I’m sorry, Lucy, but I’m all riled up now! This’ll be one of the highlights of our career!”
‘I’m not listening to this any longer.’
Placid was shoved aside. Al waltzed into the kitchen.
Sniffer had his back to Al as he gesticulated wildly; he was none the wiser to the sudden extra company. Lucy’s eyes widened as she caught sight of Al over his shoulder.
He loomed over Detective Sergeant Hague. “Highlight of your career, you say?”
Sniffer yelped and practically shot ten feet into the air. “Inspector Layton! I didn’t hear you come in, you’re sneakier than a—”
Placid could shove his optimism. Al was—in Sniffer-speak—going to squeeze the lad until he squeaked like a mouse on helium and spewed his guts all over the floor.
‘Christ.’
“Tea’s almost ready, Prof! I’ll be back with you in a sec. Just got caught up telling Sniffer all about our tough case.”
“Oh, really?” Al cocked his head. “What does he think about the letters?”
Sniffer’s gaze darted nervously between the two of them. “The… letters?”
“Yes, the letters. A crucial piece of evidence our dear Lucy’s been poring over the past few hours. Surely she must have mentioned them? It would be difficult to thoroughly discuss the case without doing so.”
“Er, yes! Of course, the letters, the letters… They were very… suspicious?”
“Much like the man stood in front of me. What were you really talking about, Detective Sergeant?”
Sniffer blanched, and for a moment it looked like he was going to take the gut-spewing metaphor and make it disgustingly literal.
“Lucy’s the ringleader! She’s in charge, I’m merely a lackey! Have mercy, Inspector!”
Lucy guffawed. “By ‘eck, Sniffer, you made that well too easy.” Before Alfendi could rain hellfire upon the suspect, Lucy shoved a mug into his hands and steered him out of the kitchen.
The press of her hand on his back and the warmth of the mug seeping into his palms calmed him, and soon Placid had the reins again. They walked side-by-side back to the office.
“I’m terribly sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean to pry. You were gone for quite some time, so I…”
“Thought you’d have a grand ol’ time earwigging instead of working?”
“I didn’t come looking for you with the sole intent of eavesdropping, but if you heard your name in a hushed conversation, you’d be tempted to listen in, too.”
Lucy paused. “Er— yeah, alright. I’ll let you have that one.”
Alfendi gently scoffed and sipped his tea—she’d brewed it perfectly. “Am I allowed to be privy to whatever you’re masterminding?”
“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, Prof. Me, a mastermind? Give over!”
“Sniffer distinctly referred to you as a ringleader—”
Lucy opened the office door with a flourish and bounded over to her desk. “Oh, Prof, I realised something while I were in the kitchen!” She waved the photocopied letters in the air and stabbed a finger at her scribblings. “These bits, they’re inconsistent with what we know about the victim’s death, and the handwriting doesn’t match our other samples at all. It’s a fake! A forgery! If we find out who really wrote it, I reckon this case’ll come flooding open!”
Shit. He couldn’t resist the pull of being so close to cracking a case.
‘Don’t let her gaslight us. We know now she’s definitely hiding something. It could be sinister.’
Alfendi would figure it out; he just had to play his cards wisely.
—
While most people would rather gouge out their own eyes than continue toiling away in the office after hours, Alfendi didn’t really mind it. Late evenings in the Mystery Room weren’t dissimilar to the early mornings—quiet, peaceful, and subsequently a prime time to be productive.
Their previous case, as Lucy predicted, was relatively simple to crack once they’d figured out the person behind the forged letters. The next one to be dropped on their desks, however, was proving to be much more frustrating. They had scoured over every detail in the paperwork, every nook and cranny of the crime scene, and between them had consumed at least fourteen cups of tea, but come five p.m. their leads were close to non-existent.
It was a Friday, which meant that any work left unfinished would plague the back of Alfendi’s mind through the whole weekend, and as such he was determined to finish the working week on, at the very least, a slightly satisfying note.
Just one lead was all they needed, then they’d be set to kick off the next week refreshed, well-rested, and with a clear thread to follow.
Finding one, however, was much, much easier said than done.
“How d’you feel about pizza, Prof?”
Alfendi looked up at her over the soft glow of the reconstructed crime scene. “In general?”
Lucy gently scoffed. “No, I mean for tonight. Can’t keep slaving away without a bit of grub for energy, eh?”
“That’s not a bad idea, actually. Would you mind placing the order? My card is…” He faltered. “Er, I’m actually not sure.”
“I’ll hunt it down, don’t you worry! How’re things with the crime scene?”
“So far, uneventful. Every time I think I’ve found something of interest, it either leads to nothing or something entirely unhelpful. It’s frustrating; no killer is perfect. They must have left something.”
‘It’d be easier to solve if you’d stop gawking at this screen and view the actual crime scene. Your aversion to fieldwork is downright embarrassing.’
Alfendi wasn’t fond of acknowledging Potty as his ‘true’ self; but it was common knowledge among the veteran staff of Scotland Yard that prior to the incident, Al was a real go-getter. He had been allergic to being cooped up in an office, with an insatiable hunger to get out there and see crime scenes and victims in person. Now, with Placid in control most often… he was the complete opposite. Alfendi wasn’t sure where it came from, but he knew he now enjoyed the comfort of the Mystery Room far too much to frequently leave it.
‘It’s pathetic, really.’
Alfendi rolled his eyes; it wasn’t unusual for Potty to get rather snappy after a long bout of staying inside.
As he zoomed in on the suspiciously warped floorboard beside the body, he was hit by a sweet scent and a sudden weight at his side. Startled, he spun in his chair, only to find Lucy pressed close to him as she dug around in his lab coat pocket.
“Card’s not in your bag, or your proper coat, so…” She rummaged around some more, before moving onto the other side. “By ‘eck, Prof, you keep a right load of tat in here. It must weigh you down a ton!”
Alfendi purposefully kept his line of sight locked off to the side; Lucy was deep into his personal space, and the angle at which she leant forward screamed unprofessionalism. “Lucy,” he said slowly, “you could’ve asked me to check my pockets myself.”
“Yeah, but you were busy,” she countered. “Besides, I’ve always been curious to know what you actually keep in them— eh-up, is that a mini stapler?”
He thought her incredulity was misplaced. “It’s handy to have when dealing with paperwork.”
The office door swung open and crashed against the adjoining wall. Dustin Scowers backed into the office, rear end protruding into the room accompanied by a jaunty whistle. Along with the rest of Dustin came a cleaning cart decked with the standard supplies that allowed Scotland Yard to keep a pretence of being organised and in order.
Alfendi caught his eye. Dustin cursed and practically shot into the air.
“Jesus, I thought everyone’d gone home! Sorry to barge in on yous—” Dustin paused. His gaze darted to where Lucy was practically bent over Alfendi’s lap, digging deep into his pockets. Alfendi became painfully aware of how awful the scene looked from Dustin’s line of sight and felt heat flood his face.
Dustin grimaced. “Er… is it a bad time?”
Lucy shot up straight, the prized debit card held aloft with pride. “Found it! Oh, hiya, Dustin.”
Dustin’s eyes narrowed. He spoke with a hint of uncertainty. “Hiya, Lucy. Al.”
“Dustin.” Alfendi plastered on a polite smile. “Will we be in your way if we stay?”
“Nah, you’re alright. Don’t mind me.”
Lucy retreated back to her desk to order food and resume work; Alfendi missed her warmth at his side more than he cared to admit.
It was considerably harder to concentrate with the cleaner’s incessant whistling coming from the other side of the room. The promise of impending pizza, however, was helping keep Alfendi’s mood (and Potty in general) in check.
Clearly, he appeared far more engrossed in his work than he actually was; Dustin began to talk to Lucy as if Alfendi couldn’t hear him at all.
“Everything still going to plan with the— the thing?” he said conspiratorially as he wrestled an overflowing bin bag out of its container. Alfendi kept his head down and pretended to be unaware of the conversation unfolding a few feet away.
“Er…” Lucy swivelled in her chair to check that Alfendi wasn’t looking, then turned back to Dustin with a whisper. “Yeah. Keep your voice down, though.”
“Gotcha. You’re dead good at all this, Lucy. Proper little mastermind, you are.”
“Ee, don’t, it’ll go straight to my head. D’you need a hand with that?”
Dustin grunted and strained, and eventually, the bin bag came free. He tied it with practised ease. “Pro bin-emptier, me. Don’t need no help. But if you need any more help with… you know what, I’m your guy, yeah?”
“Aye. Glad I can count on you, Dusty.”
Dustin beamed. “‘Course.”
‘What the fuck.’
Indeed. Alfendi continued staring at the crime scene but was taking in none of the details; his brain had gone blank, aside from repeating the conversation he’d just overheard.
‘Do they think we’re dense? Do they genuinely think we couldn’t hear that?’
With anyone else, the notion would’ve been absurd, but with Alfendi… he’d gained his workaholic reputation long ago. If anyone were able to be so engrossed in their work to become completely deaf and blind to the obvious goings-on around them, it would be him.
Alfendi stole a glance up at Dustin, only to find that he was looking right back at him. The cleaner startled, grip tightening on his duster, and attempted a casual lean against the wall that was, by a long shot, not casual whatsoever.
Right by Dustin was the Mystery Room’s calendar, full of notes scribbled in three distinct colours: green for Lucy, blue for Placid, and red for Potty. It was the epitome of organised chaos.
Dustin nodded towards it. “Big day coming up, eh, Al?”
Lucy visibly tensed and shot him a deadly look. All that time spent working with her meant Alfendi knew she was holding back the urge to, in her words, “completely wallop the lad”, though he couldn’t ascertain what exactly had elicited that reaction from her.
Alfendi frowned. “Big day?”
Dustin gave him an incredulous look and pointed to a square in next week’s row, filled with a crudely drawn gift, balloons, and cake. It was entirely green, with not a fleck of blue or red to be found. Scribbled at the top was ‘PROF BDAY!!!!!!’.
‘Since when was that so close?’
Alfendi truly wasn’t sure.
“How’s it feel to be almost thirty?” Dustin grinned.
“Er…” He faltered, then glanced over to Lucy, who was still glaring daggers at Dustin. She must have felt his gaze on her, however, and quickly turned to grace him with a smile.
“Thirty int’ that old, Prof, don’t worry.”
‘Liar.’
“You got any plans?” Dustin asked, before giving Lucy a ridiculously conspicuous wink. With the pressure of their current case already weighing him down, Alfendi couldn’t work out what was going on between these two for the life of him. Maybe, he thought nonsensically, Dustin had inhaled one too many dust particles.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” he admitted. “I’ve never been one for celebrations. Birthdays are just like any other day.”
“Oh.” Lucy’s shoulders slumped. “That’s dead sad.”
“Right?” Dustin said. “Someone oughtta do something about that.”
Something snapped within Lucy. In a split second, she crumpled the nearest piece of paper into a ball (please don’t let that be an important document, Alfendi silently pleaded) and lobbed it at Dustin’s head.
“The office looks spick n’ span now, don’t you think? You should get a move on to the rest of the building,” Lucy said to him, a not-so-innocent smile plastered on her face.
‘Oh, that was a fantastic shot. Do you see that deadly look on her face? She’s incredible.’
Lucy Baker was incredible, Alfendi had to agree, but she was also downright puzzling. What on Earth was she getting up to?
—
“A field case! Prof! We get to go outside!”
Alfendi grimaced at Lucy’s high-pitched squealing. “You were outside just ten minutes ago before you entered the building.”
“That int’ the same thing and you know it,” Lucy insisted, shoving the case-info papers into his hands. They had been hand-delivered that morning and detailed a case that was far too complex to recreate from the comfort of their office, requiring them to go and visit the crime scene in person.
“Oh, this is well exciting! It’s in a dead lovely part of the city, too—oh, we could grab lunch while we’re out! Or a coffee and fancy little pastries… Maybe we could even shop and jazz your wardrobe up a bit!”
‘Couldn’t agree more with that last part,’ Potty mentally chimed in. ‘If you wear this god-awful striped jumper one more time, I’m offing us both.’
“Lucy,” Alfendi said slowly. “A whole family was brutally murdered in their sleep.”
“Ee, yeah, my heart goes out to them. Proper sad stuff, that is. Which is why we should make sure to do some fun things while we’re out, so we don’t make ourselves dead depressed!” Lucy grinned, clearly pleased with her line of reasoning.
A half-hearted protest began to leave Alfendi’s mouth before he realised she made a good point. He skimmed the case information again, and caught a glimpse of a photo of one of the victim’s stuffed animals, covered in…
“On second thought, a pastry sounds quite nice.”
Lucy’s celebratory cheer could be heard throughout all of Scotland Yard.
After far too long a journey on the humid, overcrowded tube, followed by hours of poring over the nauseatingly disturbing crime scene, Alfendi’s brain was well and truly fried. The tragedy visibly took its toll on Lucy, too—as they left the building and stepped back out into the bustling London streets, she was uncharacteristically quiet.
“You did well in there.” He spoke softly. “You noticed some crucial details I’d completely overlooked. I’m glad to have you by my side.”
Lucy looked up at him, wide-eyed. Her mouth wobbled for a split second before it stretched into a smile. “You flatter me, Prof.”
“I mean it, Lucy. Now, shall we find a cafe?”
Seeing her face light up was the highlight of his day—no, week.
They struck gold with the first cafe they came across. Though London’s dreary weather stopped them from picking an outside table, the inside was a sight to behold. Soft instrumentals danced through the air while people stirred steaming mugs and chatted to one another surrounded by plants adorning the walls and windowsills. Normally, so many people, noises, and generally being in public would be something Alfendi avoided at all costs, but with Lucy by his side, he found he didn’t mind it one bit. She deeply inhaled the scent of baked goods and brewing tea before grabbing his hand and pulling him over to the counter.
The cashier smiled at their arrival. “My, you two certainly make a cute couple! What can I get for you both?”
‘What?!’
Alfendi blanched, subconsciously tightening his grip on her hand and praying his weren’t too clammy. Any attempts at protesting or explaining their situation were futile, because his mouth refused to work.
Lucy simply laughed. “I’ll have a breakfast tea and, ooh… there’s so much to choose from! I think I’ll go with some of that lemon drizzle, please. What about you, Prof?”
‘Why didn’t she correct the cashier? Why are we still holding her hand?’
There were too many things to think about at once, so Alfendi tried focusing on the most prominent one: placing his order. “Er, an Earl Grey and… an almond slice, please.”
‘Boring.’
While Alfendi retreated in on himself, Lucy struck up a full conversation with the cashier, who seemed more than happy to reciprocate her cheer. It suited Alfendi, who had never been one for socialising.
‘Speak for yourself.’
Soon enough, they were seated. Lucy had picked out a table tucked away in the corner, furthest away from most people. Whether she purposefully did it to suit Alfendi’s preferences, he wasn’t sure, but he appreciated it either way.
“Oh, that lemon drizzle looked so nice. I can’t wait to demolish it.”
She was back to her usual spirits, which was a comforting sight. However, Alfendi was soon distracted by the thing that had been plaguing his mind since they stepped up to the counter. “Lucy,” he said slowly. “Why didn’t you correct the—”
“Breakfast tea and an Earl Grey?” A waitress materialised beside them, carefully placing their mugs and saucers on the table. “The rest of your order will be with you shortly.”
Lucy took a sip of her scalding drink straight after thanking her. The regret was immediately visible on her face; she fanned her mouth as her eyes widened.
‘It’s incredible how someone so good at her job can have no common sense outside of it.’
Once her panic died down and she forcefully gulped down the boiling hot tea in her mouth, Alfendi tried again. “So, Lucy. About what the cashier said—”
A jaunty jingle emitted from Lucy’s pocket. She started and, upon checking the caller ID, looked puzzled. “It’s the Commissioner...?”
Alfendi frowned. If he was calling about their current case, it would make sense for him to call Alfendi first, as he was Lucy’s superior. So why was he—?
‘Unless he’s not calling about the case, you idiot. Have you already forgotten all about Baker’s secret little escapades? What if Barton’s in on it, too?’
Now that was highly unlikely. He could easily imagine Florence, Sniffer, and Dustin following Lucy like sheep, but the Commissioner? Alfendi held back a scoff. No way in hell would he—
“Hello? Ah, yes! Er—it’s not the best time… is it urgent? Oh. Oh! Okay, one sec.” Lucy lowered the phone and muffled the speaker with her hand. “Prof, I need to take this. Be back in a jiffy, alright?”
‘She wouldn’t need to be secretive if this was a case-related call.’
Alfendi internally thanked Potty for stating the painfully obvious.
He watched her through the cafe’s front window as she took the call. Nothing else seemed amiss, until he saw her mouth distinctly move in the shape of his name.
‘They’re talking about us. Why the hell are they talking about us?’
His unique name meant when her mouth moved the same way again, there was no denying it. She was talking about him to Commissioner Barton.
Alfendi narrowed his eyes and ignored the strange look given to him by the waiter who stopped by to put their cakes on the table. Lucy became more animated as the conversation went on, saying Alfendi’s name a few more times, until—
No.
It couldn’t be.
Lucy grinned, then said it once more. Again, there truly was no denying it.
Hershel.
Not only were they talking about him, they were also talking about his father.
By the time Lucy had returned, Alfendi’s tea was untouched and lukewarm. Lucy was still jovial as ever, chatting on as if nothing was wrong.
Along with his almond slice, the odd exchange with the cashier was forgotten in favour of once again dwelling on what on earth Lucy Baker could be hiding from him.
‘We need to get to the bloody bottom of this, or I swear—’
Alfendi cleared his throat to cut off Potty’s passionate ranting before plastering a smile on his face for Lucy—she couldn’t discover his suspicions, or it would hinder everything.
—
Lucy failed to stifle a yawn while tugging on her coat. As she wormed an arm into a sleeve she almost knocked over her empty, forgotten mug on her desk—after this particularly long day, neither she nor Alfendi could be particularly bothered to go and do the washing up, so that duty was delegated to their tomorrow-morning selves.
“Took us a while, but we’re starting to get somewhere with this case, eh, Prof?”
Alfendi stood and stretched his aching back. “Indeed. I’m sure everything will be smooth sailing from here on.”
Lucy unhooked Alfendi’s coat from the wall and threw it at him; he only just managed to catch it in time. He slowly put it on and made a show of powering down the crime scene reconstruction device before switching off the office lights and following Lucy out the door.
The cool evening breeze greeted them as they left Scotland Yard together.
“Have a nice evening, Prof.” Backlit by a nearby street lamp, Lucy turned to him with a smile. Alfendi found he couldn’t look away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
“You too, Lucy. You did well today.”
Her smile grew into a bold grin before she set off down the street, waving goodbye. Alfendi waved back as he headed in the opposite direction.
As soon as he saw Lucy turn a corner, Alfendi spun on his heels and hightailed it back to Scotland Yard. His day was far from over; he still had a case to crack.
He sped through the winding corridors, frantically unlocked the door to the Mystery Room, then rushed inside, throwing it shut behind him as he wrestled off his coat. He got going immediately, shoving off all official work-related papers from his desk, stripping their shared pinboard bare, and hauling out an obscene amount of flashcards and red string from the depths of a drawer. Lucy had once bought it for him as a joke—“All the best detectives use this in the films, Prof, I swear!”—assuming it would never seriously get used, but Alfendi was not about to let it go to waste.
‘Red string. Red fucking string. This is so painfully cliché. Are you aware I despise you?’
Alfendi ignored Potty’s whinging and began to set everything up.
Florence. Sniffer. Dustin. Barton. Even Hilda. Alfendi had caught her in cahoots with Lucy earlier that day, which had well and truly tipped him over the edge. Each associated party received their own card containing everything Alfendi knew about their involvement, with red string connecting those he’d seen conspiring together. At the centre of it all: Lucy Baker.
His colleagues were up to no good. They could exclude him all they wanted, but Alfendi was going to get to the damn bottom of it.
‘I can’t remember the last time you were this riled up, actually. It’s almost exciting.’
Next to each individual were as many important quotes Alfendi was able to recall them saying recently. He scanned each and every one of them for possible common threads.
“Al’s always been quite fond of you. He’d let you get away with murder,” Florence had said, while Sniffer had declared it an “espionage mission”, a “highlight” of their careers for which Lucy was the “ringleader”—or, in Dustin’s terms, the “mastermind”. The conversation with Barton had brought up Alfendi’s father, while what he overheard with Hilda that morning involved discussions of Forbodium and Alfendi’s old self—stumbling upon that conversation had struck him with overwhelming nausea as the memories, mistakes, and regrets all flooded back. When Lucy found him later, he was lying bleary-eyed on their office couch.
Alfendi took a step back and squinted at his red-stringed concoction. Time was ticking. He’d noticed Lucy becoming more restless by the day, and he needed to solve this before whatever she was planning unfolded and caused a disaster.
‘For all we know, she could be plotting a murder.’
Hah! The thought was laughable. Lucy Baker, masterminding a murder? That was about as likely as—
Hold on.
He scanned all the information laid out in front of him once more. Her disposition screamed nothing but innocence, but surely that made her the perfect criminal. Undetectable, unsuspectable—
‘That isn’t even a word, you utter ninny—’
With her knowledge and experience stemming from her time working alongside him in the Mystery Room, she was a flawless culprit.
Almost.
Her decision to employ their colleagues was her greatest shortcoming; whilst Lucy was more than capable of sneaking something like this under Alfendi’s nose (‘Stop using that fucking turn of phrase,’ cried Potty) on her own, the rest of Scotland Yard’s staff weren’t so capable. Florence was restless, Sniffer was obnoxiously oblivious, and Dustin was the complete opposite of inconspicuous. Barton was still far too awkward and uncertain around Alfendi, terrified to accidentally push the wrong button, and Hilda still clung to resentment for what Forbodium cost her—all of them, flawed and imperfect, had let slip far too much information around Alfendi. Individually, each detail was useless, but when pieced together they painted a bigger, more sinister picture. As of now, he was still missing many pieces, but from what he already had he could still garner something…
Slowly, Alfendi added another card to the pinboard.
‘MURDER?’
Potty was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. ‘We need a victim, method, motive, location, time. Treat this like any other case.’
Was he truly suspecting his colleagues of plotting something so dire? Was there no better explanation for their conspiratorial whispers, sneaking around, discussing his family and dark past, distancing themselves from and avoiding him, Lucy insisting she’d be perfectly fine without him…
Alfendi huffed a small, disbelieving laugh.
He had been so terribly, utterly blind.
He pulled the MURDER? card from its pin, wrote on its other side, and stuck it back up by Lucy’s card.
LEAVING?
Potty wrestled Placid out of the driver’s seat. Al yanked the new card back off the pinboard, brows scrunched so tightly it almost hurt, before crumpling it and throwing it across the room in the general direction of the waste bin.
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Al hissed to his calmer counterpart, who had already thrown the towel in and accepted miserable defeat. “Why would she be leaving? Why would that spark a mass conspiracy among all our colleagues behind our back?”
‘Look in the mirror. See how you just reacted at the prospect of her leaving? So volatile. There is your answer.’
Al faltered.
‘You—we—are often unpredictable. As much as both of us hate to admit it, we’ve become rather attached to Lucy Baker. If she announced her genuine departure, neither of us would handle it in the best manner. Hence the secrecy. I’m 98.6% certain this is the true explanation for everyone’s recent strange behaviour.’
“But—” Al ran a hand through his hair, beginning to pace. “Why would she—”
‘Similar reasons. Look at us; I can’t imagine it’s particularly pleasant, working with someone who switches so rapidly from one extreme to the other. We become far too engrossed in our work, avoid socialising or venturing outside—‘
“That is entirely your fault—”
‘—but my point still stands. You are me as much as I am you. For someone like Lucy, so amicable, sociable, lively and full of unbridled passion, our presence must be a terrible damper on her spirits. If she wanted to leave the suffocating confines of the Mystery Room—of us—I would not blame her one bit. Even if it well and truly devastated me.’
Al silently stood in the middle of the office, surrounded by red string, discarded cards, and the shattered pieces of his heart.
After what felt like a lifetime, he took a breath, steeled himself, and did what his father would do: he made a cup of tea.
Going through the motions of putting the kettle on, prepping the mug, and letting the tea brew was quite meditational; he’d done it so many times in his almost-thirty years he could do it upside-down and blindfolded.
Scotland Yard was dead. This late at night, Al was the only living soul wandering its corridors. The silence was both comforting and disconcerting—it gave him time alone with his thoughts, something which, after Lucy’s departure, he would have in excess.
“Would Barton find a replacement?” Al murmured before taking a sip. He recalled how Lucy had flailed at the cafe after gulping scalding tea and laughed into his mug.
‘A genuine smile. I was unaware you were capable of those.’
“Oh, sod off.”
‘It’s hard to discern how Barton would handle it. On one hand, though we used to be capable of working on our own, we’ve become so accustomed to Lucy’s help we may drown without some kind of assistance, but on the other…’
“He’d have a damned hard time finding someone willing to squeeze into a tiny box office with a psychopath.”
‘Not the word I’d have personally chosen, but yes, that was my gist.’
Al eyed up Lucy’s mug by the sink; he’d brought it to the kitchen to give his hands something else to do. Once his tea was drained he busied himself with scrubbing away the tea stains, wrists caked in suds. As he caught a glimpse of the writing on Lucy’s mug—WORLD’S BEST DC—the reality began to truly sink in, and Placid sombrely took the reins once more.
“Wherever she ends up will be lucky to have her. It’s the right thing to do—it would be selfish to keep her cooped up forever.”
‘And if I want to be selfish?’
“We’d be delegating her to a life of misery. We want her to be happy, yes?”
‘You talk about her in such a sappy way. At this rate, anyone would think you’re in l—’ Potty stopped short, startled into silence for a long moment before simply saying, ‘Oh.’
Alfendi gently placed Lucy’s mug on the draining board, gripped the edge of the counter, and murmured, “Oh.”
‘What kind of inspector are we? It took us far too bloody long to figure that out.’
“It did indeed,” Alfendi said softly. “I can’t decide whether to be relieved or remorseful that this revelation changes absolutely nothing.”
In the dim kitchen, Alfendi came to terms with this realisation in the state he had been for so long, and after Lucy’s departure, he would return to: completely and utterly alone.
—
Friday had finally rolled around again. For the last hour or so of the working day, Alfendi hunched over his desk, burying his head in paperwork to distract himself from the Mystery Room’s silence. Lucy had left early with a terribly flimsy excuse. Alfendi saw right through it, knowing she wanted to get away from him and the office and start her weekend early, and simply let her go. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was to hold her back or push her further away.
‘Has that watch always ticked so loudly? It’s driving me mad.’
Alfendi ignored Potty’s whinging and continued with his work.
‘Stop bouncing your leg. It’s irritating as hell.’
A sharp exhale left Alfendi’s lips as he tightened his grip on the pen.
‘She left her coat.’
That startled Alfendi enough to make him look away from his paperwork. “What?”
‘Lucy’s coat,’ Potty said, ‘it’s still on the back of her chair.’
“So it is,” Alfendi replied slowly, eyes narrowing.
Off to the side was their shared pinboard, painstakingly put back together after his late-night crisis. The red string and cards had been shamefully hidden away, shoved to the back of one of his drawers. He shook away the thought of them, checked his watch, and found it was almost the end of the working day. Lucy would be long gone. But why on earth would she have forgotten her—
The door burst open and slammed against the adjacent wall. “Prof!”
Alfendi didn’t need to see her to know who it was. He was on his feet in an instant. “Lucy?”
“There’s an emergency!” she cried, hands gripping her knees as her chest heaved.
Alfendi’s eyes widened as he left his desk. “What? What’s happened?”
Lucy shook her head. “I can’t— You need to come and see. Please.”
In the blink of an eye, Lucy grabbed his hand and tugged with alarming force, sending Alfendi stumbling behind her as she sped out of the office and darted down the winding corridors. Her other hand held steadfast to her cap, stopping it from flying off behind them. It all happened so fast that Alfendi barely had any time to process it, but—
‘She’s holding our hand again. She needs us for something.’
—there were a few small details he was able to make note of.
Countless times he almost flew straight into a wall as Lucy rounded a corner with more dexterity than he could muster, but eventually, she screeched to a halt outside a door. It took a moment for Alfendi to work out where in the building they were relative to the Mystery Room, but once he did he deduced this was the door to an old meeting room; Lawson had used it most, but since his departure, most employees had forgotten about its existence.
Until now, apparently.
“Lucy,” Alfendi panted. “What’s going on?”
Not saying a word, Lucy dropped his hand (noticing the devastating loss of her warmth in his palm, Alfendi desperately ignored the urge to grab it again) and reached for the handle. It creaked as she slowly pressed down, before squealing as she pushed it open, and…
“I can’t see anything, Lucy. It’s pitch black in there.”
Glancing back at him(‘Wait,’ Potty cried out, ‘is she smiling?!’), Lucy reached for the light switch, and—
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” yelled a crowd, followed by a much quieter, “for tomorrow!”
Alfendi’s head almost hit the ceiling; he startled so violently he was sure he’d pulled half the muscles in his body.
“Surprise!” Lucy turned to him with the brightest grin. “You didn’t think we’d forget it’s your thirtieth tomorrow, did you?”
With Placid scared into the passenger seat, Potty had taken the wheel. “What the hell is this?”
As he recalled tomorrow’s green-covered square on their shared calendar, Al realised every single one of his colleagues was present. Florence, Sniffer, Dustin, Barton, even Hilda, and many other familiar faces were crammed into the meeting room, which had been spruced up with banners and bunting. Alfendi’s favourite music played in the background, while a table positioned against the furthest wall contained a large array of food, all clearly homemade with care.
And standing amongst it all was— ‘No,’ Placid said softly. ‘It can’t be.’
“Alfendi, my boy,” Hershel Layton said with a smile. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“We brought gifts!” cried Flora, who, with the help of Luke and Kat, held a teetering tower of presents.
“What—? How—?” Al blinked, slack-jawed, as a sea of faces he knew and cared for smiled back at him.
“Took quite a bit of planning, it did,” Lucy said, somewhat sheepishly. “You’re well hard to keep a secret from, Prof. But if anyone deserves a birthday celebration, it’s you! This place’d crumble without your help.”
“This is what you’ve been hiding from me?” Al said, incredulous.
“Aye! Had a few close calls”—she cast sharp glances at a certain few people—“but you didn’t suspect a thing, eh?” She gently nudged him with a wink.
‘Not quite.’
Once the initial shock and confusion subsided, the meeting room truly transformed into a social hub as food was passed around, music was sung along to, and everyone who had left a mark on Alfendi’s life over the years mingled and had fun.
After Potty subsided and Placid returned, Alfendi did the rounds greeting and thanking everyone before retreating to a corner to observe from a safe distance. He eyed his father, who was engaged in an intense discussion with Barton, and made a mental note to properly talk with him later when there were fewer people around.
Gently shaking his head, he internally chastised himself. He still couldn’t quite believe this was Lucy’s secret plan, and, despite the overwhelming amount of obvious clues before him, he had failed to figure it out. How had he gotten so caught up in ridiculous theories, when the truth was right in front of him? What could possibly have clouded his thinking enough to hinder him at what was practically his job?
Lucy meandered over to him with a plate of cake and icing in the corner of her mouth. As she grinned, the pieces suddenly fell into place. Lucy Baker. If anyone was capable of masterminding a secret plan right underneath his nose (‘Ha, ha.’), it was her. It was always her. Perhaps he’d even let her get away with murder.
An easy smile spread across his lips as she approached, pressing the plate into his hands.
“Sniffer made it,” she said, gesturing to the red velvet slice. “He made everything, actually. Who knew he had as good a nose for food as he does clues? And Flo’s in charge of the music, of course, she’s the only one who shares your weird music taste. Dustin did all the deccies, too. Maybe we should quit all this crime-solving malarkey n’ set up a party business, eh?”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” Alfendi said. He took a bite of the cake and had to suppress an obscene noise upon realising how good it tasted.
“You know it!” Lucy puffed her chest out with pride.
‘That icing looks ridiculous.’
“You have a little—” Alfendi gestured to the corner of her mouth, where the icing still sat.
“Oh, do I?” She wiped a hand on the wrong corner, missing it completely.
“No, the other side.”
Another complete miss.
“No, er— Sorry. May I?”
Lucy nodded, and Alfendi carefully brushed away the icing with the pad of his thumb. She went visibly still.
“Oh!” She quickly snapped out of it, leaving Alfendi to wonder whether he’d completely imagined that odd moment. “I almost forgot, I have one last surprise for you, Prof.”
“Oh aye, I know. But an extra little something can’t hurt, eh? Come on, follow me.”
His weak protest died in his throat as she grabbed his hand once again (she’d been doing that a lot lately, though Alfendi wasn’t going to complain), leading him back out into the corridor and away from the hubbub of the packed room. Once the door shut behind them the noise was muffled incredibly well—Lawson had always been a fan of good soundproofing—giving the illusion they were completely alone.
“You know, I did actually attempt to uncover what you were hiding,” Alfendi admitted.
Lucy nodded slowly. “That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, Prof. What was your top theory?”
“Well—” Alfendi coughed, suddenly feeling awkward. “I may have entertained the thought of you plotting a murder.”
“What?!” Lucy cried out, before bursting into laughter. “A killer? Me? As if I’d rope all our colleagues into seeing someone off!”
“Yes, yes, I know. It was rather ridiculous, in retrospect. But I soon moved on to a more sensible theory.”
“Go on,” Lucy said, eyes wide with curiosity.
‘Don’t say a word. Don’t—!’
“Ah, well. I… I thought you might be leaving. The Mystery Room. …Me.”
Lucy’s silence made his stomach feel nauseatingly heavy.
“I presumed you wouldn’t want to tell me due to how I may react, so everyone was keeping quiet about it. A rather silly theory, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, Prof…” Lucy sighed. “You really thought that?”
Alfendi looked away.
‘Stop that. This is bloody embarrassing.’
“How would you react?” Lucy cocked her head. “Hypothetically.”
He steeled himself and caught her eye. If there was ever a time to be honest, it was now. “Truth be told, Lucy, I’d be devastated. You claimed this place would crumble without me, but it would implode without you. I’m unsure how I ever managed before you arrived.”
The fondness in her smile made his heart stutter. “You flatter me, Prof, though I’d sooner keel over than leave this place. You’re stuck with me for a good while, I swear!”
Alfendi attempted a nonchalant shrug, as though the relief of that statement didn’t make him want to sink to his knees. “Anyway, what was this extra surprise you mentioned?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “What, you haven’t figured it out yet?”
“I trust you. I decided to not treat this one like a puzzle. So, go on. What have you got left up your sleeve?”
‘Is she moving closer?’
“Oh, just this.” Lucy firmly gripped the collar of his white overcoat and pulled until their faces were level. She kissed him the same way she did everything: with unwavering energy and passion. After an initial moment of shock, Alfendi sunk into the kiss, cupping her face and matching her feverish pace.
When they broke apart to catch their breath and slow their spinning, woozy heads, Lucy pressed her forehead against his.
“Happy birthday, Alfendi,” she murmured.
The smile on his face made his cheeks ache.
Perhaps his thirties wouldn’t be so bad after all.
end note: a huge thank you to the Layton Big Bang team for organising this wonderful event, and another massive thanks to @maekyart and @dreamooarts for choosing to create such beautiful art to accompany this fic—we make a good team!! <3
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
rating: T
words: 2,048
note: I visited home today, which meant I edited this chapter while being pestered by my own two cats, who are the most loveable, attention-seeking little creatures I've ever met. I'm starting to realise I may have taken more inspiration from them for Skull than I thought…
Lucy awoke not to birds chirping, nor an alarm beeping, but a single cat screaming so loud she feared for the window panes.
As Skull paused to catch his breath, Lucy closed her eyes in relief, but the sudden, sharp noise of something clattering to the floor had her shooting out from under the covers. She cautiously peered over the back of the sofa—it was pulled out into a bed, which wasn’t the comfiest, but it was preferable to sleeping in George’s—to inspect the damage.
A picture frame lay face down on the floor. Skull looked down on it from his vantage point on the cabinet.
Lucy’s silently repeated mantra of please don’t be shattered, please don’t be shattered must have been heard by some higher entity, because when she slowly picked the frame up she found it still intact, glass and all. The picture within was of two teenage boys grinning with their arms around each other. They wore matching white polo shirts graffitied with messages and doodles in a rainbow of colours, the school leavers' tradition, and Lucy promptly realised what the thinking cloth reminded her of. One of the boys was clearly George, with a rounder face and wider eyes, but the other boy, dark-haired with a dazzlingly bright smile, Lucy didn’t know.
“He’s bloody lanky,” she murmured as she carefully put the frame back in its place. She shoo-ed Skull off the cabinet and coaxed him towards the sofa bed, hoping to distract him with the plush, kneadable duvet. He fell right into her trap, leaving Lucy feeling rather proud of herself and free to enter the kitchen without the possibility of Skull destroying everything.
Lucy popped the kettle on and peered in every cupboard in search of the tea, then stumbled upon a treasure trove—English breakfast, Earl Grey, Green, oolong, matcha, chai, chamomile, Darjeeling, ginger, stacks upon stacks of colourful boxes, some describing flavours she’d never heard of in her life, in flat bags, pyramid bags, loose leaf, sachets…
The kettle pinged to signify it was ready. Overwhelmed by choice and reminding herself she had a whole week to be adventurous, Lucy plucked a bog-standard English breakfast bag from a box and plonked it into a mug adorned with He-Man’s face, accompanied by the caption ‘A good cup of tea is the colour of He-Man’.
As she reached for the kettle, the unmistakable sound of the front door’s handle rattling echoed through the flat.
The door creaked open.
Skull scuttled into the kitchen, wide-eyed and fur stood on end, and she picked him up to soothe him. She crept across the room, every step increasing her heart rate, then froze when she heard footfall heading her way.
Someone turned the corner and entered the kitchen.
It all happened rather quickly, really—Lucy had no choice but to act on instinct.
Skull screamed. Lucy held him out in front of her. Whatever words were about to come out of the intruder’s mouth were cut remarkably short as a flurry of paws and claws descended upon their face and torso.
The person stumbled backwards, pressing themself against the far wall, and when Lucy realised he looked oddly familiar she lowered the deadly feline in her hands.
“Oh my G—” He heaved, hand braced against his chest as he came down from his panic. “Christ. I think I almost had a heart attack.”
“Who are you?” Lucy demanded, raising Skull back up in the air between them, an unspoken but certain threat.
“Who are you?” the man replied, incredulous. “Where’s George?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. The man straightened and pushed away from the wall. Upon seeing his height and long limbs to their full extent, Lucy realised where she knew him from. “Are you his friend?”
“I like to think so,” he said, with a smile Lucy assumed was supposed to be charming. “Again, apologies if I’m being rude, but who are you? Why are you in George’s flat?”
She gently wobbled Skull in the air, as if to prove her point. “I’m cat-sitting.”
The man’s face was blank for a moment, before lighting up in realisation. “Ahh, I see. I could’ve sworn his trip was next week… Though I’ve never been one for calendars and keeping on top of schedules. That’s George’s thing. I’m Lockwood,” he added, holding out a hand.
“Lucy.” Both of her hands were full of Skull, so she resorted to manoeuvring him to gently tap Lockwood’s hand with a paw.
Lockwood flinched away. “Please don’t. He hates me.”
“Sorry.” She gently lowered Skull to the floor with a frown. He had gone oddly quiet. “Is that why you couldn’t look after him, then?”
“Indeed it is. He’d claw my eyes out in my sleep, or piss in my shoes, or carry out some other dastardly act of torture,” he said, cautiously eyeing the mass circling Lucy’s legs. “This is George’s first trip away since taking him in. Skull can be a bit…” he gestured vaguely. “So he was a little concerned about finding the right person.”
Skull began to nibble on the hem of her sock. “I reckon I’ll be alright.”
“What a strange little creature,” Lockwood mused. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, sorry for disturbing you. And startling you.”
“Sorry for shoving an angry cat in your face,” Lucy added sheepishly.
“Water under the bridge, Lucy.” Lockwood smiled again, and this time, Lucy was unnerved to realise she did find it rather charming. “I’ll leave you both to it.”
He turned to head for the door.
Lucy's mouth opened before she could process her thoughts. “I just popped the kettle on, so you’re welcome to stay,” she called after him. “If you want.” There was also the matter of the Swiss roll, which she really didn’t want to go to waste. Ten in the morning was a reasonable time for cake, right?
Lockwood turned back around, smile widening.
–––
After the sofa had been restored to its original form, and the small coffee table was relocated in front of it to store their tea and cake, Lockwood fished the TV remote from the depths of the cushions (so that’s where it was hiding) in an act of familiarity that told Lucy he spent a lot of time here. He turned the TV on, then paused. It had been left on a documentary channel.
“Do you mind if we keep this on? I’m quite fond of whales.”
Lucy huffed a laugh into her mug. “Go for it.”
Lockwood inhaled the steam from his tea—he’d gone for the Earl Grey—and sank back into the cushions.
Skull jumped up into the space between them. In the blink of an eye, he aggressively batted Lockwood with a paw before hopping over Lucy’s lap and wedging himself in the small space between her thigh and the arm of the sofa.
“I’ve never done anything to hurt him, honest,” Lockwood insisted. “He knows I’m friends with George, and I’m here more often than my own home, yet he still treats me like I’m some…” he sipped his tea while he reached for a word. “Fiend.”
“You know George from school, then?” She took a bite of Swiss roll and almost failed to hold back a mortifying groan of pleasure; it was dangerously delicious.
Lockwood frowned, and Lucy nodded to the picture frame. He smiled in recognition. “Ah. Yes, I do. He got the highest grades in our year group. I managed to beat him in history, though.”
“You like history?”
“My parents did. I listened to enough of their passionate ramblings to give me a partial PhD.”
The past tense didn’t escape her notice; she quickly thought of something to back out of that line of conversation. “Do you know Holly, then? Holly Munro?”
Lockwood nodded as he balanced the plate of cake in his lap. He began to methodically unroll it, transforming the Swiss roll into a long Swiss snake, before ripping bites off bit by bit. “I do. Incredibly lovely woman. How do you know her?”
“She’s my flatmate,” Lucy said as she watched Lockwood rip off a small chunk of his cake snake and daintily pop it in his mouth. She wearily eyed her own slice and the giant bite taken out of it.
“I see. What’s she up to nowadays?”
“She writes for a fashion magazine.” The name escaped her, which came as no surprise. She had never considered spending her hard-earned money on a magazine that would try to tell her she couldn’t wear Converse with every single outfit (Holly did that more than enough). “She’s hoping to break into the design side of the industry, though. I don’t know much about fashion, but she seems to have a good eye for it.”
“Good for her,” Lockwood said fondly. It surprised her to hear how sincerely he said it; she hid her expression by taking another bite of cake. “What do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Lucy hesitated. As nice as he seemed, Lockwood was still from Holly’s hoity-toity southern school. The chances of him not taking her career seriously was worryingly high—but damn it, for all intents and purposes, this was technically her flat for the week. She could chase him out with Skull if he turned out to be an arse.
She ran a reassuring hand through Skull’s fur as she responded. “I work part-time in a cafe to pay the bills, but I do art on the side. Hoping to eventually make that my full-time gig.”
“Really?” Lockwood’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline, and Lucy steeled herself for the incoming ridicule. “What kind of art do you make?”
Lucy’s hand stilled on Skull’s head. Here, she could feel the gentle rumbling of his quiet purrs. “I mostly work with acrylic paint. On canvas, usually. That’s what all my commissions are in, anyway. I sketch all the time, though. Helps clear my head.”
Lockwood’s eating slowed. “You take commissions?”
She nodded, feeling the beginnings of heat in her face. “I’m working on one now, actually, for a friend of Holly’s. I booked the week off to work on it while I’m here. George is letting me use his room as a makeshift studio.”
Lockwood’s gaze darted to the bedroom door.
“No,” Lucy said immediately. Startled by her own sudden brashness, she sank further into the sofa. “I don’t like people seeing my works-in-progress, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” Lockwood said with a smile. “Though I am curious, what’s the subject?”
“A really flashy portrait. I get the impression he’s a bit of a snob, so—”
“Wait.” Lockwood paused. “Don’t tell me his name is Kipps.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes and ate the last of her slice. “How the hell did you figure that out?”
“He also went to the same school as us. A couple of year groups above, in the same one as Holly. We both went to fencing club, and my God, did he hold a grudge against me. You jokingly prod a man in the backside once…”
Lucy snorted, startling Skull and sending him racing into the kitchen.
“Shit,” she hissed, chasing after him. “Sorry, he just— he can’t go in— oh my God, stop squirming away!”
“It’s alright,” Lockwood called as she wrestled to keep Skull in her grasp. “I ought to get going now, anyway.”
When she finally succeeded in ushering Skull out of the kitchen, Lockwood was by the door, tugging on his long coat. “It was lovely meeting you, Lucy. Sorry again for the intrusion.”
“No worries, honestly.”
His slim fingers toyed with the hem of his coat. “Are you up to much this week?”
“Not really. Working on the commission, keeping this little menace in check…" She shrugged nonchalantly. "You’re welcome to swing by and watch whale documentaries any time.”
Skull watched the swaying coat with sharp slit pupils. Lockwood eyed him cautiously. “Something tells me he wouldn’t be very happy about that.”
In a movement that was becoming all too familiar now, Lucy stooped to bundle Skull into her arms. He dug his claws into her skin as a silent warning, or perhaps to convey his displeasure at being taken away from his prey. “He’ll have to suck it up.”
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
words: 2,316
rating: T
note: I'm so sorry for the long wait for this chapter! uni is KILLING ME right now but I'm determined to get this degree while writing about my blorbos 💪 hope it was worth the wait!
Lockwood stayed the night. Luckily, he had no qualms about using George’s bed. He woke up before Lucy; she blearily opened her eyes to the sound of him in the kitchen.
Before they ventured out into London’s streets at the crack of dawn, he rummaged in the cupboards and procured two thermoses, claiming that having piping tea on hand was sure to help keep their wits about them (and stop their extremities from falling off).
Assured by the comforting light of the rising sun, Lucy suggested they split up again to cover more ground. Lockwood agreed after only a moment's hesitation; she watched him walk away, sleep-mussed hair shining in the sunlight. This was the first time she hadn’t seen him so put together—knowing he forewent styling his hair and fussing the wrinkles out of his clothes for the sake of finding Skull made Lucy feel warmer than her thermos ever could.
Shaking off that line of thought, Lucy turned on her heel and resumed searching for the furry little fiend.
–––
Her feet ached, and the thermos had been drained quite some time ago.
As she weaved in and out of pedestrians, typing out a message to Lockwood—he would have told her if there were any updates, but it wouldn’t hurt to double-check—an incoming call popped up on her screen.
“Holly, hi.”
“Lucy, how are you? Actually, no, don’t answer that. How was the date?” Holly said, curiosity seeping through the phone’s speaker.
“Date?” Lucy said, before realisation dawned on her. “Oh. That date. Er—it didn’t go to plan.”
“Oh, no. How so? Was he a terrible kisser? Use awful pick-up lines?”
Lucy grimaced at the thought. “We didn’t go on the date at all.”
A moment of silence. “What?”
She took a breath. “George’s cat escaped yesterday. We were out looking for him yesterday, and we were back out at the crack of dawn today.”
“Oh, Lucy. That cat sounds like more trouble than he’s worth.”
“No,” she said quickly. “He’s a pest, but it’s kind of my fault he ran out. It’s a long story. I just hope we find him soon… I can’t bear the thought of telling George.”
“When does he get back from his trip?”
“Two days. He’s never going to forgive me, Hol.”
“Well,” Holly said slowly. “Lockwood’s helping you, right?”
“Mhm.”
“And Lockwood is George’s best friend, yes?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes. “I doubt even Lockwood could charm his best friend into forgiving a stranger who lost his cat.” Then, “Why would he even want to do that?”
“That man has been out on the streets looking for that cat with you.”
“It’s his best friend’s cat.”
“He’s spoken to you every day. Visited you almost every day.”
“…It’s his best friend’s cat.”
“That cat hates him! He clearly likes spending time with you. I think he’d make a good case about you to George. Besides,” Holly said with easy confidence, “I’m sure you’ll find the cat. If he’s used to being indoors, he’s probably too frightened to venture far.”
“I don’t know,” Lucy said, squinting up at a passing tree. “He likes climbing. Maybe I’ll have to get on Lockwood’s shoulders with a pair of binocu—”
Lucy stopped in her tracks.
“Lucy Carlyle. You can’t use a missing cat as an excuse to put his head between—”
“Shut up.”
“You’re being the scandalous one here, Lucy.”
“No, seriously. Shut up. I think I just heard a meow.”
Holly obediently went silent as Lucy whipped her head this way and that. She reached into her pocket, pulled out the bag of treats, and rattled it with wild abandon.
And something yowled in return.
Lucy craned her neck, shielding her eyes from the sun as she examined the tree, and—
There was a black hole hidden between the leaves.
Two wide, bright eyes stared back at her.
Skull cried out again, paws slipping on the branch as he attempted to inch across it.
“Holly,” Lucy said, breathlessly. “I’ll call you back later.”
–––
“How the actual hell did he get all the way up there?”
With hands on his hips, Lockwood squinted up at Skull’s precarious position.
“I don’t know,” Lucy said, still startled at how fast he appeared after she called. His breath was laboured and hair even more mussed than when she last saw him—had he run the whole way to her? “But between the two of us, you have a better chance of reaching him.”
Lockwood gave her a withering look. “He hates me.”
She nodded up at Skull. “Look at him. If anything, he’ll be thanking you for getting him down.”
“This isn’t exactly the best attire for scaling trees,” he murmured, but nevertheless approached the trunk. His ascent was far from graceful. Lucy stayed at the base, watching carefully for any slips or stumbles, but they both knew her presence beneath him simply served as a comfort and not a real line of defence should he fall. Lucy wasn’t puny by any means, but a plummeting Lockwood would still flatten her against the ground.
“Be careful,” she said, uselessly.
“Trying my best,” Lockwood said tightly. He inched closer to Skull, who instinctively began treading backwards. “No, no… Don’t— Please, come here. Please.”
Skull examined the outstretched hand with wide eyes and a twitching nose, but stubbornly stayed put.
“I swear to God,” Lucy called up, “if you come down right now I’ll give you all the treats you could possibly want. Stop being a dick, Skull!”
Skull’s ears twitched. A flash of hope appeared on Lockwood’s face, and he braced himself to grab the cat and bundle him against his chest—when all of a sudden, Skull hopped onto his arm, travelled its length, and promptly sat on his shoulder, gripping his claws into either side of Lockwood’s head.
His breath hitched. Lucy grimaced as she imagined the sensation of tiny knives in his temples.
But Skull stayed put, curling his head into Lockwood’s hair, and didn’t move a muscle as Lockwood began his painfully slow descent back to the ground. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Skull threw himself off his shoulders and skittered over to Lucy, who crouched with open, welcoming arms, but stopped dead in his tracks in front of her and put on a pretence of nonchalance. Lucy let her arms drop as she watched him groom away the cobwebs and dirt matted in his fur, examine his claws, and look everywhere but at her.
Lockwood laughed. “I think he’s happy to see you.”
Lucy looked up at him; he was too preoccupied brushing off his trousers to notice her staring or spot the gleam in her eyes. “Thank you, Lockwood.”
“It was nothing.”
“No,” she insisted. “Seriously. You saved my arse—and Skull’s. Thank you.”
“Oh, come off it,” he said, turning away not quite quick enough to hide the flush in his cheeks. “It was partly my fault he escaped in the first place.”
Lucy scooped an unsuspecting Skull up into her arms. For a moment, he stilled, then subtly nuzzled his nose against her neck. His purrs were near silent, but Lucy could feel the gentle rumbles in her bones. “I’d suggest a celebratory Swiss roll, but we’ve already scoffed it all.”
After a moment’s thought, Lockwood perked up. “Would doughnuts do the trick? I know just the place.”
–––
Skull was practically glued to Lucy’s ankles as she brewed the tea and plated the doughnuts; she was rather impressed with her ability to not fall flat on her face as he repeatedly circled her.
He hadn’t left her side since returning home.
“How about Sharknado?” Lockwood called from the next room.
“No,” Lucy said immediately.
“Cocaine Bear?”
Lucy peered out of the kitchen and caught his eye. The sarcastic comment she had locked and loaded died at the back of her throat as she saw his charmingly lopsided grin.
“You have terrible taste,” she managed to say eventually.
“Maybe I’ll let Skull pick instead,” he said. “Let him trot on the remote and see where it takes us.”
Skull looked up at her with wide eyes. Lucy shrugged in agreement. “Sounds better than trusting your judgement.”
Lockwood pressed a hand to his chest, brows knotting in a silly pretence of offence. “I’m wounded, Lucy.”
She huffed a laugh as she nipped back into the kitchen. Lockwood jumped out of his seat and followed, helping her transport the mugs and plates to the coffee table.
He smiled upon seeing Lucy’s mug. “I take it you liked my charity shop find?”
“It’s… adequate,” she replied, revelling in how her smirk made Lockwood laugh.
They settled into the sofa, and Lockwood placed the remote on Lucy’s other side. When Skull leapt up and lay beside her, resting his head on her thigh to keep one eye on Lockwood, his paws jabbed various buttons and lo and behold, a film began playing on the TV.
As the opening credits rolled, Lucy looked between the cat curled at one side, the man sat closely on her other, the freshly brewed tea in their own personalised mugs… It was all rather domestic.
She paused with the mug halfway to her lips.
Did this count as a date?
The way Lockwood caught her eye suggested he was thinking the same thing. She held his gaze as she sipped her tea, then he took an alarmingly big bite from a doughnut and shattered the strange moment of tension.
Skull’s breathing soon evened, and Lucy wished she had her phone on hand to take a picture of his serene sleeping face. She lightly trailed a finger across the slope of his ears and the bridge of his nose, feeling utterly blown away that something so small and unassuming could create such havoc and evoke such affection in her. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her tomorrow was her last full day with him—George was due to return the day after. She turned to the film for distraction.
The doughnuts disappeared rather quickly; Lucy now understood what Lockwood meant when he claimed Arif sold the best ones this side of London (“Perhaps even all of London,” he’d added. “But George hasn’t gotten round to testing all the other candidates yet.”). She tried to brush off as many sugar crystals as she could from poor Skull’s head without waking him up.
Someone on-screen cracked a terribly cheesy joke, and Lockwood let out a sharp laugh. Lucy could practically see him making a mental note of it to relay to George later on. The soft glow of the TV illuminated the sharp angles and contours of his face—from the jut of his brow to the slope of his nose, his enviable cheekbones to the few moles dotted across his porcelain skin. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, teeth glinting in the light. Lucy knew exactly how she’d paint him, the way she’d move the brush to get the strokes of his hair just right, the colours she’d mix to create the deep brown of his eyes…
“I have to say, Skull has far better taste in films than I do,” Lockwood said, turning to her. He stilled when he found she was already looking right at him; heat rose in Lucy’s face.
“It’s finished?” she said, not bothering to check the screen.
Lockwood nodded. “Is everything alright? I haven’t got sugar on my face, have I?”
“No, you’re fine.” She paused, then, “Thanks again, by the way.” Not just for saving Skull, she thought, but for the company, the mug, and the past week as a whole. She’d known Lockwood for a matter of days, yet felt oddly possessive of his presence in her life.
He shifted to turn more towards her, and as she did the same, Skull awoke and scrambled back onto the floor. “He still isn’t too keen on me,” Lockwood said, watching him wander away.
“It’s alright,” Lucy said, wondering if something in those doughnuts was to blame for her sudden boost of boldness. She spoke quietly, but with confidence. “I like you just fine.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Lockwood said just as softly. “I rather like you, too.”
Lucy decided that Arif must have put something in the doughnuts, because it now seemed like Lockwood was leaning in closer. And closer.
And she was leaning in too.
She was seconds away from closing her eyes when a horrific screech sounded through the flat, making her jerk away and frantically search for its source. Skull sat in front of a door, dragging his claws down the painted wood in long, slow, repeated motions. The noises were grating, and Lucy knew if they went on much longer they’d bring on a headache, but she couldn’t bring herself to abandon Lockwood on the sofa to shoo Skull away from the door to the—
“Oh, shit,” Lucy said vehemently. Skull scratched away at the door to George’s bedroom—the room that contained the ruined commission. “I got so distracted by Skull”—and other things, though she needn’t admit this out loud—“I forgot about that stupid painting.” She snapped her fingers to catch Skull’s attention and lured him back over with a feather toy, but no amount of stroking his soft fur could tear her attention away from that door.
“It’s late,” Lockwood said. “You’ve had a long, tiring day. How about we leave it for tomorrow Lucy to deal with?”
“Tomorrow Lucy will fucking hate me for that,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Tomorrow Lucy can deal with it just fine, I know she can.”
A small part of her wanted to argue, but drowsiness seeped into her body, making her limbs feel heavy. She settled further into the sofa, felt an arm rest around her shoulders and Skull curl up on her lap, and let all her anxieties drift away in favour of falling asleep.
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
words: 2,416
rating: T
“Stop crying at the door, I’m not letting you out!”
Skull responded with another indignant meow.
“Don’t use that tone with me,” Lucy muttered as she pressed her brush against the canvas.
George’s bedroom was far from the most glamorous place she’d ever painted in, but it did the job. She’d wrapped the comics on his nightstand in cling film, just in case, and positioned her canvas as far from the bookshelf as possible. She had everything she needed to finally get this commission done.
If only that damn cat would stop skriking.
Lucy flinched mid-brush stroke as he let out another howl. “Why are you only this noisy with me?” she bemoaned, letting the brush clatter onto her palette and running a hand through her hair. She took a step back to assess her progress. It was coming along for certain, but something felt… missing. Lucy tilted her head, narrowed her eyes, and picked at the tender skin on her lips (a habit Holly truly despised), but was still no closer to figuring out the missing piece.
Skull cried out again.
Lucy rolled her eyes and left the bedroom, pressing pause on the playlist that had been keeping her company. “Will a treat keep you quiet? Hm?”
She interpreted the responding noise as an affirmative. As she rummaged in the kitchen, there came a knock at the door, and Skull’s latest meow was cut short as he fell into sudden silence. Lucy still gave him a few treats before answering the knock; she couldn’t deny that the way his ears perked at the rustling treat pouch was endearing.
Upon opening the door, she had to crane her neck upwards and was greeted with a gleaming smile.
“Hello,” Lucy said, though it came out like a question. The sound of Skull approaching from behind didn’t escape her notice; she shifted her legs to block the opening as well as she could.
“Hi,” Lockwood said, beaming. “I hear there’s another good whale programme airing today. Thought I’d come round, make sure you didn’t miss it.”
“So chivalry isn’t dead,” she said with a small smile before ushering him inside. He pried off his shoes and hung his coat on the wall before drifting into the kitchen after her. Skull silently wandered off in the opposite direction.
“Tea?” she called over her shoulder.
“Always,” he replied. “Thank you.” He reached over her to the highest shelf of mugs, retrieving a large one with a giraffe’s neck spanning the whole circumference.
Lucy huffed a laugh, and he cast her a sidelong look. “Are you judging my choice of mug?”
“Me? Never,” she said, grabbing one with a swirling pattern that reminded her of The Starry Night.
“Sometimes the key to surviving a Monday is simply drinking good tea from a good mug, I stand by that.”
As she spooned in the sugar (one for her, one and a dash of honey for Lockwood) and waited for the kettle to finish boiling, she glanced up at him with the quirk of a brow. “What are you doing here on a Monday? If you don’t mind me asking.”
He leaned against the counter, arms folded across a jumper that—and now, Lucy was no fashion expert, but had gained some knowledge via osmosis from living with Holly—looked remarkably like cashmere, or some other material that was most certainly not cheap. At the very least, she'd never seen it while perusing the clothes aisles in the local supermarkets. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said slowly, “most people work on weekdays.”
Lockwood gave a vague wave of his hand. “I have my own way of doing things.”
Lucy’s grip went slack; the spoon clattered into one of the mugs. “You’re filthy rich, aren’t you?”
His face contorted, conflict visible in every wrinkle. “Well, I wouldn’t say—”
“I knew Holly went to school with some well-off people, but I never expected to meet one.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “I didn’t expect one to act like this.”
Whatever Lockwood was initially going to reply with was cut short by her last remark; he tilted his head and frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’re not…” She filled the mugs and stirred as she searched for the right words. “A dick? You don’t reek of privilege, or anything.”
“My parents loved their work,” he said, voice notably quieter. “They became quite known in their field. I don’t necessarily come from money, but… when your parents spend every waking hour working, they end up leaving behind a nice amount.”
Lucy went still. The realisation of her terrible faux pas sunk in like sharp ice in her veins, settling heavily in the pit of her stomach. For a brief moment, she silently stared at the brewing tea, wishing she were able to sink into it and never emerge back up at the surface.
“I’m sorry,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. “I was being a dick. I shouldn’t— I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay,” Lockwood said, gaze softening. “It’s alright.” He retrieved the milk from the fridge and gently nudged her out of the way to pour it into the mugs. “I don’t blame you for thinking everyone who went to our school is a bit… You know.” He grimaced. “A lot of them are. You’re painting for one of them right now. But we’re not all bad, I promise.”
She took her mug and held onto it tight, a steaming lifeline in her hands. “Is going by your surname something you picked up at that school too?”
“Partially,” he admitted. “Rarely anyone calls me Anthony nowadays.”
“Anthony,” she said, trying out the feel of it in her mouth. Lockwood stilled, watching her closely. “Not even Ant? Tony?”
He snapped out of it. “No, God, never. Please don’t call me that.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “Noted,” she replied into her mug.
They soon drifted back into the living room, another documentary playing in the background. Skull sat before the TV, laser-focused on watching the marine animals swim across the screen.
“How is Kipps’ painting coming along?”
“It’s getting there…” She scrunched her nose. “Something just feels missing.”
Lockwood tilted his head. His sincere interest made her stomach feel funny. “How so?”
“Right now the piece feels too… mundane? Not special enough. From what I can gather, Kipps seems a bit—” she side-eyed Lockwood, hoping he’d catch her drift.
“Flamboyant? Flashy?”
Lucy tilted her mug towards him in agreement. “Yeah. And I’m not sure how he’ll feel about it at the moment. I’m due to give him an update soon, but I’m putting it off.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Lockwood said with easy confidence.
“You’ve never seen my work. I could be a really shit artist, for all you know.”
He hesitated, suddenly finding the contents of his mug incredibly riveting.
Lucy straightened, attempting to catch his eye and failing miserably. “What?”
“I… may have had a little peruse of your website?”
“Ah,” she said, relaxing back into her seat. “So you stalked me.”
“Not in the slightest,” he insisted. “I just happened to stumble upon it.” Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “I think your art is lovely.”
“Oh.” Lucy fought to quash the heat rising in her face. “Thank you.”
“Did you go to art school?”
“Too expensive. I did it for GCSE and A-Level, but after that I just taught myself between shifts at work.”
“That’s incredible,” he said, voice dripping with awe. “You’re very talented.”
She laughed away the fluttering in the back of her throat. “Or just great at following YouTube tutorials.”
“When do your commissions open?”
She narrowed her eyes, wondering if this was going in the direction she thought it was. “They’re open now. If I get any more, they’ll be put in a queue after Kipps’.”
“I see,” he said, nodding intently. “And how would one go about ordering a commission?”
“Through my website,” she replied out of habit, before jumping to correct herself for this exception. “But you could have my number, for a quicker response time. If you want.”
Lockwood’s smile was remarkably soft. “I’d like that very much.”
–––
The perk of handing Lockwood her number was that the ball was now entirely in his court; she avoided the torture of deliberating the wording of a first text, wondering if she should text at all, or being confused as to whether Lockwood genuinely just wanted her number to get a commission slot or not.
A day had passed since she gave it to him, and she hadn’t heard a peep from the man—not a visit, a call, or even a text. Not that Lucy particularly cared, or had spent any significant amount of time dwelling on it. Not at all.
Mid-afternoon was spent curled up in an armchair, nibbling at the remainder of the Swiss roll and finally venturing out into trying a green tea—a well-needed break from working on Kipps’ painting all morning. On her lap sat her sketchbook, full of mindless doodles and sketches to keep her creativity flowing. At the base of the chair lay Skull. He pretended to be asleep, but Lucy caught him glancing up at her several times, as if checking she was still there.
Without realising, she began to sketch the outline of his sleeping form, tracing the swoop of his curled tail and the stretch of his relaxed ears. His facial markings were tough to recreate accurately, but Lucy welcomed the challenge. The sleeping Skull sketch was followed by numerous others: Skull stretching, back arched like a bridge; Skull shouting for her attention, mouth gaping and sharp teeth shining; Skull being held in someone’s arms, their slender fingers scratching his head, dark hair flopping over their forehead as they looked down with a beaming smile—
Lucy dropped the pencil as if it burnt her.
Then her phone rang.
The caller ID was unknown. As she held up her phone to inspect it, Skull’s perked ears peered over the top edge. He stared at the phone with intense scrutiny.
She pressed answer. “Hello?”
“Lucy,” a familiar voice said. She could hear the smile in his voice. “Hi. It’s Lockwood.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as she fought off Skull’s attempts to jump up into her lap and swat at the phone. To appease him, she grabbed a nearby toy—a dangling ghost attached to a string and stick—and let him run wild with his attacks from a safe distance. “Hi,” she continued. “You alright?”
“Very much so. How is your day going?”
Skull pounced for the little ghost; Lucy yanked it up into the air at the last second. The look he gave her was scalding, and she muffled a laugh at the back of her throat. “It’s going well.”
“I was thinking more about your work,” he said. “I was wondering if we could talk about the possibility of me commissioning you? Perhaps over coffee.”
Lucy blanched. “Coffee?”
“Well,” Lockwood hesitated. “Tea and cake. At a coffee shop.”
“Just the two of us?”
“Considering Skull is confined to George’s flat… yes?”
“Okay,” she said after a moment. “Okay. Cool. I can do that. I’m free tomorrow?"
“So am I.” Lucy pushed aside the thought that this was unsurprising. Lockwood continued, “I can meet you at George’s at one?”
Skull geared himself up for another big pounce; this time Lucy’s reflexes weren’t quite fast enough, and he landed on the ghost with a display of triumph, sinking his teeth and claws into the stuffed fabric. “Sounds good.”
“Fantastic. It’s a d— It’s sorted. It’s a plan. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I hope the rest of your day goes well.”
“You too, Lockwood,” she said, certain her fond smile was simply directed at Skull’s successful hunting endeavour. “See you tomorrow.”
Skull looked up at her as the beep signalled the end of the call.
“I need to talk to someone about that,” she said, staring back at him, “but it’s not going to be a cat.”
Dislodging herself from the cosy armchair, Lucy hauled herself into the kitchen to defrost and reheat one of the curries that caught her eye earlier. As the Tupperware spun slowly in the microwave, she dialled one of the few people in her contact list—and idly wondered if she ought to add another to it.
“Lucy!” Holly said, her smile even more audible than Lockwood’s. “How are things going with the cat?”
“Oh, they’re going,” she replied. “Are you enjoying having our flat to yourself?”
“Honestly, it’s quite strange,” Holly admitted. “Too quiet. I almost miss the music you play while painting. And your scrambled egg.”
Lucy’s chest puffed a little with pride. Her scrambled egg was the best. (The secret was an obscene amount of butter and salt, but she dared not tell Holly.)
“Halfway there,” Lucy said. “You’ll have me back soon. But”—she hesitated, unsure how to broach the topic—“I actually called because I… need your advice?”
“Lucy,” Holly said slowly. “Please don’t tell me you killed the cat.”
Her tongue tripped over itself in her hurry to reply. “No! No. Nothing like that. Skull’s fine.” She cast a glance over to him; he sat in the kitchen entrance, quietly observing her. “It’s something else. Someone else.”
“Go on…”
“George’s friend came round the other day—Lockwood?”
“Really tall, all limbs and smiles?”
“That’s the one. He got his dates mixed up and came round, thinking George was still here, but then he ended up staying anyway, and we talked, then he came around again the next day, and we talked, then—”
“He came around again today? And you talked?”
“No,” Lucy said, incredulous. “He called me today.”
Holly gasped. “You gave him your number?!”
“For work! He was interested in getting a commission.”
“Ri-ight.”
“I swear down. Anyway, we talked over the phone and he asked if I wanted to go for coffee—no, tea and cake—somewhere tomorrow—”
“Oh my God!”
“—to talk about the commission! To talk about the commission,” she hissed. “But then as we were saying bye, he tripped up and said ‘It’s a d— It’s a plan’.”
“Lucy!” Holly softly-screamed. “It’s a date! You’re going on a date with a real human being!”
The microwave pinged. Skull trotted across the room to butt his head against her calf.
“Oh my God,” Lucy said, realisation finally sinking in. “It’s a date.”
summary: Lucy takes on a cat-sitting job for a stranger, hoping for a quiet week in a nice London flat, with free food, no bills, and enough time to finish an art commission.
But the cat is a menace, and the stranger’s friend is ridiculously charming—and a huge distraction.
words: 1,829
rating: T
note: hey, remember that angst and hurt/comfort tag I snuck in between all the happier, fluffier tags? yeah? cool. I’m not asking for any particular reason, it’s definitely not related to this update :)
A man standing tall, chest puffed with pride, wielding a bejewelled rapier glinting mid-swing at an off-canvas opponent.
This, Lucy thought, was by far her most flamboyant—and perhaps egotistical—commission ever. But if it was what Quill Kipps wanted, then it was what she would paint.
From his perching spot next to the canvas, Skull meowed, swatting at one of the reference pictures she’d stuck up by her work in progress.
“I know,” Lucy replied. “I still can’t work out what’s missing.”
She had already spent the morning deliberating over every glint and glimmer on the rapier’s rhinestones, followed by altering the swoop of Kipps’ red hair to give it more volume and shine. Neither of those things had been the elusive missing piece of the painting—but on the bright side, Kipps would surely be okay with the minor improvements to his appearance.
A swift knock at the front door was followed by the sound of a key rattling in the lock. Having lost track of the time, Lucy started at Lockwood’s arrival. The sudden jerk of her arm knocked her paint water over, and time practically slowed as she watched everything go to shit.
The cup careened to the floor, spewing an arc of murky water as it flipped through the air. Skull tried to leap out of the way but was still hit full-force with water, and flew, claws-first, straight towards Lucy's canvas.
She didn’t recognise the sound that clawed its way from her throat as she watched the canvas fabric tear in one long arc. She didn’t recognise her own voice as she scolded Skull for ruining her hours upon hours of work.
She didn’t realise the front door was still open as Skull ran away from her.
“Lucy, is everything alright?” Lockwood called out. Then—“Oh God, no— Skull!”
Lucy hurried out of the bedroom just in time to hear Lockwood vehemently swear as Skull sprinted into the hallway and down the stairs of the flat complex.
“Shit,” Lucy said as nausea settled heavily in her stomach. “Shit!”
“Shit,” Lockwood agreed. Together they rushed out the door, descending the stairs so fast Lucy was sure she’d fall flat on her face. As they reached the ground floor, they passed a man Lucy recognised as one of George’s neighbours.
“Excuse me!” she called out to him. “Did you see a cat run by? Black, with white patches on his face?”
“Oh, yes, he was a peculiar little fellow,” the man said. “I thought he was a stray that got trapped inside, so I let him out.”
As Lucy took a deep breath to prevent herself from speaking her mind, Lockwood spoke in her stead. “Did you see which direction he went in?”
“Right,” the man said with confidence. “Or maybe left. Actually, I’m not quite sure.”
“Fantastic,” Lockwood said, voice thick with foreign-sounding sarcasm that made Lucy’s stomach feel even funnier.
She grabbed his hand and dragged him outside, wincing at the sudden nip of the wind hitting her face. Their heads darted this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of black fur trotting down the street, or hiding under a parked car.
“He’s fast,” Lockwood panted.
“Little shit. I’m going to kill him.”
“Let’s split up. I’ll go this way, okay? I’ll call you if I find him.”
Lucy nodded as she caught her breath, then set off in the opposite direction. She picked at the drying paint on her hands as she desperately searched high and low for George’s beloved cat, pss-pss-pssing and ch-ch-ching and getting more than a few strange looks from passers-by, but she couldn’t give less of a toss.
George had trusted her, Holly had recommended her, Skull had befriended her, and she’d betrayed them all with a single careless mistake. It was her fault the commission was shredded—she shouldn’t have let Skull anywhere near it—and then she’d had the audacity to scold him for it.
Her brows furrowed as she fought off the frustrated sting in her eyes, arms wrapping tight around her chest to fend off the streets’ bitter chill. She hadn’t even put shoes on, and felt her threadbare socks becoming caked by dampness and grime with every step.
“Lucy,” Lockwood said. She jumped and looked up, realising they must have circled the whole block and met in the middle. “You’re shivering.”
“Didn’t grab a coat,” she said. “Or shoes.”
Lockwood's eyes widened as he looked down. “Christ, Luce. Let’s nip back.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the sudden use of the nickname, the numbness in her toes, or the embarrassing wetness in her eyes that made her agree and follow him back to the flat. Wordlessly, Lockwood took off his coat and wrapped it around her, enveloping her in warmth and the faint smell of cologne. There was a weight in one of the pockets, and whatever was inside crinkled as she walked.
“Sorry,” Lucy murmured. “I know this isn’t what you had in mind for our date.”
“Date?” Lockwood choked on his breath, face flushing far more than the cold warranted. “Date. Oh. Yes, I suppose you’re right. That’s what it was.”
“You look nice, by the way.”
He froze as he held the door open for her. Lucy wasn’t lying—his jumper was a lovely, deep shade of red, with a crisp white collar peering out, and his hair was far more meticulously styled than when she last saw it. She nodded in thanks and trudged back up to George’s flat, Lockwood in tow, painfully aware her mascara had begun to streak her blotched cheeks.
“So do you,” Lockwood eventually said. Lucy gave him an unamused look.
As she peeled off her disgusting socks (and threw them right into the bin), she cast a forlorn look at her phone. “I should tell George.”
“No, not yet,” Lockwood insisted, tapping away at his own phone. “Skull won’t have gone far, and we don’t want to distract George from his nerd enrichment time. We’ll get you wrapped up warm and… Ah! This site says using his favourite treats and toys can help coax him back.”
Lucy’s phone began to ring, and the caller ID made her nausea increase tenfold.
George.
Without a moment's hesitation, Lockwood picked it up.
“Hi, George,” he said with an easy smile. “No, you called the right number. She’s having a well-deserved nap right now. No, I’m not bothering her. Yes, Skull’s just fine. Still hates me, as usual, but he’s really taken a shine to Lucy. How’s your trip going? Oh, that’s great. Say hi to Flo for me. Of course. Bye.”
He hung up and then shut the bedroom door, blocking Lucy’s view of the painting. He pulled a scarf from the coat rack—patterned with dinosaurs, undoubtedly George’s—and handed it to her along with her coat. As she wrapped up and put suitable footwear on, Lockwood got to work deciding which toys to bring.
“He likes the ghost one,” Lucy said. Lockwood added that to his small collection before nipping into the kitchen to get a treat pouch.
He emerged with a calm smile, so full of self-assurance that Lucy could feel some of it rubbing off on her. “You ready?”
She nodded and led him back outside.
–––
The rumbling of Lucy’s stomach could barely be heard over the hubbub of London in the evening. Cars whizzed by, people chatted and jogged and cycled, streetlights flickered on one by one, and Skull was still nowhere to be seen.
She continued to dangle the ghost toy around her as Lockwood rattled the pouch of treats; he’d insisted he stayed by her side once it began to get dark.
“It’s been hours,” Lucy said, watching her breath turn to plumes of mist. “He could be anywhere by now.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lockwood’s shoulders slump. “He’s probably found a hiding spot for the night. How about we head back, get some rest, and set back out in the morning?”
“I don’t want to leave him alone out here. I don’t want anything to happen to— Oh, God. George is going to be devastated.”
“Don’t give up just yet,” Lockwood said softly. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Skull’s probably fast asleep somewhere safe. As menacing as he may be, he isn’t stupid. You need rest, too, or you’ll make yourself ill from stress.”
Lucy rubbed her eyes with a heavy hand. He was right, and she knew it, but admitting it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“We can leave some of his things by the door, then have some good food—George’s cooking makes for the best comfort meals, I swear—and rest up before heading back out early tomorrow. How does that sound?”
She took a deep, shaky breath, then forced herself to nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
–––
Lockwood was, once again, right: for a moment, George’s cooking made everything feel okay.
Lucy ate it curled up on the sofa, savouring every mouthful; Lockwood worked his way through the other portion by her side. The warm food settling in her stomach eased away some of her nerve-induced nausea and the throbbing headache that had plagued her for hours. And if Lockwood sat closer than usual, thigh pressing against her own, well—she wasn’t going to complain. It kept her grounded.
“What does he put into this?” Lucy groaned as she finished her final mouthful.
“Drugs,” Lockwood said simply. “There’s no other explanation.”
“Thank you,” she said eventually. “For dragging me back. I’d have gone half mad if I’d stayed outside.”
He turned to her, face softly illuminated by the glow of a nearby lamp. In that moment, she wished she could take a snapshot of his gentle smile, memorise it and paint it and frame it, keep every detail of it forever.
“Oh,” he said suddenly, standing and striding over to his coat. “I have something for you.” He returned with a poorly wrapped object, running a slender finger along the wonky pieces of tape holding it together. “Sorry, Christmas paper was all I had left. I was going to give it to you when I arrived earlier, but…”
She carefully took it from him. “I— Why did you—?”
“It’s nothing, really. I just saw it in a charity shop and thought of you.”
Lucy peeled away the paper patterned with shining snowflakes to reveal a mug that said ‘Fuck off, I’m painting’. Against her better judgment, she let out an ugly snort.
“Sometimes the key to surviving a disaster is simply drinking good tea from a good mug,” Lockwood said. “I stand by that.”
She slowly turned it in her hands. It was just a mug—yet so much more. As Lucy’s smile began to wobble, she got up and retreated into the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Always,” Lockwood called back. He didn’t follow; the moment alone gave her time to gather herself. “Thank you, Luce.”
