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themetaphorgirl · 6 months

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I AM GOING TO CRY LOCKWOOD IS SO PRECIOUS AND THIS IS CUTE also you can never go wrong with the caught in the rain trope

L&Co Flash Fiction Challenge 8: Tissue Paper Anniversary

Written for @lockwoodandcoff's October 24th Flash Fiction Challenge, and @whumptober Day 26: "You look awful."

Brainstormed, of course, with the lovely @themetaphorgirl

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After flinging a silver net over the Source, Lockwood laid on the floor for a long time, catching his breath and cursing clients and their affinity for lying to his face.

Shining Boy, my ass. He let his forehead thunk against the cold floorboards, mentally cataloging every new bruise he'd just acquired fighting what was most certainly a full-blown specter with a grudge. Luckily, he was pretty sure the worst of his injuries was a muscle strain in his left hand, thumb hyper-extended when awkwardly catching himself tumbling over a footstool. Not his rapier hand, which was convenient, but still annoying and probably worth a bit of ice when he got home.

Home. Portland Row's warm kitchen with tea and toast and bacon in the fridge sounded excellent right about now, and was enough to motivate him to haul himself to his feet with only minimal groaning. Brushing dust and bits of debris off his coat, he clipped the Source to his belt and walked out the front steps of the Islington house.

He was halfway to the nearest payphone, feeling around his coat pockets for his wallet to pay the Night Cab, when he realized they were all quite empty.

Shit. He could've sworn he had his wallet when he left that evening, just before the Tube stopped running. He'd taken it out, in fact, to give Lucy and George some bills to pay for their ride home from Stratford. Then he'd seen them out the door, and put his wallet… on the hall table.

Lockwood stopped outside the payphone, considering his options. He could still call a cab, and if the driver was someone he knew, might be able to talk them into giving him a ride on credit. Or he could get a total areshole who would curse at him for suggesting such a thing, and Lockwood was too tired and sore to relish the thought of getting into an argument on the sidewalk. The weather was starting to turn as well, from summer into fall, and he pulled his coat a bit tighter around his shoulders.

It occurred to him that moving would probably help drive the chill away, and as long as he was going to walk, it was only about an hour's journey from here back to Portland Row anyway.

Shoving his hands into his empty pockets, he pushed off the grimy wall of the phone booth and started walking, kicking himself for being so careless and mentally writing an incredibly passive aggressive note about honesty and transparency to include in the invoice to the client.

About fifteen minutes in, because the universe apparently had it out for him today, thunder rumbled in the distance, and he looked up just in time for the heavens to open above him, rain suddenly pouring down over the darkened street in cold, fat drops.

Lovely.

Quickening his pace as much as he could less than halfway to his destination, Lockwood was still soaked to the bone within minutes, hair flattened to his forehead and trainers squelching with every step. By the time he finally stumbled through the front door of Portland Row, he imagined he looked rather like a drowned rat, water running in rivulets down his face from his fringe, clothes pasted to his skin underneath his similarly saturated jacket.

The hallway was cold and dark– it was still rather warm during the day so he hadn't bothered turning the heat up, and George and Lucy had yet to return from their job facing a probable Wraith.

Welcome home, he thought, rather bitterly, shedding his jacket and shoes and heading into the kitchen. After putting on the water for tea, he found a bag of frozen peas to hold against his left palm, and after a moment's consideration, also took out the supplies for bacon sandwiches. Lucy and George would be hungry and tired after their fight, and bacon sandwiches were Lucy's favorite.

While he waited for the pan to heat up, he wondered if he had time to wrap the gift he'd bought for her the other day. Tomorrow would be their first anniversary, if you went by the day of their first date (a walk around Regent's Park followed by their first kiss outside the open air theater), and he was determined to celebrate properly.

He'd been told that a traditional gift after one year would be paper-based, which felt somewhat limiting, but he was nothing if not creative, and luckily he'd noticed Lucy complaining about watercolors bleeding through the pages of her sketchpads. This had led him to a craft and paper store the previous week, and after a long chat with the sales associate to the purchase of a rather expensive, ultra-heavyweight sketchpad apparently meant specifically for use with watercolors. It was currently sitting, unwrapped, in the back of his wardrobe.

He laid the bacon in the pan and stepped back to avoid the spitting oil. No, with any luck Lucy and George would be back just as these were finished, and the bruises from his own fight were really starting to smart. He'd wrap the sketchpad tomorrow morning. He was always up before her, anyway.

But he was still alone by the time the bacon sandwiches were done, and when he sat down at the table with his cup of tea realized his shirt and trousers were still quite damp from the rainwater, but he was too tired and stiff to get up again. The bag of peas in his left hand had been switched out for a bag of corn, and he found himself slumping further and further over the table. He could feel faint chills radiating from his makeshift ice pack up into his arm, and he wondered if perhaps he should take a hot shower and change into something more comfortable (and less waterlogged), but almost as soon as he thought it his eyes drifted closed and he was asleep.

He was dragged back to consciousness by the sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs, raising his head and rubbing his eyes as George and Lucy, rather disheveled but perfectly dry.

"Well you look like hell."

"Thanks for that," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and shaking the water off his sore hand.

Lucy took the bag of formerly-frozen corn away and took his palm to inspect the damage. "I thought you were just taking care of a Shining Boy."

"It turned out to be a Specter with a few tricks up his sleeve," he said, leaning in for a kiss before running a hand through his hair, which between the rain and unintentional nap had become a bit of a rat's nest.

"And you still cooked breakfast?" Lucy said, eyeing the plate at the center of the table.

"Yeah…" He rubbed the back of his neck. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, and the bacon looked like it had gone rather cold.

But George took one anyway, chewing enthusiastically. "Thanks, but you really didn't have to. Our client was so appreciative she made us wait out the worst of the downpour in her flat and fed us tea cakes and biscuits after we had finished."

"Is that how you avoided a soaking?" Lockwood said, looking jealously at their dry clothes. The rain could still be heard pounding against the kitchen windows.

"Yes." Lucy pinched the collar of his shirt. "Lockwood, did you get caught in the rain?"

"Forgot my wallet, and it wasn't so far." He shrugged and tried to give her an easy smile, although he'd forgotten to turn on the heat so he was still rather cold, and thickest parts of his clothes were still damp against his skin.

Lucy looked horrified. "And you haven't even changed?" She stood up and tugged him up with her. "I can't believe you decided to make breakfast of all things before bothering to warm yourself up."

"I wanted to have something ready for you– both of you– when you got back."

George snorted through a mouthful of bacon. "Nice save."

Lucy rolled her eyes but granted him a brief kiss before steering him towards the door. "And believe me, we appreciate it, but we'll appreciate it more once you've warmed up a bit so you don't make yourself sick, if you haven't already."

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. "Luce…"

"Go on." She shooed him up the stairs, although he wasn't inclined to fight her too much. Now that he thought about it, he was still rather chilled, and there was a dull ache at his temples, but he was sure all discomfort would be relieved with a long, hot shower.

As he waited for the water to warm up, he wondered if he was perhaps colder than he'd realized– his skin pebbling as he peeled off his shirt and trousers even as the bathroom filled with steam. Once stepping under the spray, he actually found himself shivering a bit as feeling returned to the tips of his toes, and spent a long time standing under the water savoring the return of true warmth to his bones.

He only stepped out when exhaustion began to descend again, the second wind brought on by his nap fading away. Toweling off quickly, he brushed his teeth and nipped from the bathroom to his bedroom and changed into the softest pajamas he had.

Upon sitting on the bed to dry his hair, he reconsidered his original plan to rejoin Lucy and George in the kitchen. He trusted them to finish off the breakfast he'd made without him, and wasn't all that hungry himself, anyway. The shower hadn't helped his headache as much as he'd hoped, and perhaps Lucy and George hadn't turned up the heat either because he was beginning to shiver again.

So he tossed the towel on a nearby chair and gave in to the urge to crawl under the blankets. When that proved insufficient to ward off the chill, he unfolded the wool blanket that normally lived at the end of his bed, and then retrieved a second one out of the wardrobe, before trying to roll himself into a cocoon.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before someone knocked on the door.

"What is it?"

Lucy gently pushed it open, light from the hallway filtering through her hair like a halo. "Sorry, just wanted to make sure you were alright… you sort of disappeared on us."

"Sorry."

"It's alright…" Seemingly emboldened, she stepped further into his room and allowed her eyes adjust to the gloom. "Lockwood?"

"Yes?" He pulled the quilt more tightly around his shoulders.

"Are you feeling okay?"

Of course I am. But as soon as he opened his mouth to assure her of this, he realized it wasn't quite true. Or even remotely true. The pounding in his head had not receded, he still shivered under two wool blankets, and when he swallowed there was a burning pain in his throat. "Uh…"

It felt like he only blinked, and suddenly Lucy was right next to his bed, the back of her hand pressed to his forehead. "Oh, dear."

Suddenly, Lockwood remembered the sketchpad in his wardrobe, and all his plans for the following day. Shit.

"It's okay, you're alright," Lucy said, misinterpreting his expression. "Just– uhh– let me get you some paracetamol before you fall asleep."

She hurried out of the room, leaving Lockwood to roll on his back and appreciate the body aches that seemed to have set in all at once, and the sudden hot flash that had him kicking off his pile of blankets.

None of this spoke of something likely to resolve itself by the following morning, and he set about cursing that stupid walk home in the rain, as all his anniversary plans tomorrow rapidly fell apart.

He felt dizzy when Lucy helped him sit up to take the paracetamol and a few sips of water, coughing a couple times as he laid back down.

"Oh, dear," Lucy said again, rubbing his back. "Try to get some good sleep tonight, yeah? I'll come check on you again in the morning."

He allowed her to throw the quilt back over him before leaving, even though he was still far too hot, and went to sleep imagining himself waking up the next morning feeling totally normal.

Of course, all the next morning brought was a harsh cough, burning throat, and complete inability to breathe through his nose. Squinting at the clock, Lockwood considered his options. He felt like death warmed over, and today was his and Lucy's one year anniversary. The first part of his multi-step plan for the day had been bringing her buttered toast up to her attic. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Surely that was still doable, wasn't it? It was just tea and toast, not some elaborate meal, right?

He sat up, which made the room tilt dangerously around him, but after a few seconds it stabilized, and he pushed himself out of bed. Keeping on hand near the wall or some piece of furniture at all times, he made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, recoiling at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was a right state– sticking straight up on one side while flattened down on the other, and his face was deathly pale, except for the faint, unhealthy flush to his cheeks.

Swaying, he managed to wash up without incident, staring all the while at the medicine cabinet, wondering if he should take his temperature.

No. It was probably better if he didn't know.

But by the time he exited the bathroom the dizziness was worse, and he had to lean against the railing to keep from falling over completely.

Oh, God, why? Why today, of all days?

Lockwood was in the middle of cursing every misfortune that had led him to this– the job, the rain, his stupid decision to walk home, falling asleep in his wet clothes– when the door to the attic open and Lucy stepped onto the landing.

"Jesus Christ, you look awful."

"Luce…" Then he tipped forward, and she lunged forward to catch him. It might've been romantic, if it weren't also so pathetic.

Then he was somehow back in bed, Lucy holding the thermometer to his lips. "Alright, open up."

He obeyed, closing his eyes when she tsked at the reading. "That bad?"

"Well, it's not good," she said, reaching down to rub his shoulder and hand him a box of tissues. "But I think you'll live. Can I get you anything? Tea? Maybe some buttered toast?"

Lockwood groaned. This wasn't how today was supposed to go at all.

"What is it? Are you not hungry? You've got to eat something Lockwood, even if it's just a little."

"No, that's not it."

"Then what is it?"

How to explain? Should he explain? Or should he keep his mouth shut, and execute his plan as soon as he was able so it would still be a surprise, even if the date was wrong.

He was taking too long to answer, and Lucy was becoming agitated. "What hurts? Are you going to be sick?"

He shook his head. "This wasn't… I had plans."

She sighed. "You know the rest of us can take care of the agency for a little while, right? Although come to think of it, you and I aren't even scheduled for anything today. We've got no client meetings, and Holly's going out with George for a Bone Man in Poplar."

"I know." He'd told Holly to arrange it that way.

"So what's the problem?"

Shit. He rubbed his face, wishing he could only think through the cotton batting that seemed to have filled his head overnight. "It was exactly a year ago. A year ago today."

"What was? What're you talking about?"

"Our first kiss… date… whatever it was," he said, too tired to think of a way to dodge the question. He opened his eyes and squinted at her, trying for a smile even though he knew he must look a sight.

Lucy's mouth had fallen slightly open, and a blush was creeping up her neck. "I– well– I suppose you're right."

"It's our first anniversary," he tried again.

She cocked her head. "Do people celebrate anniversaries of their first dates?"

"Don't they?" To be honest, Lockwood didn't really know what was generally practiced. But if people didn't do that, they should. "I wanted to."

Her face turned sympathetic, and she brushed a tentative finger over his cheek. "You did?"

He nodded, shuffling a little closer to where she was sitting on the edge of his bed. "I had– I had all these plans. I was going to make you buttered toast. And bring it up to you with tea."

"Oh." She offered him a gentle smile. "Well, you already do that every day, excluding the bringing it up to my attic bit."

He tried to sit up straighter. "And I bought you a present."

"Oh, Lockwood…"

"But I didn't have a chance to wrap it." He felt himself pouting, but he couldn't help it.

"Lockwood, you know you didn't have to do that." She helped him lie down again, smoothing the fringe back from his forehead.

"It's in the wardrobe if you want it," he muttered. "Under the grey throw blanket."

"Do you… want me to see it now?"

"I wanted to give it to you on the day." It just wouldn't be the same if he waited.

"Well, alright." She rose and walked to the wardrobe, shuffling around with her back to him.

He didn't have a clear view, but he knew she'd found it when she gasped, straightening abruptly and turning around, the sketchpad held out front of her. "Anthony…"

He smiled the slight thrill that went through him when she said his given name. Even being sick couldn't dull that feeling. "Do you like it?"

"You really didn't have to…" But her eyes had widened, and she'd opened the cover to run her fingers over the thick, heavy paper.

"I wanted to," he said. "You've been wanting one, and it's on theme. Paper, for one year."

She finally looked back at him, her expression a mix of fondness and exasperation. "I'm so sorry I didn't get you anything. I would have, if I'd known."

"That's okay," he said. "I don't need anything." He broke off to cough. "Well, except perhaps for these." He held the tissue box aloft, grinning. "It's technically paper, after all."

She rolled her eyes and rejoined him on the bed, allowing him to cuddle up next to her. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"I may've been told," he croaked, coughing again. "Once or twice."

She sighed and ruffled his hair. "I suppose it's lucky I seem to enjoy ridiculousness."

He grinned into one of the tissues. "Agreed," he whispered. "I'm very lucky."

He fell asleep not long after that, exhausted by his fever and the morning's activities, but when he woke up several hours later Lucy was still there, sitting in a chair near his dressing table, her art supplies scattered all over the surface. Her new sketchbook was open on her lap, and she was using watercolors.

"I thought it an appropriate medium," she said, when she saw that he was awake. "Want to see my progress so far?"

He nodded eagerly, and propped himself up on shaky arms even though his head throbbed with the movement.

She grinned, and came over to sit next to him. "It's not finished," she said. "But… well, it was a funny image to me."

It took a second for his bleary eyes to focus, but when the did Lockwood had to laugh. A croaky, congested sound that made him cough, but a laugh nonetheless.

She had drawn, and was in the process of painting, a picture of him walking home in the rain, rapier hanging at his side beneath his open coat, empty pockets turned inside out. The pencil lines of his hair were plastered to his forehead, but his face was turned into the falling droplets, and he was smiling.

"I want to call it Sunshine on a Rainy Day," she said. "But that's probably too cheesy."

"No," he said at once. "No, it's perfect."

She laughed, and they shifted so his head was more comfortably in her lap, and she stroked his hair until he fell asleep again.

#lockwood and co #things my besties have written #locklyle #wow I love lockwood and lucy so much

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