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It’s freezing in the basement room, but Lucy consoles herself with the knowledge that at least there aren’t any ghosts trapped in here with them.
Yet. anyway.
Lockwood sits beside her, brain probably working a ten to the dozen, trying to find a way out, one hand holding the walkie talkie they’ve been using to reach George. He’s a few floors above, working on the locked door from the outside, and Lucy’s not yet found a puzzle George cannot crack, so in the mean time-
“All we have to do is not freeze to death,” she mutters.
Lockwood starts like she’s jabbed him with a cattle prod, and immediately takes off his long coat. He’s hardly without it; it’s like a kind of armour.
She still remembers seeing him in a t-shirt for the first time and being momentarily confused. The suit and coat are an intrinsic part of him.
He finishes shrugging the coat off and offers it.
The only light in the small space shines through the gap between the top stair and the door, casting a pale gold halo around Lockwood. Like he needs another reminder of his gorgeousness, Lucy thinks.
She reaches for the coat and hesitates.
“Take it,” he insists, in that crisp accent, the one she loves to hear her name in. “You’ll catch a cold.”
So she does, and Lockwood holds it out as she slips her arms into it, and she pulls the lapels together so it wraps her up in his scent, magazine pages and earl grey and citrus, and for a second she bows her head and breathes in. Maybe he won’t notice.
Except he does, and his hazel gaze is riveted on her.
“Thanks,” she manages. “I was cold. But what about you?”
He’s only got that thin white shirt and a tie on, above his trousers and the ever-present battered converse.
It must be below six degrees in here. Even in the coat, warm from Lockwood’s body, she still feels the the low temperature’s teeth.
Lockwood brings his knees to his chest. “I’m fine,” he bites off, but his show of bravado is as thin as the cotton of his dress shirt.
Save me from macho boys, Lucy thinks.
"For God's sake. We survive four floors of haunted horror and then you die of catching a cold? I don't think so." And she shuffles back over, and wraps herself around him, settling her head under his chin.
She feels him jerk for a moment, surprised, and then his arms curve around her, and she listens to his heart beating under her ear. Another moment passes, and he rests his cheek on the top of her head.
"Thanks, Luce."
"You're welcome."
It's not so cold now they're huddled together, knees drawn up against themselves, heads close. Lockwood is lean and solid under Lucy's hands; her fingers skate the edges of his leather belt as she holds him to keep him warm.
It would be too easy to slide her index finger just a little lower, find out where the shirt ends and warm, smooth skin begins.
The image heats up every fibre inside her, and her face flushes. It's not an appropriate thought to have in a literal dungeon.
For a start, there isn't a single nice soft surface to lay down on-
"Penny for them?" Lockwood asks softly. "Your thoughts, I mean."
Oh, God.
"Just, er, wondering where George is," she blurts out.
Lockwood has been idly stroking his thumb up and down against her shoulder, and at her words he abruptly stops. “I know it isn’t ideal, being trapped down here with me.”
Lucy’s eyes go wide in the semi-darkness. “That isn’t what I meant.” She swallows, mentally casting around for the right thing to say. “I’m happy being with you.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw; she feels it where his cheek is pillowed against her head. “You have no idea how much I want to let you in. It’s just hard to break the habit of a lifetime.”
Lucy’s heart clenches. Suddenly her next words feel of vital importance, so she weighs them carefully before she speaks, reluctant to embarrass herself, or worse, make Lockwood think he isn’t fast becoming her favourite person in the entire world.
“Just open the door a little further. I’ll do the rest.”
A soft little sound comes out of him, half groan and maybe half little sob, and she feels the gentle pressure of his hand cupping her cheek, his palm rapier-callused and familiar, and his touch is the home she’s been denied all her life.
Lucy straightens up, wiggling out from under him, and then his mouth is a breath from hers, and she meets his dark eyes in the gloom of their very unromantic surroundings, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Everything except him, and the way he looks at her - as if she’d personally hung the moon - has fallen away.
The pad of his thumb skims along her bottom lip, and she’s enchanted by the way his dark gaze flicks to hers once, twice, three times, silently making sure she’s on the same page, before their mouths touch, and then Lucy’s sliding her hand into his hair, parting her lips under his, her heart pounding as weeks of yearning unfurl low in her belly. He’s here and he’s hers , and it’s a heady rush, being alone with him, even in a filthy, freezing basement, and her battered heart can’t help but hope that maybe, this is her last first kiss.
“God, Lucy,” Lockwood breathes, twisting his body so he’s as close to her as he can get, stretching out his legs and then pulling her closer, tipping her centre of gravity, and to keep from breaking the kiss, she shifts to straddle his lap, spearing both her hands into his tumble of dark hair, taking as much as she can get of his delectable mouth. His hands spread over her back, still warm under the veil of his coat hanging from her shoulders, even though she doesn’t need it anymore.
Fire’s eating her up from the inside out. If he stays this close to her, she’ll never be cold again.
There’s a sudden creak and snap, and Lucy’s hand springs to her rapier, only to rapidly blink away a shaft of light from the door.
George stands in the aperture, backlit by a single lamp in the old manor’s servants’ hall.
“George?” Lockwood asks, and Lucy glances back at him, relieved to find his gaze as lust-drunk as her own must be.
Thank goodness there were no ghosts. She wouldn’t have noticed them if they’d conked her over the head with a brick.
Their friend snorts. “I might’ve known. There I was, in a flippin’ creepy manor hallway, alone, I might add, trying what seems like a hundred different keys, and you two are snogging!”
Lucy’s face flushes, and she’s very glad of the coat to hide their positions. “It was cold,” she says, but she can’t help smiling. “Thank you for rescuing us, George.”
“You’re the best of us,” Lockwood adds. He shifts position under Lucy, and he feels hard in the places she's soft, and for a searing moment she wonders what might have happened had they been here a half hour longer.
George shakes his head, but there’s no anger in his tone when he says, “It’s about time. If I’d known being locked in a crumbly old basement was all it’d take, I’d have done it myself.”