Locklyle Reimagined [A Lockwood and Lucy Fanfic]

Biscuit Mornings (Lockwood)

"Lockwood..." I can hear Lucy calling out to me. She was by the kitchen of our humble abode—35 Portland Row, with its four floors of a height; broken tiles, and rusty wooden sign-board upfront.

"Yeah, Luce?" I replied as I lazily marched my way to her. "Did we run out of butter again? Fuck—George!"

"No—no, no, no," She goes up to meet me by the arc of the kitchen door. I almost bumped into her if it weren't for the plate she held out that blocked us. "I just wanted to tell you that I baked us biscuits. You know, before George takes them all. And besides, I want you to be the judge of it." She extends the plate out to me. Ever since I gave her the ruby necklace, she's been working on house chores by the double. We both knew why; I'd say too soon, but I love it like an evening with no cases to investigate.

"Looking at it—it's gorgeous," I grinned. I always do. An innate talent, if you will. Apart from that, I know Lucy loves it—my smile, that is. I took one of the slightly burnt ones off the plate. They were still a little warm, and they smelled delicious. It smelled exactly how biscuits should be supposed to smell.

"Oh?" Her pupils dilated. I took a bite. And well, well, she never fails to surprise me. I never thought it would taste better than I anticipated.

"Yes, they are lovely," I said. Watching her delightful eyes. "Just like how you've been these last couple of days." I continued to churn.

"And you love it, don't you?" She asked. "You love how proper I've acted for a while now, yeah?"

"Of course, I do," My grin grew wider. "I love how much wife-material you are now, Luce."

She turned away, but before she did, I saw the crimson on her cheeks. She puts the plate away, by the table, and goes back to where I stood. She shoved a fist and gave a playful nudge to my shoulder.

"Shut up!" Her eyes were glued to the floor. I walked closer to her, my hand holding her chin up the way I held an issue of London Times magazine.

"Hey," I said, gently. Oh, how I loved how awkward state. She's too sweet, too endearing. She looks at me with a thin and reluctant smile. "You might as well be by now, okay? You don't have to be embarrassed about anything. I'm loving the effort. And the house looks better. And your biscuits are so good, I'd think you didn't bake them."

She laughs at me. "I feel stupid. But at least you think the biscuit is good. Safe for me to eat." She leans in to give me a quick peck on the lip. It freezes me up mid-way, and I forget what I was supposed to say. "You can get one more before George slips in."
"Screwing the biscuit rule for me, aren't you, Lucy Carlyle?" I teased some more. "You do love me."

"Yeah, I do," She smirks. "Don't be stupid about it."

I gave out a theatrical whine. "Oh, but Lucy, I am a fool—a fool for your love!" She nudges me again, with the smirk still plastered on her face.

"Oh, well, that's good enough for me." She pats my chest slowly, and her hand rests there. "I do." She mumbles in a hushed tone.

"You do what?" I asked.

"I do love you." And with that, we got around the table. Our thinking cloth was messy with scribbles and doodles, and we just sat there. Enjoying the biscuits she baked.

Looking into her bright eyes—those eyes, complementing the darkness in mine; life seems good, finally. Despite the danger of the London hauntings, and threats from past associations—none of it seemed to matter now.

The feeling of Mercurial high rushed onto me as she smiled. She screams out everything I'd die to save. I'm growing into the feeling of a hero. Her hero. She might not need me to be, yet it is my responsibility. Lucy is someone I've got to look out for. For, more reasons apart from the fact that she is mine. My person.