Chapter Text
Lockwood was running again. Always with the running - it's why George had refused to come with him. "It's too much cardio," he'd complained. "You never think your plans through and we always end up fleeing for our lives. For once I'd like to just get in, get the book, and get out without having to break a sweat."
And George had been right - George was always right, really, and it was starting to get annoying. The sound of quick footsteps sped up behind him as Lockwood burst into a stairwell, hurling himself upwards three steps at a time. Down was easier, but also more obvious. He was sure there would be security waiting on the ground floor.
Shouts echoed below him as his pursuers entered the stairwell, and Lockwood leapt toward the nearest door, praying that the two floors he'd put between them would be enough. The door swung open, and he slipped into a dimly lit hallway.
Desperate as he was for an escape, he barely noticed how different this hallway was from the ones he'd been sprinting through minutes earlier. Instead of blank, industrial walls and fluorescent lights, he hurried past blue wallpaper and soft gold sconces. His footsteps didn't echo across tiled floors; rather, they were swallowed up by grey carpeting.
He had two options: the lift positioned halfway down the corridor, or the dark blue door at the very end. Glancing behind him, Lockwood gambled on the door. It was unlocked.
Breathing heavily, stolen book tucked under one arm, he slid inside and closed the door behind him. Unexpectedly, he found himself in a small foyer. There was a door to his left, a hallway directly ahead, and another hallway to his right. Any additional observations were cut short by the sight of a girl standing in front of the right hall, absolutely frozen at the sight of him.
But it wasn't just any girl - it was Lucy Carlyle.
Lucy Carlyle was the second most famous woman in the country; she was Penelope Fittes' heir and favorite, and the two were rarely seen without each other. Despite being trained as an agent - somewhere up North, if he remembered correctly - Carlyle rarely worked in the field. Instead, she was involved in top-secret projects that Penelope herself oversaw. George was convinced they were working on the origin and eventual end of the Problem, and was wildly jealous of Carlyle's access to the sorts of official documents that he'd never get anywhere near. Lockwood wouldn't describe his own feelings toward the famous Listener as jealousy, per se - he certainly dreamed of meeting her, convinced he could charm his way into Penelope's inner circle, and desperate to know what made Carlyle so special.
He did not anticipate this meeting would take place after he'd broken into what was probably her personal apartment with stolen property, and certainly not while she was wearing nothing but a towel.
For once, Lockwood was speechless. Carlyle's shock was wearing off, and she leveled him with a look he'd seen in her magazine spreads - furrowed brows, downturned lips, jaw set. He was not prepared for the effect her eyes had on him: it was as though she could see right through him, see every piece of who he was, and she was not impressed. If he hadn't already been panting from running, her gaze would have rendered him breathless.
She looked him over, eyes snagging on his rapier and landing on the book tucked under his arm. "Nice book," she said, her Northern accent tickling his ears.
"Nice...towel." Lockwood closed his eyes. Even given the circumstances, was that really the first thing he'd ever said to Lucy Carlyle? He wanted to die.
Muffled shouts sounded from the hallway, and Lockwood took a step back. After scrutinizing him a moment longer, Carlyle crossed to the door, one hand securing her towel, and slid the deadbolt into place.
Lockwood's eyebrows flew up, and she frowned, gesturing for him to stay quiet. He glanced at the hallway behind her. Surely there was a fire escape somewhere, an alternate exit he could use, if he could only find it. That would have been the smart thing - to take advantage of this moment and make a break for it while he still had the chance.
But for some reason he couldn't articulate, even to himself, he stayed.
There was a knock at the door, and someone on the other side jiggled the handle, shouting, "Miss Carlyle!"
He watched from the shadows as she took a deep breath, straightened up, and unbolted the door. She only opened it a few inches, keeping Lockwood out of his pursuer's sightline. "What?" she asked, with all the grumpiness of someone whose shower has just been interrupted, which Lockwood supposed it had.
The oily voice of the Golden Blade answered. "There's an intruder in the building. I need to search your apartment."
A droplet of water slid from her hairline down her neck, and Lockwood watched its progress over her freckled shoulder. Her hair was pulled up, mostly dry - only the edges, near her nape, were wet. A bath then - not a shower. "My door's been locked since I got back. Deadbolted and everything. There's no way anyone got in."
"I'm afraid it's protocol."
She stood her ground. "You're wasting your time. Your intruder's probably getting away."
An irritated huff from the other side of the door. "My team is searching as we speak. As Penelope's personal security detail, your safety is my first priority. So unless you have a compelling reason as to why I can't come inside, I must insist-"
"I have a guest."
Lockwood stayed very still in the silence that followed.
"You have...a guest." The disbelief in the Golden Blade's voice was clear, and Carlyle seemed to relish in it.
"That's right," she said, as though daring him to challenge her. "And he's not exactly decent at the moment, so you can't come in."
This silence was longer, and Lockwood felt his ears burning at the implication. Suddenly, seeing Lucy Carlyle in her towel in her apartment felt far too intimate, almost like he was crossing a line.
Not almost - he was crossing a line. He'd broken in. So why was she helping him?
"As head of security, I should have been notified-"
"Good luck with your intruder," Carlyle said bluntly, slamming the door and locking the deadbolt again.
She turned her eyes back on him, and Lockwood had never felt so out of place. He excelled at making himself at home even in the most dangerous situations, at leveraging himself the upper hand whenever possible. He was in a suit and she was in a towel; his rapier was sheathed at his hip and she was unarmed; he was taller, stronger, faster. It should have been easy.
But when Lucy Carlyle spoke, he had no illusions about who was in charge.
"I'm going to get dressed. Would you mind putting the kettle on? Kitchen's through there." She pointed at the hallway straight ahead, and then turned her back on the strange man in her apartment and walked down the hallway to the right.
Loosening his tie, Lockwood went in search of the kettle.