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Lucy can hardly contain her glee when she slaps the newspaper down onto the table. George yanks his plate out of the way and glares, but Lockwood turns his attention to the newspaper— to the picture. Of him.
“What the hell?” he mutters after a moment, leaning closer to read the headline.
“London’s finest independent agent,” Lucy recites, planting both hands on the table and leaning over them. “Spotted with new boyfriend.”
“Rude,” George mutters.
“Kipps?” Lockwood gasps.
He opens the paper and starts flipping through the pages, leaving the picture of him and Kipps side by side in Lucy’s view. She grins and drops into one of the empty seats.
George is still frowning, craning his neck to read over Lockwood’s shoulder. “I mean, finest, really? Even just out of the three of us that’s a stretch.”
“An anonymous source? Who the hell submitted pictures of Kipps and I to the bloody newspaper?” Lockwood pulls the paper closer to his face, like if he breathes it in he’ll learn all its secrets. Lucy steals the toast from his plate while he’s distracted.
“Don’t take it too seriously,” she says. “There’s probably a lot of money to be made with this kind of thing.”
“I don’t care that it’s me, but Kipps? Really? Kipps?”
“What do you mean,” George says, watching Lucy, “money?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes journalists get their pictures themselves, but if it’s an anonymous source then someone had to sell it to the newspaper. With Lockwood as important as he is lately…”
“They’re willing to offer a lot for this kind of information,” George has a glint in his eye, like he’s planning something, and Lucy raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
He gives Lockwood an appraising look, then turns back to Lucy. “This could be good for us.”
Lockwood drops the paper, finally, and tugs at his hair. He looks distraught. “How could this be good, George? All of London thinks I’m dating Quill Kipps.”
He pulls a face like it’s the worst thing to ever happen to him, but George only shakes his head slowly.
“They don’t really,” Lucy offers. “Probably. They’re just desperate for information about you and, ideally, your dating life.”
“So why don’t we give them some?” George is fully grinning, now, taking the paper and flipping through like he’s looking for something.
Lockwood rolls his eyes. “Hate to tell you, Georgie, but I haven’t actually got anything interesting happening. In that area, at least.”
George shrugs. “The papers don’t need to know that, do they? It isn’t like you’re actually with Kipps.” He pauses and glances at Lockwood. “Right?”
Lockwood sputters, convincingly, and George nods once. “Exactly. So it doesn’t matter if it’s true. But if we had some pictures of you going out with, you know, someone—”
“Who?”
He shrugs again. “Lucy, maybe?”
Lucy shakes her head immediately, scooting her chair back from the table. “Absolutely not,” she says. “I’m not getting involved with this. No.”
“Come on, Luce,” Lockwood says, smiling a little, but something in his eyes makes him look a bit like a kicked puppy. “Would it be that bad?”
Lucy’s sure it wouldn’t be, has actually thought at length about how not-that-bad it would be to date Lockwood, but that’s only if they were actually dating. Not this fake photos nonsense.
“It’s George’s turn to help Lockwood In Crisis,” she says instead of any of that, jabbing a finger at the tally on the Thinking Cloth. “Remember?”
“Okay, no,” George interrupts. “First of all—”
“First of all, yes, it is, because I saved his arse on that job last week, and put him to bed the week before, so you actually owe me one.”
“That’s a gross misrepresentation of what really happened,” George insists under his breath. Lockwood puts his hands up.
“Are we actually talking about doing this?” he asks, and there’s something unsure in it, something— insecure. Like he thinks he’s asking too much.
It’s a tone Lucy’s become quite acquainted with since she moved in.
“I don’t see why not,” she says, trying to keep her voice light. She thinks, probably, it’ll turn out to be a fantastically stupid idea, in the long run. Pretending to date Lockwood? For money?
But George is grinning, with that sparkle in his eyes, and Lockwood looks like he’s scheming, and Lucy can’t help but feel giddy about it all.
“We can always use the extra money,” George agrees.
“Okay,” Lockwood lets out a breath, half a laugh, and grabs a pen from the middle of the table. “Well, where do we start?”
-
They start with buying a camera.
-
Try as she might to beg out of it all, when Lucy first tries to actually use the camera she nearly drops it, so George is relegated to picture-taking and she finds herself walking down the street, wrapped up in coat and scarf, her fingers twined with Lockwood’s.
His hand is warm. She isn’t thinking about it.
“Lucy, smile,” George calls, looking annoyed. “You’re on a date with the man you love, not walking into a haunted house.”
Lockwood stumbles a bit, but Lucy steadies him and tries to smile. The camera flashes, so she must be a little bit convincing, and she flushes and ducks her head.
“This is weird,” she mumbles.
“Sorry,” Lockwood says, so fast it sounds more instinctive than anything.
Lucy frowns. “Not you,” she says, and then realizes how that sounds. “I mean— um.”
Her heart is racing. Lockwood’s shoulders are stiff, angled like he’s turned his whole body to avoid her eyes, but she isn’t sure because she’s avoiding his.
“The camera, I mean,” she says, quietly, after far too long. Lockwood nods and squeezes her hand, once, lightly.
“Yeah,” he says. The camera flashes again as soon as she looks up at him, and Lucy scowls and raises a middle finger in George’s direction.
-
The next week, they’re at something of an impasse. The check for the pictures had been— nice, certainly, but once they got take-out to celebrate and restocked their salt bombs and their phosphorus, it really didn’t seem like that much.
Lucy comes into the kitchen one morning to find the article stuck to the fridge, heart-shaped magnet positioned right between her and Lockwood’s heads in the photo. Beside it is a sticky note with a question mark scribbled on it.
After a moment of deliberation, she grabs a pen and writes a note on the corner of the paper: makes sense to me.
It isn’t like that first— date? Photoshoot? Whatever it was— it wasn’t awkward, beyond those first few moments. It didn’t cause some huge, impassable rift to open up between her and Lockwood. All it really did was pad their pockets a bit.
And teach Lucy what it feels like to hold Lockwood’s hand, which she still isn’t thinking about.
Anyway.
She’d be fine with doing it again, is the point. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?
-
The worst that happens, in the next several weeks, is that George loses a flannel and Lockwood’s characteristic charm becomes much less effective. It turns out that women are much less likely to flirt back with him, when they think he’s in a committed relationship with his coworker who just stepped out.
The flannel was mostly unrelated; George got tired of pushing its sleeves up again and again during one particular photoshoot, and left it unattended on a park bench. What happened to it next was anyone’s guess.
Regardless, Lucy makes it through over a month and several additional paychecks without issue. Their cases are as varied as ever, but with the extra work, Lockwood & Co. are living more comfortably than they ever have.
And then.
Lucy doesn’t know quite how it happens.
She’s dressed them up, one unseasonably warm day, for yet another session with the camera. Her skirt matches Lockwood’s tie. George is hovering nearby, snapping pictures, tossing jokes out to make them smile. When he’s decided he has enough, Lucy wanders over and takes the camera from him. She’s been practicing, slowly, and is starting to understand how to find the right angle, the right lighting; how to make a picture art.
She turns, after a moment, and sees them. George and Lockwood.
They’re standing together, so close they’re nearly touching. George is looking off into the distance, that look on his face that tells Lucy he’s explaining something at length, his hands waving around to accentuate his point.
And Lockwood is watching him, an absolutely besotted look on his face.
Lucy doesn’t think. She raises the camera and clicks, promising to herself that she’ll delete it as soon as they get home.
“Luce!” Lockwood calls, waving her over. “Come on, that ice cream place you like should still be open.”
George rolls his eyes. “He just saw Kipps headed that direction,” he informs her as soon as she’s close enough to hear him. “This has nothing to do with ice cream. Unfortunately.”
Lockwood shrugs, grinning like he’s been caught but he can’t bring himself to regret the crime. “I’ll still buy you ice cream.”
Lucy nods. “That sounds like a good deal to me.”
They wander off, the three of them, the camera dangling around Lucy’s neck and the pictures, for once, forgotten.
-
Two days later, splashed across the front page like a brand:
LONDON’S MOST ELIGIBLE AGENT BACK TO PROMISCUOUS WAYS
Underneath, the picture of Lockwood and George, zoomed in just enough to highlight the damning look on Lockwood’s face.
Lucy drops her head into her hands.
“Trouble, Lucy?” George says, coming around the kitchen table to get to the kettle. He rests a hand on her shoulder as he goes, and despite her mood the touch sends a shiver down her spine.
She furiously pushes the thought away and reads the headline out to George, who sighs.
“What did he do now?”
“Well, actually,” she starts, trying to figure out how to say I took a picture of you without you noticing because I thought you both looked pretty, and now all of London thinks Lockwood’s cheating on me, with you, without actually saying any of it. Before she can, George turns back from the stove and catches sight of the picture on the paper.
“Oh,” he says. “Shit.”
“Shit,” Lucy agrees, and decides not to mention why she took the picture in the first place.
-
Lockwood laughs, when they tell him. One of those rare, giant laughs that shakes him by the shoulders and brings him close to tears. Lucy glares at him until he wipes at his eyes and gasps out an apology.
“It’s just—” he stammers, still grinning. “They really can’t get enough of me, can they?”
-
Once she and George have convinced him to take this seriously, the three of them sit down with tea and have an actual conversation about it. Or try to, at least.
“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” Lockwood says, petulantly. Lucy bites back the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “Why’s it so bad for people to think I’m going out with George?”
“Because we’ve been telling them for months that you’re going out with Lucy,” George explains yet again. His glasses are pushed up his forehead so he can rub at his eyes and, when appropriate, pinch the bridge of his nose. He does so now. “And since we are cultivating your public image, we don’t want them to think you’re cheating on her.”
Lucy pats George on the shoulder in a way she hopes is comforting. He flashes her a quick smile, amused under all his exasperation, and she feels something in her chest settle. She hadn’t realized how agitated she was, thinking George might be mad at her, but she feels much better to know that he isn’t.
“How did that picture even get out there?” Lockwood says, kicking his feet up onto the table.
Lucy winces, a bit. “I took it,” she mutters, with every intention of continuing until George shifts in his seat.
“I haven’t really been paying close attention to which files I send out,” he says. Lucy turns to stare at him. “I guess it got lumped in with all the ones of the two of you.”
He’s avoiding looking at either of them, and Lucy wants to press him on it, see what it is he’s hiding— because she’s sure it’s something, even if it’s just one half-truth— but Lockwood sighs heavily and draws her attention back.
“Well,” he says, “what’s done is done. I don’t know what either of you expect us to do about this.”
Silence stretches between them. Lucy doesn’t know, either. She doesn’t even know if they should do something. Like George had said; it doesn’t matter if what the papers are saying is the truth. For one long moment, she considers that this might be the end of this plan. They’ve got a bit of a nest egg, now, with everything they’ve saved. Maybe this is the end of the pictures, and the fake-dates, and the dressing up. The end of the hand holding, the long looks disguised as acting. The end of— this. All of this.
The thought makes something sour stir up in Lucy’s stomach. She doesn’t want it to end.
George clears his throat.
“We could just— call it off?” he suggests, sounding like it pains him even to say it.
Lucy shakes her head. “No,” she says. The boys both turn to look at her, lit up with hope. “No, we can— we can use this, can’t we? I mean,” she’s running out of things to say. Really, she can’t think of a single justifiable reason to continue, after this, except that she can’t bear to stop. To give it all up.
“Why is the assumption that I’m cheating?” Lockwood asks. “Of all the possibilities, everyone in London thinks I’m the kind of person to go behind Lucy’s back?”
George nods, slowly and then faster. Lucy can practically see the cogs turning in his mind. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll use it, then.”
He looks between them, a smirk spreading across his face. Lucy matches it, unable to help herself. That gleam is back in his eyes, the one that says he’s planning something.
Lockwood laughs again. “Well, then, where do we start?”
-
Holly Munro, Lucy thinks, did not expect to add photographer to her job description. Or con artist, for that matter.
Although, maybe that’s a bit beyond what they’re doing. The planning hadn’t seemed all that artistic, anyway.
Lucy fidgets with her napkin. She’s keenly aware of Holly three tables down, chatting idly to one of George’s brothers in between snapping pictures. She’s even more keenly aware of George and Lockwood, beside her at the table, so close their knees keep brushing.
“This isn’t as good as our Italian was, Luce,” George murmurs, quiet even under the hum of chatter hanging in the restaurant. He says it like it’s a secret, something shared just between them. Lucy smiles at him, some of the tension melting from her shoulders.
She hears a soft click from Holly’s direction. She ignores it.
Lockwood had suggested the restaurant, a real fancy Italian place close enough to walk to. He’d softened when he said the name, that odd mix of grief and loneliness rising up behind his eyes until Lucy took his hand. It’s a nice place, even if Lucy does miss the greasy, untidy mess of the pizza place George had taken her to. They hadn’t had to dress up, to go there.
Then again, seeing George in a suit is— something.
She’s ignoring it.
The evening passes normally, all things considered. Lockwood whispers that Holly is leaving just as the waiter brings out their dessert, so they take it to go and slip out into the night after her. The air is clear and cool, and Lucy shivers, wishing she’d brought a jacket.
As if he’d read her mind, Lockwood drapes his blazer across her shoulders, giving her a crooked grin when she thanks him.
“Of course,” he says, and she hears the honesty in it as clearly as she sees it on his face.
She wants to say something, maybe. Something like this has been fun. Something like I wish this were real. Something like I love you.
The thought should be startling, but it isn’t. It makes sense, after all. The sky is blue, Lucy is a listener, she’s in love with Anthony Lockwood.
George presses close to her other side, curls one arm around her waist. Lucy amends her statement: the sky is blue, and she’s in love with both of them.
The words are bubbling up in her throat when a voice she doesn’t recognize says Lockwood’s name.
There’s a pair of girls in front of them, barely old enough to be agents. The taller one has her hand pressed to her chest like she’s in shock.
“Andrew Lockwood, the agent?” she says again. Her friend starts to giggle.
“It’s Anthony, actually,” Lockwood says, smiling tightly. Lucy takes his hand and squeezes, once.
The girl’s eyes latch onto their hands, then trace over to where George is still holding Lucy. Her brow furrows. “Where are you all coming from?”
“A date,” George says easily.
“What, all three of you?”
Lockwood tilts his head, still smiling. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Her face scrunches up like she’s thinking, and her friend turns to watch her. After a moment, she shrugs. “Suppose not,” she says. “Just seems unorthodox, really.”
Lockwood puffs up, taking half a step in front of Lucy and dropping her hand to cross his arms across his chest. “What does? Me loving both of them?”
George’s grip on Lucy’s hip tightens.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Lockwood continues, and Lucy can’t— breathe. “They’re the two most wonderful people I've ever met. I can’t imagine life without them— I can’t imagine myself without them. Is that not what love is?”
George lets out a breath. “Lockwood,” he says, softly. Lockwood’s shoulders go stiff.
“Let’s go home,” Lucy says.
She takes Lockwood’s hand and they push past the two girls, who do nothing but watch them leave. Lucy throws a murderous glance over her shoulder when she hears their giggling start up again, but George moves his hand to the small of her back to guide her forward.
“Home,” he reminds her. She nods.
They say nothing for the rest of the walk.
Portland Row, when they reach it, is similarly silent. They shed their shoes and coats in the hall and move into the kitchen. George flits about to start making tea while Lucy and Lockwood collapse at the table.
“Lockwood,” Lucy says eventually. He doesn’t look at her, but dips his chin in a short nod. “Lockwood. Was that—”
She can’t bring herself to say it. Was that true, she thinks, over and over until the words are sitting on her tongue, but she can’t say them.
“Were you telling the truth?” George asks, blunt as ever. His back is still to them.
Lockwood hesitates.
“Anthony,” Lucy says, quiet like she’ll break him if she speaks too loudly.
“Yes,” Lockwood says. “Yes.”
The word hangs in the air. Lucy can’t find enough air to breathe.
“Good,” George says, and spins around to grab Lockwood by the face and crash their lips together.
Lockwood makes a sound almost like a yelp, then goes boneless in his chair and reaches up to thread his fingers into George’s hair. Lucy can’t tear her eyes away, leans forward in her chair to watch as George nips at Lockwood’s lips, presses him further back into his seat. When he pulls back they’re both panting, their lips red, and Lucy— Lucy—
“Georgie,” she says, reaching for him. He comes easily, leaning in to kiss her, too, and Lucy feels like she hasn’t ever even been alive, before. Like everything up to now was just backstory for what it would be to kiss George, to feel his glasses digging into her cheek, to press her fingers against his pulse point and feel his hammering heart.
She pulls herself up to her feet and stumbles over to sit across Lockwood’s lap, kissing his lips and his cheeks and his nose. George leans against the table right behind her, trailing soft fingers and softer kisses across the line of her shoulders, up her neck, around to where she and Lockwood meet.
Lucy would be content to stay there forever, if not for Holly bursting into the room waving the camera about.
“Oh!” she says, cutting off whatever she’d come to tell them. She averts her eyes and goes red. “Sorry, I’ll just—”
She leaves as fast as she’d entered, and Lucy laughs. George is grinning against her neck, his hands in Lockwood’s hair, and Lockwood is blinking like he’s too surprised to do anything else.
“Well,” he says, after a moment. “I guess we won’t need the camera anymore.”
“Are you kidding?” George pulls back to look at him. “There’s so much money in this.”
Lucy grins and twists to kiss him. “I like the way you think,” she says, swiping a thumb across the flush that rises to his cheeks.
“Fine,” Lockwood agrees. “So where do we start?”