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It all starts when one of the goth ghost cult chicks bites him. Bites him hard enough to draw blood, and for Lucy to tell him that they need to patch it up, lest he get rabies.
They’d been walking into their latest case at a cemetery. Lockwood doesn’t love being hired to clear cemeteries, but they need the money, especially now that they have to feed three people instead of just two.
So they start wading through the crowd of protestors as they exit their cab, the security sent by their client leading the way, shoving protestors aside without a second thought, clearly used to this lot.
Lockwood sees the girl before she bites him, assumes that she’s one of the cemetery's listeners by the way that she’s dressed, and then she lunges at him. He dodges her the first time, his instincts guiding him, but he’s not so lucky the second time she lunges.
He’s got his big and heavy coat on, so as he tries to drag the girl off of him and she bites his hand, he’s a little taken aback. Thankfully Lucy, in all of her brusque Lucy manner, kicks the girl in the shins hard enough to make her yelp and dislodge her teeth from Lockwood’s hand, which is now bleeding rather handily, and lets the security guards grab her before she disappears into the crowd.
He can hear the girl yelling one of us as security drags her away and Lucy grabs him by his elbow. Thankfully, the girl hadn’t bit his rapier hand, so as they walk, Lockwood is able to convince Lucy to let them continue with the job, and George to go and barter with their client for hazard pay.
Lucy drags him into the cemetery’s church and sits him on a bench while she grabs the medkit. She glances periodically over her shoulder as she rummages through the bags, as if to make sure he hasn’t run off to do something stupid. He obediently stays put and waits, until George comes into the church, a shit eating grin on his face, a newly signed contract from their client, no doubt including a bonus for Lockwood’s newest injury, in his hands.
“Forget your bug spray?” George asks, before he practically doubles in half laughing. Lockwood can see his reputation crumpling under George’s laughter as Lucy patches him up. He’d take more issue with it if he didn’t like the way it sounded so much. George’s laugh is abrasive, but so impossible to fake that Lockwood always knows George is truly amused when he laughs.
“What on earth possessed her to bite you?” Lucy asks him, her face screwed up adorably in concentration as she dabs antiseptic onto his hand. It’s a reverse of their situation the last time they’d been minorly injured at a cemetery, scrapes from the bone glass incident non withstanding, and the symmetry of the moment makes him a bit hot under the collar. He’s always been a sucker for poetic moments in his own life. It makes him feel like a heroine in an Austen novel.
“He just looks so edible,” George comes over, sitting next to Lockwood on the bench, and pinching his cheek, “Don’t you just want to find out what he tastes like Luce?” He imagines George biting him then, nibbling on his earlobe, and he feels another hot flash under his collar, despite the fact that he has in fact been bitten and is currently bleeding. He stops that train of thought before he starts thinking about both of them biting him.
“I’d rather that Lockwood’s blood stayed where it belongs,” Lucy tells George practically, tying off his newest bandage with a practiced ease, “inside of his body,”
George hums in agreement, pinching Lockwood’s cheek one more time before standing to grab their gear.
The job goes smoothly, but Lockwood feels a bit funny the whole time. He dismisses it as miasma, or a lingering effect from the painkillers Lucy had made him take, and by the time that they get home, Lockwood is so tired that he doesn’t even register the feeling anymore, and has almost forgotten entirely about the fact that he’d been bitten.
He crashes onto his bed, suit and all, although he does manage to ditch his coat, and by the time his eyes have closed, he’s dead to the world.
- - -
The real trouble starts the next morning, when Lockwood wakes up. His blinds have fallen off the wall, and there’s a sudden stinging sensation as a sunbeam falls across his face as he rolls over. He falls off of the bed, spluttering, and as he stands his skin feels hot and itchy, and the sun stings it again as he crosses to pull his curtain shut.
“Alright mate?” George asks him from the doorway, and Lockwood spins around guiltily, aware that he’s been caught a) sleeping in his clothes on top of the covers and b) depending on how long George has been there, falling out of his bed like a maniac because of a sunbeam. Totally rational behavior.
“Been there long?” Lockwood asks innocently, frantically smoothing down his hair as he finally discards his coat and begins to pull off his suit jacket, careful of his bandaged hand.
“Long enough,” George says, sounding rather amused, though as Lockwood looks over his shoulder, in the middle of pulling off his white button down, George seems rather flustered, his eyes darting back and forth, and his knuckles bone-white on the door frame.
“What’d Lockwood do now?” Lucy asks, clearly on her way down to breakfast, her hair damp from a shower, bangs plastered to her face. She peeks in the door right as he starts to pull his pants down and instantly splutters, “Have some dignity Lockwood,” She slams his door shut and pulls George away, but he doesn’t miss the way her eyes rake over him, George’s too.
He gets dressed quickly, it’s much less boring without an audience, before he heads down to breakfast.
His room is colder than usual, and he pulls on a pair of thick wool socks, as well as his only sweater, one that he hardly ever wore because it was so warm, before he pads down to the kitchen to join his housemates.
“Going to the north pole?” Lucy asks as Lockwood walks in, sitting at the table as George fries bacon, three mugs of tea sitting at their spots.
“I was cold,” Lockwood murmurs, moving to close the curtains, and setting his mug down at the darkest corner of the table, “That smells good George,”
“It’s still raw Lockwood,” George told him, giving him a curious look, “You’re being rather odd,”
“Am I?” Lockwood asked, sipping at his tea and not really tasting it. He adds several more teaspoons of sugar, akin to how Lucy likes her tea and sips it again. Still nothing.
“Yes,” Lucy told him, setting down her mug and squinting at him. Lockwood just grins at her, though it turns into a grimace as a wave of nausea rolls through him.
George set their plates down on the table, sliding Lockwood’s to him, and sitting down next to Lucy, both of them staring at Lockwood, “We need to change the dressing on your hand,”
“After breakfast,” Lockwood tells him breezily, taking a bite of his bacon, fighting back the urge to dry heave at the texture before he manages to choke down a mouthful of eggs too. They taste rubbery and he doesn’t like the taste. Strange. Usually he quite likes when George makes eggs. He manages to choke down a few more bites before he gives up and just sips his bland tea.
Lucy volunteers to do the dishes and George agrees to help Lockwood with his hand. When Lockwood stands from the table, he sways, vision going spotty around the edges, and he grabs the table to keep from falling over. In the end, he manages to stay upright long enough to follow George upstairs to the bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet.
“I still can’t believe you got bit by an actual person,” George sighs as he pulls out the medkit and Lockwood feels sick again as George keeps talking, his vision blurring again, “Those ghost cult folks are nutters, it’s like they don’t even care about how many innocent people visitors have killed,”
“Yeah,” Lockwood mumbles, thinking back to the day before when the three of them had taken naps in the garden under the afternoon sun, getting ready for the case. When had it all gone wrong? Probably around the time he’d been bitten.
George handles Lockwood’s hand carefully, which would normally set a flutter in Lockwood’s stomach, but right now he’s so focused on not puking on George and how cold the room feels, that he barely even registers the contact.
“Lockwood,” George says, gently shaking his shoulder, and Lockwood looks up at him, head swimming.
“I’m fine,” Lockwood mumbles, standing up, and immediately having to grab George’s shoulder in order to stay upright.
“No you’re not,” George says firmly, “Back to bed with you, I’ll make soup,”
Lockwood manages to stay conscious long enough for him to walk by the mirror, at least where the mirror should be and realize that he can’t see his reflection before he collapses into George’s arms. It’d be romantic except for the fact that he’s pretty sure he throws up at the same time.
- - -
When he wakes up again, he’s lying in his bed, an empty bowl by his bedside in case he pukes again, and a glass of water. He drinks the water and hauls himself out of bed. Lockwood hadn’t become the youngest agency head just to be defeated by a little illness.
Just as he’s about to go downstairs, George appears at the bottom of the stairs, and glances up at Lockwood before startling, “What are you doing out of bed?” George demands, meeting Lockwood at the top of the stairs, and frog marching him back to his room. The bossiness might have been more attractive if George didn’t have quite as tight a grip on his arms.
“I feel fine,” Lockwood insists, trying to backpedal, and only succeeding in messing up his rug and tripping.
“Get back in bed,” George insists, brows furrowed and his arms crossed, “You had a fever of 101, you puked up your guts, and you’ve been asleep for 15 hours, so that was all yesterday, and you need to get back in bed,”
“15 hours is long enough,” Lockwood insists, but he petulantly sits down on his bed, crossing his arms and waiting for George to leave. George doesn’t leave, just crosses his arms back at Lockwood and cocks an eyebrow. Clearly he’s prepared to wait, and they both know which one of them is more patient.
“You scared me half to death,” George tells him finally, clearly not going to let Lockwood get up, “And got my favorite shirt dirty, so I think I’m owed at least another three hours where you stay in bed,”
“Two,” Lockwood tells him, sensing an opening, “And I go sit in the kitchen with you,” George squints, and doesn’t say anything, “Three,” Lockwood offers.
“Four, if we’re sitting in the kitchen, and if you start to get sick again, you get back in bed immediately,” George tells him, his tone leaving no room for argument, and Lockwood agrees. It’s better than being stuck in his room.
So George lets him walk down to the kitchen, following close behind him on the stairs, clearly anticipating Lockwood having some issue, or perhaps Lockwood falling down the stairs. It would be adorable if Lockwood didn’t feel smothered.
Lockwood sits at the table, George sitting across the table, staring intently at Lockwood as if he can see Lockwood’s temperature spike a millidegree, “I’m not going to die sitting at the table,” Lockwood tells George, sprawling out in his chair, feeling refreshed. He wonders if this is what normal, not sleep deprived people feel like.
George just keeps staring at him, so Lockwood decides to take the high road and not engage in a staring contest with his oldest friend. It’s a hard decision, based mainly on the fact that the way the light was catching on George’s glasses meant that Lockwood couldn’t see his eyes, and that George would be able to get away with cheating. And that he wouldn’t be able to use the contest as an excuse to stare at George’s eyes, which made it much less appealing to him.
“You said something strange,” George tells him, finally looking away, standing to make tea, and hopefully fetch the biscuits, “Right before you threw up on me,”
“Sorry,” Lockwood winces.
George just waves a hand, “I’ve had worse. But anyways, you told me that you couldn’t see yourself in the mirror,” Lockwood vaguely remembers this.
He remembers that he’d glanced towards the mirror as he spiraled towards George, about to fall down, and that he’d noticed that he couldn’t see himself in the mirror. It had been peculiar, but he’d been too busy throwing up to make much note of it.
“So I did,” He tells George after a long pause, both of them staring again, his sick mind probably not understanding the full importance of the comment.
“I think that it was probably the fever talking," George says after a moment, but the seed has already been planted in Lockwood’s head, a feverous sort of wonder unfolding within him.
Had he truly been unable to see his reflection in the mirror? And what else lacked the ability to see themselves in the mirror, whose skin burned in the sunlight, and underwent a transformation after being bitten by a goth figure?
Lockwood feels a shiver run up his spine. He has to double check. There is no way that he is actually a vampire. That is just ridiculous.
So in the interest of science, and sating his own personal curiosity, “I have to go to the bathroom,” He tells George, standing stiffly. George stands too.
“I can wait outside, but I’m not having you passing out again and conking your head, and not being aware of it,” George tells him, already leading the way, and another thought occurs to Lockwood, admittedly much later than his lucid mind would have preferred.
“Where’s Luce?”
“She went to the store to get medicine,” George calls over his shoulder, “We were out, managed to give you the last of it while you were asleep,”
“That’s not weird at all,” Lockwood mutters to himself as he stands outside the bathroom door, grappling with the fact that he will have to face his fate.
“Are you going in?” George tells him impatiently, his tone sharp, eyes narrowed suspiciously like he thinks Lockwood’s going to climb out of the bathroom window to get out of bedrest, “I hate to be a bother,” He gives Lockwood a look that tells him that in fact, George does not mind at all, “But I did just put the kettle on, and I’d hate for the water to get cold,”
“Fine,” Lockwood pushes open the bathroom door, and lets himself take one glance above the sink. His image doesn’t appear, and his stomach drops. He splashes water in the toilet before he flushes it, and walks numbly out to George, who’s waiting impatiently in the hall, without bothering to double check. There’s no need. He’s absolutely sure.
He’s a vampire. A creature of the night. An undead. A bloodsucker.
He feels stronger already, his senses heightened. Then he looks at George, who is waiting, impatiently, and his gaze falls to George’s neck. He longs to bite it, and his mouth starts to water. Lockwood runs his tongue over his canines, sure that they are sharper than usual, scraping his tongue.
“George,” He says seriously, willing his oldest and most scientifically minded friend to take him seriously, “I think I’m a vampire,”
“What.” George says, his jaw dropping, before he starts grabbing at Lockwood, “Let me feel your forehead,”
Lockwood bats him away, flushing as one of George’s hands comes to rest on his bicep, as if anticipating he’s becoming a flight risk, “I’m serious,” He insists, feeling slightly betrayed, “All the signs are there,”
“The signs.” George says flatly, lips pursed in a way that also makes Lockwood want to bite him. For non vampire related reasons. George sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, before looking back at Lockwood. His gaze is indulgent, but Lockwood feels like he’s about to be forced back into bed and fed soup, “What signs?”
“My skin burns in the sunlight. That’s why I fell out of bed,” Lockwood starts, and George still doesn’t look very convinced, “And then I thought the raw bacon at breakfast smelled good,” George still looks dubious, “I’m craving blood,” Lockwood says, “My head’s been getting all swimmy when I stand up, like how Luce says hers does when she needs iron, and there’s iron in blood,” George is nodding thoughtfully now, the signs clearly adding up for him as well now. It’s like vindication.
“What else?”
“I feel strong,” Lockwood tells him, “Stronger than normal,”
“Okay, anything else?” George asks him, pulling a notebook out of nowhere, and clicking a pen.
“My canines,” Lockwood opens his mouth to show George, “They’re sharper,”
“Okay,” George looks at his notes, looks at Lockwood, and looks back at his notes again. He takes a moment, wheels turning, and Lockwood can tell that he’s won George over. George looks up, “On one hand,” George tells him, straightening his glasses, his eyes catching Lockwood’s, “This is absolutely insane and possibly brought on by a fever,”
“And on the other hand?” Lockwood asks, feeling victorious, grinning, baring his new vampiric fangs.
“Ghosts are real,” George breaks into a grin, “Why not vampires too?”
“Thank you,” Lockwood grins back, “Tea?”
“Tea.” George agrees and leads the way back downstairs.
- - -
“I want to run some tests,” George tells him once they’ve made their tea, though Lockwood isn’t entirely sure that vampires drink tea. That can be their first test. He nods.
George pulls out his notebook, before giving Lockwood a thoughtful look, “When did you first notice this change?”
“When I got up yesterday morning,” Lockwood sips at his tea, feeling relieved when he can drink it. So vampires can still drink tea, and he sees George make a note in his book as he sips more, clearly noting the fact, “That’s when I fell out of bed because the sun hurt,”
“Does it hurt now?” George asks, casting a worried look towards their open curtains. Lockwood carefully reaches one of his arms into the sunbeam that falls onto the table, and immediately hisses. George stands instantly, closes the curtains, and then pulls out a roll of duct tape to seal the cracks shut. He appreciates the effort, it’s kind.
“Thanks mate,” Lockwood says once the room is dark, already imagining how much the electricity bill is about to jump once they can’t have natural light. Maybe they should get night vision goggles. It’d certainly be a sight to see, the three of them wandering around the house with massive goggles strapped to their heads.
“Of course,” George tells him, “Can I look at your arm?” Lockwood obediently holds it out, and George gingerly takes hold of his wrist, the touch making Lockwood’s heart race, “Skin is red and irritated,” He’s more talking to himself than Lockwood at this point, so Lockwood just watches, content to let his researcher research, “Garlic, silver, wooden stakes, holy water, and crosses,” George says suddenly, looking up, “Those are all things that are supposed to repel vampires,”
“We’d better test them,” Lockwood says grimly, “I’m sure that not all vampires are going to be as nice as I am,” The implications of his newfound status as a vampire growing by the minute.
“Drink your tea while I gather supplies,” George tells him, slamming his notebook on the table, and rushing into the basement. There’s a rush of green from the corner, and Lockwood turns his head to see their Skull in a jar laughing at him.
“You’d better get used to me,” Lockwood tells the Skull, “It’s just going to be you and me forever,” And there’s a thought he doesn’t like. For multiple reasons. Mostly because that means no George and Lucy, and that’s a thought that he doesn’t fancy. He’s gotten rather used to having them around, to casting longing looks at their backs. Of course now that he’s a vampire, all of that has to stop. The thought sours his mood, and he broodily drinks the rest of his tea as he waits for George.
George rushes back into the kitchen, dumping an armful of supplies onto the Thinking Cloth, before turning to their spice cabinet. Or, really it’s George’s spice cabinet as neither him nor Lucy are allowed to cook. But it’s his house, so he calls it theirs.
“I got everything but holy water and a wooden stake,” George tells him, “But we can test that later, though maybe not the stake, since those are supposed to kill vampires,”
“What should we start with?” Lockwood looks at George’s supplies. There is a silver knife from the silverware drawer, from the fancy set that Lockwood can’t remember the last time that he used, a cross that Lockwood imagines came from somewhere his parents had visited at some point, and their tin of garlic powder.
“Try to touch the knife,” George instructs him, and Lockwood does as requested. He holds it for a few seconds before he sets it down with a thoughtful look.
“It made my skin itchy,” He tells George, marveling at the fact.
“And you definitely weren’t allergic to silver before,” George mutters to himself, furiously writing in his notebook.
“Would have been hard to be an agent if I was,” Lockwood grins, another detail stacking up in his favor. The thrill of being a vampire outweighs his earlier melancholy, and he lets the thoughts drift away.
“Try the garlic,” George leans forward, watching as Lockwood grabs the small spice jar. Lockwood twists the cap, and tentatively sniffs. Immediately he feels nauseous again, and he dashes to the sink to dry heave as George writes in his notebook.
“This is insane,” George just looks at Lockwood in amazement as he sits back down on the table, “The implications of this discovery are enormous,”
“I can’t believe I can’t eat garlic bread anymore,” Lockwood sighs, leaning in his chair.
“Let’s try the cross,” George suggests, dangling it between his fingers and leering at Lockwood.
“Alright,” Lockwood agrees.
“Is there a specific way I’m supposed to hold it?” George asks Lockwood, as he stands to approach him. The cross is plain, made out of wood, and Lockwood’s sure that it had probably been one of his parents' artifacts.
“I don’t think so,” Lockwood tells George, bracing himself for whatever is going to happen when George gets closer. Just as George is crossing the kitchen, an intense look on his face, Lucy walks into the room, bags in hand, instantly pausing.
“What the hell is happening here?” Lucy asks, crossing the room, and setting her grocery bags down. Her hair looks rather shiny today, and she’s tied it back in a short ponytail that exposes her neck. Lockwood wants to bite it. And not just in the vampire way. The hey, I might be in love with you way. But he can’t tell her that, can’t tell either of them, because he couldn’t spend the rest of his now immortal life knowing that they don’t love him back. It’s better to just let the vibes simmer, and enjoy the rest of their short mortal lives.
“I’m a vampire,” Lockwood says, at the same time George says,
“Lockwood’s a vampire,”
Lucy just looks at them dumbfounded. The skull glows in the corner, and Lucy turns to look at it, before turning back to them, “You’re serious?”
Lockwood nods, as George returns to his seat, setting down the cross on the table, clearly having decided that scientific intrigue could wait now that Lucy had returned.
“Right,” Lucy sighs, crossing the room to put the kettle on, “This discussion needs tea,”
They sit in silence. Lockwood stares at his hands, which he determines, are definitely paler than usual, until Lucy returns to the table, a fresh mug of tea in her hand.
“Tell me how this happened,” She finally says, not bothering to look up, a pinched look on her face as she sips her tea. Lockwood makes a mental note to add more sugar the next time she looks away, just in case the look is for the way the tea tastes.
“I got bit at the cemetery,” Lockwood says, trying not to make it sound like he thinks Lucy’s stupid, “By the gothy chick who called me one of them after she bit me,” It’s a detail he’d forgotten until just now, but it still serves as evidence.
“I mean,” Lucy tells him, still not looking at him, sounding like she’s trying very hard not to start screaming at him, “How did you convince George?”
“With evidence,” Lockwood tells her, feeling rather proud of himself.
“What evidence?” Lucy asks him, still looking very hard at her mug of tea. Lockwood thinks it might start boiling if she stares any harder.
“My skin burns in the sunlight,” Lockwood starts, and Lucy sinks into her chair, sighing deeply, tipping her head back and closing her eyes, before motioning for him to go on, clearly having resigned herself to listening to all of his reasons, “I feel stronger than normal, my canines are sharper, when I looked in the mirror on the bathroom wall I couldn’t see my reflection, and I’m craving blood. When I touched the knife my skin itched, and the smell of garlic alone almost made me puke,”
Lucy finally looks up at him, her lips pursed, and then she turns to George, “That’s what convinced you? George Casper Karim, one of the brightest minds in our generation, convinced that his best mate has become a vampire just because he thinks his teeth are sharper than normal?”
“When you put it that way,” George says sheepishly, looking at the table and adjusting his glasses, a rosy tint to his cheeks, “I suppose it doesn’t sound quite as rational,” Lockwood feels betrayed, but it’s hard to disagree with Lucy, with all of her sweet looks and smiles. The unacceptance still stings however. If she didn't like him as a vampire, had she even liked him as a human?
“I understand that you aren’t comfortable with this change Luce,” Lockwood starts, and Lucy whirls on him, blue eyes piercing, “But I would like it if you could at least try to be open minded,”
“Open minded?” Lucy asks him flatly, her eyes glinting at him, “Lockwood you are not a vampire,”
“Why are you so unconvinced?” Lockwood asks her, his temper flaring.
“What did we do yesterday afternoon Lockwood?” Lucy asks him calmly, sipping her tea.
“Sunbathed in the garden,” Lockwood says, not seeing where this is going.
“And you got sunburned,” Lucy tells him, looking a tad smug, he wants to kiss the look off of her face, “That’s part of why I went to the store, to get aloe for your skin,”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Lockwood asks her, noticing George watching the two of them go back and forth like it’s a tennis match. His Adam's apple bobs in a rather attractive way.
“If you are sunburned and then spend more time in the sun, your skin is going to sting,” Lucy tells him, a hint of exasperation flickering across her face. The Skull glows in the corner, and Lucy pointedly ignores it, “Your skin doesn’t sting because you’re a vampire, it stings because you’re sunburned,”
Lockwood frowns. He hates to admit it, hates being wrong, but Lucy could be right. About the skin thing at least. Possibly about other things as well, but he’s not quite ready to give up.
“What about the mirror?” George asks, carefully avoiding Lucy’s eyes lest she glare at him again.
“You broke it last week in an experiment,” Lucy tells him, “We haven’t got the new one in yet, Lockwood’s sick brain just thought that he was looking in the mirror, but it was just wall,” Lockwood remembers that now, remembers picking up shards of glass while George ran to get the broom and Lucy laughed at them. He can’t believe they’d both forgotten.
George nods, playing off the fact that he’d also forgotten about the broken mirror, “It’s not looking good for you mate, I think Luce may be right,” Lockwood is beginning to feel the same, his two strongest pieces of evidence crumbling in the attractive winds of hurricane Lucy.
“What about feeling stronger than normal?” Lockwood asks Lucy, growing a bit desperate to prove that he’s a vampire, if only to avoid the teasing if he’s proven wrong, “There’s not a rational explanation for that is there?”
“You slept for the most in one sitting that you’ve probably slept in years,” Lucy tells him, making a disappointed look at her empty mug, “It’s no wonder your body felt stronger,”
“The blood thing?” Lockwood asks next. He’s beginning to feel a bit embarrassed.
“You’re probably just low on iron, and somehow managed to tie it into your whole fallacy,” Lucy tells him, crossing her arms, and there’s not really much more he can do.
“The knife?”
“It’s nickel plated, and you’re allergic to nickel,”
“The garlic?”
“You’re still sick,”
And with that, Lockwood’s last piece of evidence gives a feeble gasp, leaving only his delusions.
They sit in silence for a while, the three of them, at their table, and Lockwood feels ridiculous.
“So I’m not a vampire,” He says finally.
“Oh thank god,” Lucy’s shoulders lose their stiffness, “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep arguing with you,”
“I can’t believe I fell for it,” George bemoans, and Lockwood grins, actually feeling vaguely relieved he’s not really a vampire. The future feels much brighter, if shorter, but at least he wouldn’t have to outlive all of his friends. He’d already outlived his family.
“I’ll just take it as a compliment towards my charisma,”
“Skull says that’s the best afternoon he’s had in a while,” Lucy tells them, as George gets up to make dinner, and she gets the cold medicine out of the bag, passing it to Lockwood. He takes it gratefully.
- - -
When dinner is done, and the plate of biscuits has been set on the table, the three of them are still sitting together at the table.
“What was your plan?” Lucy asks him, her mouth full of a biscuit, “If you were really a vampire,”
“I would just work at night,” Lockwood shrugs, taking his turn in the biscuit rotation, “I hadn’t really gotten that far,”
“I can’t wait to tell Flo,” George grins, and Lockwood feels a sudden moment of panic seize him.
“You can’t, she’ll never let me live it down,”
“Damn right,” Lucy snorts. They’d gotten off on a rough foot, those two, but they’d bonded over bullying Lockwood, much to his chagrin.
“Is it bad I want to tell Barnes the whole story?” George asks after a moment, a wicked glint in his eyes.
“Yes,” Lucy and Lockwood chorus.
“But could you imagine the look on his face?” George asks them, arms waving animatedly, “The way his mustache would droop in disappointment?”
“I don’t have to imagine it,” Lucy tells George, “I’ll see it the next time we see him,”
Lockwood sits back, the day catching up to him, despite the fact he’s only been awake for a few hours, but life is stressful when you think you’re a vampire. He yawns, before standing, “I’m going to bed,”
“Don’t forget to close your coffin lid,” Lucy tells him with a smirk, and George snickers. Lockwood smacks them both before he makes his way back to his room.
Then a thought smacks him in the face. He’d been so scared of losing them, but they hadn’t even batted an eye at his ridiculousness. He wouldn’t lose them. And that gives him the courage to turn around and march back to the kitchen.
“Forget your cape?” George asks as Lockwood marches back in, but Lockwood doesn’t even give Lucy time to laugh before he opens his mouth and lets his darkest secret come spilling out.
“I’m in love with you,”
There’s a moment of silence where George and Lucy stare at him, their mouths slightly agape.
“Which one of us are you talking to mate?” George finally croaks out, just before Lockwood is about to turn and run away in shame.
“Both of you,” Lockwood manages to get out, “I’m in love with both of you,”
Lucy still hasn’t said anything, but she’s got that look on her face again. The one she’d had after she’d stolen Annie Ward’s necklace for the first time. The one that meant she knew something he didn’t.
“Luce?” Lockwood asks quietly, scared.
“I love you both,” Lucy says quietly, looking up at him, a fond grin on her face. Then they both turn to George.
“You both love me,” George says dully, polishing his glasses, “I can’t imagine why, but the sentiment is returned,”
“Don’t profess your love like you’re talking to Kipps,” Lucy tells him, standing, pulling George to his feet too.
“My bad,” George bickers at her, but Lockwood is too caught up in their brilliance to really notice.
Lucy crowds him up against the door, and Lockwood looks down at her, “Going to kiss me or not vampire boy?” Lucy says, and Lockwood finally gives into months of pining, if just to stop her snickering.
“Should I tease you too?” George asks, though Lockwood can tell he’s nervous, standing slightly off to the side of them, so he grabs him by his arm and reels his researcher in for a kiss. He’s barely pulled away from George when Lucy takes his place, and he watches with a sort of satisfaction as she tangles her fingers in George’s curls. Maybe he should get bitten by strangers more often.
Then he ruins the moment by yawning.
“Are we boring you?” Lucy asks him, cupping his cheek gently as George leans up against her.
“Never,” Lockwood tells her, catching her hand before she can drop it, “But I do need to retire to my coffin,”
“Room for two more?” George asks, “I don’t feel like letting you go unsupervised quite yet, you still look rather flushed,”
“That could be arranged,” Lockwood agrees, and leads them back upstairs to get ready for bed. George changes his bandages again, sans vomit this time, and Lucy meets them in Lockwood’s room a few minutes later, in a t-shirt that he’s pretty sure is George’s unless Lucy’s suddenly gotten into comics. George goes a bit red at the shirt, but it’s not long before they’re arranged under the covers, Lockwood in the middle, and George’s arm across his chest to hold Lucy’s hand.
“I still can’t believe you thought you were a vampire,” George sighs as they drift off.
“You believed him,” Lucy reminds him smugly, and Lockwood just grins, content to bear their teasing, at least for now. He's sure he’ll tire of it in a day or two.
But in the end, he had believed he was a vampire, had been terrified by the thought of losing them, only to end up holding them closer than ever. Not a bad outcome overall. Not at all.