Work Text:
She stands in his doorway with a tray of gauze, rubbing alcohol and bandages, backlit by the soft glow of the landing lamps which pick out the gold in her flyaway hair but do nothing to soften the fiercely angry expression on her face.
It might be the blood loss, but Lockwood thinks she looks like some kind of avenging angel of healthcare.
She stomps in, dumps the tray on the bed next to him. “Don’t even think about calling me Nurse Lucy.” She warns.
Lockwood knows how gentle Lucy can be, has felt her fingers delicately stroke his face when he was mostly passed out from that blasted gunshot wound, has had her shoulder his weight without complaint and as carefully as possible not to jostle him during his recovery, so the fact that she grabs his arm and yanks it towards her with the fury of scorned Visitor is a pretty strong indicator she’s still pissed off at him.
“I certainly won’t with this bedside manner.” He mutters, leaning closer to her out of necessity as she examines the angry gash running the length of his forearm, still sore and prickling with the pain from where rogue salt bomb crystals had scattered into it as they fought off tonight’s undead friend of the week.
Lucy gives him a mightily unimpressed look. “If you want, I can ask George-“
“No.” He says hastily, too hastily really but he’s too tired and wrung out from battling a Visitor and then a furious Lucy in the cab back home to be embarrassed. “No, I- I want you to do it.”
Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, but she does soften slightly, loosening her hold on his wrist even as she purses her lips at the cut.
“You’ll live.” She announces, dropping his arm into her lap so she can reach for some antiseptic and gauze.
He can’t help himself. “Is that in your professional medical opinion?”
She responds by pressing a little too firmly on the gash with the soaked gauze, making him hiss and reflexively try draw his arm back. Lucy doesn’t let him move, however, lacing the fingers of her free hand through his to pin his arm down across her knees.
“Yes.” She says shortly, casually, dabbing away like she’s not setting his arm on fire with pain. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches but if it starts bleeding again, we’re going to A&E- don’t argue with me.” She adds as if she can sense him opening his mouth in protest, or maybe he’s just that predictable.
There’s silence for a time, Lucy carefully but not-at-all gently working her way up his sliced forearm. The air in the room is stifling with the anger radiating off her.
“Luce…” He murmurs. She’s got his wounded arm draped over her lap, curved over her work so he can’t fully see her face behind the wave of her hair, pulling him in so close that he’s effectively got his chest pressed to her back. If he lowers his head he could tuck his chin into the curve where her shoulder meets her neck and he suddenly gets the extraordinarily peculiar idea that he should press his lips to the spot.
“Nope.” Lucy responds, oblivious to his wayward impulsive thought. “I’m angry at you. You’re not charming your way out of it.”
He smirks, watches the soft line of her jaw work as she grits her teeth in irritation and concentration. “You think I’m charming?”
“I think you’re a prick.” Which, you know, fair enough. “You can give me all your wheedling excuses and cocky smirks in the morning when I’m less mad at you.”
She glances back at his face, mere inches from hers, and whatever wheedling excuse or cocky smirk he was going to offer dies on his lips.
Instead he blinks, momentarily breathless. “I’ll look forward to it.”
She looks at him for another moment, face impassive, before turning back to his arm. He catches the scent of her shampoo underneath the layer of ash and lavender in her hair as it swings past his chin and it’s like the oxygen is zapped from the room.
She wraps a tight layer of bandages around the cleaned wound in a perfunctory manner and it’s only when she goes to gather up the abandoned, bloodied gauze that he notices her hands are shaking.
“Lucy-“ He starts, but she unceremoniously shoves his injured arm from her lap and stands, picking up the tray.
Oh, so she really meant it. They’re not talking about it tonight. Lockwood sighs, running his hand down his face. He’s not blind, he sees the dark circles embedded under his eyes, wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve deepened several shades more purple during this non-conversation.
He hates when Lucy is mad at him.
“Lockwood?” For the first time since their case went sideways earlier in the night, Lucy’s voice wavers with something other than pure fury.
He looks up at her like a scolded schoolboy, tries to keep his expression contrite.
“Don’t you ever,” She says vehemently from the doorway, fingers curling into fists around the handles of the tray. “And I mean ever put yourself in front of me like that again or I’ll be the one skewering you and you’ll be nothing but a Lockwood shish-kabob. Got it?”
Her eyes are wet. He hates when she’s mad at him, but he hates when she cries far, far more.
He swallows hard. She can be furious at him all she likes, could scream and shout and throw things at him, can threaten to kill him or even worse leave, but nothing will ever stop him from stepping in front of her when there’s danger. She doesn’t need protecting, is one of the best agents he’s ever met, but whenever he sees her in trouble, he simply can’t stand aside, even if it does mean getting torn apart.
“Got it.” He confirms.
They both know it’s a lie.