Archive of Our Own ^beta

Lucy groaned against the light creeping in through her closed eyelids. There was no way it was already time to get up — their job last night had gone later than planned and she was still exhausted, not to mention the crick in her neck from whipping around to look at a Visitor sneaking up behind her.

“Luce?”

She started awake, eyes flying open. Groaning, she blinked against the morning light, realizing at a glance that the reason her neck hurt so badly was because she’d fallen asleep face-first on the thinking cloth on the kitchen table.

Judging by the quiet snickering as she groaned again, she hadn’t fallen asleep alone.

“What’s happening?” she managed, rubbing at her face.

“You’re drooling all over the thinking cloth,” George grumbled from somewhere to her left. “My notes on the Riverside Strangler are gonna be ruined.”

“Drowned, to be precise. Sort of ironic.”

It was Lockwood’s voice, smug and sunny, and a tidal wave of embarrassment flooded her body. She wiped at the side of her mouth, determined to ignore the way her ears heated up, and cleared her throat. “What’d I miss?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Lockwood said, setting a fresh cup of tea in front of her. “George was just letting the light in.”

George sat down, hmphing. “We all had a late night, but you don’t see us drooling on the table.”

Lockwood grinned widely, the sight both making her heart beat loudly and her eyes hurt a bit. “I would say she didn’t see it, considering her eyes were firmly shut.”

“You’re both hilarious,” Lucy deadpanned. “Did I sleep down here?”

George stared at her. “You stumbled down here twenty minutes ago.”

“I was sleep-walking?”

“You said ‘morning, Lockwood’ to him,” George said, jabbing his thumb in Lockwood’s direction, “and ‘shut up, tosser’ to me.”

That did sound like her. “You were being annoying,” she said defensively.

“You don’t even remember saying it!”

“You’re always annoying before noon.”

“Children, settle down,” said Lockwood, his grin even wider than before as he sat down at the table, “I’d hate to send you to time out.”

“Shut up.”

“Sod off.”

“In unison even, very impressive.” Lockwood laughed, adding a half-second of milk to his tea and stirring.

The clinking sound made her want to bury her head in her arms and sleep for another hour. The kitchen was bright, her neck still hurt, and she had the uneasy feeling that she was suffering from a horrible case of bedhead.

At least George’s clothes were rumpled and his hair staticky. Lockwood, as always, looked like he’d just come from a magazine shoot for an Esquire article about unfairly attractive roommates.

Embarrassing.

She definitely did not sleep enough if she was waxing poetic about him this early in the morning. Her single comfort was that, as intuitive as Lockwood seemed to be, even he couldn’t read thoughts.

“You alright, Lucy? Your ears are going red.”

Dammit.

“Tired,” she managed, taking a gulp of tea. “What’s the plan for today?”

“No clients,” George said. “No jobs for the weekend. We’re all stocked up on flares and filings, the chains are in good condition.”

“So there’s nothing to do?”

George frowned. “I’m spending the day researching the bracelet we found in storage last week.”

So nothing to do, Lucy thought. There was little George liked more than to bury himself learning about something that had nothing to do with anything. “Lockwood?”

He shrugged. “The tap in George’s bathroom is leaking, and there’s that odd groaning noise from the pipe in the basement. Want to help?”

A day watching Lockwood working, sleeves rolled up, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, shirt damp from the leaking water? She’d have to stop to put her face in the freezer again, and George would catch her again, and he hadn’t believed her excuse about taking inventory of their frozen food last time. “I’m good. Maybe I’ll catch up on sleep.”

“Oh no you don’t,” George snapped. “You promised you’d clean up the mess you made in the library three days ago, and there are still about a hundred books on the floor.”

“Nap, then books,” Lucy said. “Or I’ll just shove them back into the bookcase without sorting them.”

George opened his mouth, eyes narrowed, but Lockwood cut him off. “By all means, nap first,” he said hastily. “We wouldn’t want a repeat of the time you organized George’s files about the Canterbury Raccoon Scandal.”

Lucy winced. George’s outraged lecture-cum-rant a month ago had lasted three and a half hours, and he’d only stopped because his voice had finally given out.

“Just promise me one thing,” Lockwood said dramatically, eyes locking onto hers. “When you get comfortable and relaxed and are ready to sleep the day away, just think of me, up to my elbows in grease, slaving over our plumbing like a responsible landlord.”

Lucy choked on the last swallow of her tea, managing to roll her eyes semi-nonchalantly as she stood up from the table. If she wanted to keep her sanity — and her traitorous imagination — in check, she would definitely not be thinking of Lockwood’s long, confident fingers wrapping around wrenches and tightening bolts and —

Dammit.

_______________

By the time she woke up, the sun was dropping in the sky, the temperature had sunk in her attic about five degrees, and she was feeling far more human. Judging from the clanging coming from downstairs, George was starting dinner, and Lucy felt her stomach growl, the tea at breakfast feeling very, very long ago.

“About time,” Skull’s voice floated over to her from his perch atop her wardrobe. “I was running out of ways to insult you.”

“Were you talking the whole time I was napping?” Lucy asked, rubbing at her eyes.

“No.”

“Just most of the time, then. Lovely.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re an ugly sleeper. Mouth open, funny whistling noises, flailing limbs — you sleep like a drunk possum.”

“There are no possums in England.”

“There are so, down South.”

“When have you been down South?!?”

“I did crack open a book or two in life,” Skull said, voice stiff with faux-injured dignity. “They arrived from North America in the 19th Century, and have since kept a small but definite presence in the southern part of the country.”

“You’re contemporaries, then. Fitting.”

“Insults are the refuge of the imaginatively bankrupt. Idiot.”

Lucy sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Didn’t I leave you downstairs yesterday?”

The skull sniffed. “Karim brought me upstairs hours ago. You were having a rather…active dream when we got up, so he tossed me up here and left.”

“Better go to the library, then,” Lucy muttered darkly. “The last thing I need is for him to lecture me and let that slip in front of — in front of anyone.”

“Take me with you. It’s been so boring all day, practically nothing’s happened.”

“Are you going to spend the entire time insulting me?”

“It’s been so boring all day. Would you deny me the one small pleasure I have left?”

She could hear his insults bouncing against the attic walls as she made her way downstairs, sneaking by the door to the kitchen and staring at the mess she’d left in the library.

George had better be grateful she’d had a stupidly good nap. She might spend a few minutes grousing to herself anyway, blocking out whatever noise George was making.

She’d gotten about twenty minutes in, sorting by author as George insisted on, when she heard Lockwood walk into the kitchen and mention something about Flo. A few seconds later George swore, and the smoke alarm beeped out a brief warning.

Lockwood popped his head through the doorway once the beeping stopped. “Making a start?”

“George sounds pissed,” she said, a well-timed clang sounding from the kitchen. “I thought I’d better at least get some of it done before dinner.”

“Wise,” Lockwood said solemnly, eyes twinkling in mischief. “He sounded disgusted when he came down from dropping the skull off in the attic; I think he was secretly jealous of your nap.”

“Probably,” Lucy lied, thanking every god she could think of for George’s disgust being stronger than his urge to humiliate her.

“Do you want help?” Lockwood offered. “I’ll have to  wash up first —" he wiggled his fingers, stained with black smudges, at her, and she resisted the urge to chuck the book in her hand at him, cheeks heating, “— but I could make my mark on the room.”

“I’m okay,” she managed, the lame pun doing nothing to distract her from watching his fingers move. “George would probably have a fit if he came in here and saw you helping out with my mess.”

“You sure? Always happy to lend a hand.”

“Make one more hand joke and I’ll throw this at you.”

He grinned widely, disappearing from the doorway, and she was left alone with the books surrounding her again. She thought she heard Lockwood yelling something back to her, but she couldn’t tell what he’d said.

“Right,” she said to herself. “Focus. Books, then dinner.”

_______________

Lucy grimaced, stomach still growling, as she swung her rapier around the basement, stabbing at the jets of air like they were her bloody anal-retentive housemate.

George had taken one look at the library as he’d come in to announce that dinner was ready, noticed that everything was apparently in the wrong spot, and had promptly blown a fuse. Lockwood had managed to grab her around the waist as she’d launched herself at George, ready to beat him silly with a copy of Lingua Exspiravit (first edition and apparently irreplaceable), thereby saving the bastard’s life, and Lucy had marched angrily down to the basement, intent on stabbing things until she fainted from hunger.

It smelled a little burned anyway, she thought to herself bitterly. She’d still kill to eat it. Her last meal, scarfed down before heading to Southwark the previous night, seemed very, very long ago.

Now covered in a thin sheen of sweat and having worked through the worst of her aggression — definitely due to George being a massive prick and not at all by her lack of sleep and still-sore neck — Lucy stood in the basement, shoulders heaving with exhaustion. She wanted to sit down, but the floor seemed less than inviting, and the box of relics that George had discovered last week was sitting on her usual cooldown chair, a blue research notebook sitting on the top flap.

She hadn’t bothered looking in the box when he’d found it, assuming the delicate bracelet laying on top to be the most interesting thing in there, but there were a few hours before George would go to bed and she could sneak upstairs to eat, so she might as well try to occupy herself.

Lucy walked over to it, lifting the notebook with one hand and peering into the box with moderate interest. There were a few silver items — an oddly ornate fork and some sort of tiara among them — but the thing that caught her attention was the small wooden figurine laying on top of a jewelry box.

Carved into wood was a young man with a lock of hair on the top of his head, covering most of his eyes. His face was completely blank, and he stood on tiptoe, wings attached to his ankles. There was an inscription on the base, presumably a name, but it definitely wasn’t in English.

George would know, she thought, then rolled her eyes, frustration at the boy building up in her again. Good for him, knowing everything. Prick.

There were obviously finer details carved into the statue, but it was hard to see with it laying in the box on top of another piece of wood. Something in the back of her mind warned her not to touch, but, well, that voice sounded like George, and she wasn’t going to listen to George right now for anything.

Notebook in one hand, her fingers touched the statue, and everything went black.

_______________

Bright light. Bright light, and voices. Bright light, voices, and that damned crick in her neck.

“Luce?”

She blinked her eyes open, the kitchen of 35 Portland Row coming into focus, cheek pressed against the thinking cloth.

Someone snickered.

“What’s happening?” she asked, thoroughly confused.

“You’re drooling all over the thinking cloth,” George said, annoyed, standing by the window to the left of her. “My notes on the Riverside Strangler are gonna be ruined.”

“Drowned, to be precise. Sort of ironic.”

Lucy frowned, blinking rapidly. Everything was still a little fuzzy, but she recognized this conversation. “You said that yesterday,” she said, blinking at George as he sat down.

George frowned. “What are you talking about?”

The world came into focus as she blinked the last of the sleep from her eyes. “You said that yesterday. I woke up down here and —"

“You didn’t wake up down here yesterday,” Lockwood said, setting a fresh cup of tea in front of her, sounding as confused as she felt. “We slept in yesterday to prep for the Southwark job. Well, George and I did, you said you didn’t sleep more than a few hours. Are you feeling alright?”

“The Southwark job was yesterday?”

Lockwood dragged his chair to sit directly in front of her, turning her in her chair towards him, his knees brushing hers. “Look at me, Luce?”

She stared at him as he peered into her eyes, brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“Checking for signs of head trauma,” he said gently. “Did you get hit yesterday and we didn’t notice?”

“What? No, I — yesterday was…” She trailed off, turning her head to look at George. “Yesterday I napped, and you researched the bracelet, and Lockwood fixed your sink, and you burned dinner and yelled at me.”

George stared. “What the hell are you talking about? Dinner was takeout yesterday, I didn’t burn anything.”

“How’d you know his sink was leaking?” Lockwood asked curiously. “George told me about that half an hour ago, before you even came down.”

What?

“I —" she broke off, closing her eyes tightly. “I don’t know. My head hurts.”

Lockwood stood up, offering his hand to pull her up, steadying her when her legs shook with the effort. “Why don’t you go nap, Lucy? I think the lack of sleep is catching up with you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, head swimming. “Maybe it’s just deja-vu or something.”

“Don’t forget to fix the library,” George said as she started for the door. “Holly started her holiday so those books you left on the floor are still a mess.”

“Right,” Lucy said, waving her hand. “Nap, then books.”

She’d said that before. Definitely said that before.

She definitely needed to sleep.

“Hey!” Skull’s voice called out to her from the library, and she cracked the door open, looking at him. “Are you going to take me with you this time, or are you gonna make Karim walk in on you desperately sighing Lockwood’s name again?”

A mix of confusion and embarrassment shot through her and she stumbled back, catching herself with a hand on the wall.

“Lucy?” Lockwood was next to her in a second, tucking her against his side to prevent her from falling. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs.”

“Hey! Are you listening to me? You’re just gonna leave me here?!?”

She ignored the skull’s voice, indignant and insulting, and leaned into Lockwood, letting his warmth lull her as they walked slowly up the stairs.

_______________

Lucy woke up from her nap suddenly, heart pounding in her ears at the ear-splitting scream bouncing off the walls.

Skull noticed, shutting his mouth to grin triumphantly. “Finally. I’d be worried about losing my voice if I wasn’t a skull in a jar. No lungs, no problem.”

“Shut up.” She rubbed at her face, feeling like she could have slept another day and still been tired. “Today has been weird, and I don’t need you adding to it.”

“Today hasn’t been weird at all. It’s been the same as yesterday.” The skull smiled maliciously. “Exactly the same as yesterday.”

“Weird things happen in life,” Lucy said. “It’s just a bit of deja-vu.”

“Oh, sure,” he mocked. “Just wait until you get downstairs. It’d be nice if you had another set of eyes to compare today to yesterday, hmm? But you left me up here yesterday, so I can’t help you.”

“You never help me.”

“Just because I don’t do it in a too-tight suit and use every little ghost as an excuse to feel you up on the job — very bad form, I might add — doesn’t mean I don’t occasionally throw you a bone.”

Lucy resolutely ignored the first part of his rant, her ears hot enough to fry an egg. “So I’m a dog in this analogy.”

“This and a few others; I’m of a poetic mind. It’s all the long hours of introspection I get while you ignore me.”

“Keep it up and I’ll leave you here today, too.”

The skull grumbled. “Ever since you abandoned Carlyle & Skull and came crawling back here, you’ve been absolutely no fun.”

“I wasn’t aware you found me fun before.”

“I didn’t,” Skull admitted. “It just sounds more dramatic if I pretend.”

She sighed. “If I bring you downstairs, do you promise to tell me if you know anything about any of the books I have to sort in the library?”

“I swear a most solemn vow,” the skull intoned, then cackled as soon as she picked him up. “Of course not! But I’ll keep insults to a minimum.”

Good enough, she thought. The morning’s conversation was still bothering her — as were her memories of the identical one the day before — and if Skull somehow wasn’t affected by it, it might be a good idea to have a second set of eyes and ears keeping score. Glancing outside, she noticed that the afternoon sun was still high in the sky — no later than 2 or 3, then — and sighed internally. At least this way she’d have enough time to finish cleaning up the library.

___________________

As promised, the skull was little to no help with the books, but he was relatively pleasant — as pleasant as he ever was — and insisted on going through the events of the previous evening with her.

“Focus, Lucy. The prat walked in, asked if you needed help, you said no, he left…”

Lucy nodded. “I think he said something after he left, but I couldn’t hear it.”

“Probably not worth hearing, knowing him. Then you what, just sorted books until Karim came in and had a conniption over them.”

“Yup,” she said, popping the ‘p’ in disgust. “And then I got angry, so I went downstairs for rapier practice instead of dinner. Then…” she trailed off, cocking her head to the side. “It’s kind of fuzzy. I remember seeing the box of relics that George found last week tucked in the back of storage, there was a notebook on top so I moved it, and I was looking in the box, and then…”

“Then?”

“Nothing,” she said, shrugging as she placed a copy of Ghost Bible: The Problem and Christianity on top of an ancient-looking copy of Ars Poetica. “Everything went black, and I woke up at the kitchen table.”

“You definitely touched something,” Skull said, making a good attempt at rolling his eyes. “You touched some relic and now you’re repeating yesterday.”

As much as she hated to admit it, he was probably right. George always stressed the importance of gloves and tongs and silver cases when handling unknown objects, but she hadn’t been feeling very charitable towards George last night, had she?

“I just won’t touch it today,” she said. “And life will go on as normal.”

“I doubt it. Life is never that easy. Especially since you make it as hard as possible.”

“If you’re not going to help, shut up and let me think.”

“Lucy? Are you talking to — oh, the skull, right?”

Lucy turned her head, feeling the joints in her neck pop in protest, to see George, hands sensibly covered by gloves, walk into the library. “Yeah. I thought it might be nice if he knew anything about some of the weirder books in here.”

George nodded slowly. “That’s…actually a good idea.”

She frowned. “No need to sound so surprised.”

“Well, you’ve sorted ancient Greek poetry with religious books from less than a decade ago, so forgive me if I am a bit surprised.”

Her temper spiked. “You said to organize it by author, so I’m organizing it by author. Hewthorne, then Homer, it’s in alphabetical order.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alphabetical order doesn’t do anyone any good if you’ve mixed cookbooks with comics, Lucy.”

“Maybe you’re not smart enough to figure alphabetical order out, George, but the rest of us —"

“What’s going on here?” Lockwood’s head appeared in the doorway, leaning in, and George turned to stare at him, frown deepening.

“You’re dripping all over the floor.”

“I’m mid-fix,” Lockwood said cheerfully, stepping into the library. He was indeed dripping on the floor, his white shirt nearly translucent from the moisture, his hair somehow still perfectly coiffed.

She looked away. There was only so much stimuli a girl could handle on very little sleep, a sore neck, and mid-blazing-row. George was saying something to Lockwood, voice snippy, but she ignored it, trying to focus on the copy of Lingua Exspiravit in front of her.

“Yes, yes, avert your eyes. Think of poor little Karim,” the skull said, voice faux-sympathetic and mocking. “He’s already going to have to mop this room, no need to give him more work.”

“Shut up or I will throw you in the oven and set it to flambé, so help me God,” Lucy snapped.

The room went silent.

She glanced over at her two housemates, both looking a little apprehensive.

“Me or him?” Lockwood asked.

She sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “The skull. Sorry. He was being — he wasn’t being helpful.”

“I’m very helpful,” Skull interjected. He would have sounded wounded if he weren’t so smug. “I’m actually trying to help you solve your repeating-the-day problem, unlike Anal-Retentive Librarian or Aspiring Page 3 Model over there.”

Lucy stared at the skull, open-mouthed, speechless.

“What, what’d he say?” George asked after a second or two of silence.

“Nothing,” Lucy said firmly. “And if he wants to keep his talking privileges, it’s going to stay that way.”

The skull pulled a face at her, but didn’t say a word.

“Whatever,” George said. “Lucy, can you at least get them mostly sorted before dinner in two hours?”

“Where do you want books without authors?” Lucy asked, holding up Lingua Exspiravit.

“They go with the textbooks, bottom shelf,” Lockwood said, nodding to the proper place. “Just use the title to sort it rather than the author’s name.”

“You’re going to make us live in anarchy.”

Lockwood clapped his hand on George’s shoulder, a dazzling grin on his face. “There’s no order without a bit of anarchy for contrast, right mate?”

George sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I’m going to start prepping dinner. Take your puddle and get back to work.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rolling his eyes at the cheeky salute, George disappeared towards the kitchen.

Lockwood caught her eye, his grin softening into something a lot less bright and far worse for her heart. “Any other dragons I can slay for you?”

“I could kiss you,” Lucy said fervently. Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d said, brain kicking into panic mode.

“You could,” Lockwood said nonchalantly, smile still gleaming at her, “but I’m afraid I’m a bit of a mess right now, and George would kill us both if you got water on the books.”

She smiled helplessly at him, thanking her apparently very lucky stars that he’d thought she was making a joke. “Go finish fixing the pipes, Lockwood. There’ll still be plenty of books after.”

“Then it’s back to the basement I go,” he said, waving a grease-marked hand at her, then ducking out of the room. She could definitely hear him say something before going back downstairs, but she couldn’t hear what it was.

“You two are disgusting,” the skull said primly. “Can we focus on your little temporal loop now?”

Lucy sighed. “Fine. Any theories?”

“No, but take me with you to the basement after dinner. I want to see this box for myself.”

_______________

Dinner was a slightly tense affair, George obviously displeased with the job she’d done in the library — not to mention a bit sore that a joke Lockwood had cracked about disappointing Flo had caused him to lose focus and burn the rice a bit — but Skull sitting in the corner of the kitchen seemed to defuse any petty squabbles they had before they turned into full-blown shouting matches.

She did her best not to catch Lockwood’s eye, still mortified at her slip of the tongue in the library. Fixing the pipes had taken longer than the day before — probably due to him interrupting his work to calm her and George down — and he’d slid into his seat right as George was plating the fried rice, hair damp from a shower and smelling like his soap — some woodsy, slightly spicy scent that she tried not to inhale.

With any luck, this incredibly tiring day would be over soon and she’d be able to move on.

Retreating downstairs afterwards, claiming a headache and a desire to train by herself, Lucy grabbed the skull’s jar and set it on the table next to the box.

“See,” she said, picking up the blue notebook. “Exactly where it was yesterday. I picked it up, and then I looked inside —"

“What? I can’t see inside, you know. Not from this angle.”

Lucy picked the skull up with the hand not holding the notebook, angling him down so that he could see inside.

“Some jewelry, a jewelry box — nice wood, there — and a statue. Fascinating stuff.”

She set him back down on the table, using the notebook to scratch at her neck. “I don’t remember what I touched, though.”

Skull tutted, impatient. “Look in the box again. Does anything call out to you?”

“No, not…” she trailed off, narrowing her eyes. “There’s some sort of inscription on the base of the statue, but I can’t read it. I don’t think it’s English, at any rate.”

“Well try — watch out!”

Somehow, her foot caught on the leg of the table as she tried to walk to the other side of the box. She could feel herself falling, hand outstretched to steady herself. She could feel cardboard under her hand, then cool wood —

— nothing. Everything went black.

And then the bright light, the sounds of tea being made. Her name being called.

She didn’t even bother to open her eyes, instead propping her head in her hands, stiff neck screaming at her. 
“Oh, hell.”

_______________

The next eleven days — eleven repeats — went much the same way. No matter what she tried to do — or not do — at the end of the day, she still ended up down accidentally touching the wooden statue and waking up at the kitchen table.

One particularly frustrating day, 8 repeats in, she tried to leave Portland Row and sit at a coffee shop all day, only to get a frantic call from George to the shop that someone had broken into the house and stolen a relic. She’d grabbed her purse and the blue notebook — how it’d ended up in her purse, she wasn’t sure — ran out of the shop, and promptly collided with a black-clad figure. The last thing she remembered was seeing the damned statue fall into her hands before the world went black.

She’d screamed at the breakfast table after that, startling Lockwood into dropping the kettle and causing a mess along with a few first-degree burns.

“Luce?”

The kitchen was just as bright on the twelfth repeat as it had been for the last nearly two weeks (two weeks! She was going to go insane if this kept up), and Lucy groaned loudly. She hadn’t napped for the last five days, and her body was exhausted.

“You’re —"

“I know, I know,” she said, lifting her head and blinking at George. “I’m drooling on your notes about the Riverside Strangler, which, yes,” she turned to Lockwood, “is ironic. I know.”

Lockwood frowned at her, setting her tea down in front of her. “Everything alright, Luce?”

She groaned again. “Yeah, I’m just —"

“TELL THEM ABOUT IT!” shrieked the skull’s voice from the other room. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TELL THEM ABOUT IT I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.”

Lucy felt her ears flush. She hadn’t considered that yet, though it seemed obvious now that Skull had offered the idea.

She was going to blame her severe lack of sleep if this solved the problem.

“Lucy?”

Both boys were looking at her now, identical worried frowns on their faces, and she took a deep breath.

“I need your help, but it’s gonna sound really weird, and you probably won’t believe me, but I’m going insane.”

Lockwood leaned back in his chair, shifting into Client Mode. “Of course we’ll help, whatever you need.”

“Within reason,” George said, but he sounded curious.

She closed her eyes, well-aware of how crazy she was going to sound. “I’ve lived through today 11 times already. 12, if you count today.”

Silence.

Lucy opened her eyes, looking at Lockwood, then George, then Lockwood again. “Well?”

Lockwood nodded. “Alright. Going to need a bit more than that, if I’m honest.”

“What do you mean, you’ve lived through today 11 times?” George demanded.

“I mean,” she said, “that I’ve lived through today 11 times. I know everything that’s going to happen, no matter what I try to do, because I touched the stupid wooden statue in the stupid box downstairs —"

“You touched a relic with your bare hands?!?”

“—and now every time, no matter what I do, somehow I end up touching it again at the end of the day and waking up back on this table with him making me tea and you opening the curtains.”

“I see,” Lockwood said, obviously lying.

Lucy blew out a frustrated breath. “I know that George’s sink is leaking, even though it only started this morning and he told you about it before I walked down here and fell asleep on the table. I know that we’re supposed to have shepherd’s pie today because Flo mentioned wanting it to George a few days ago and he’s hoping to have extras when she comes over tomorrow, but that we’re actually going to have fried rice because our potatoes have gone bad faster than expected. I know that George is going to burn the rice because you say something about Flo to him and he turns away from the stove at some crucial moment. I know that no matter how I organize the books in the library, George’ll say I did it wrong, and that you,” she gestured to Lockwood, whose eyebrows were nearly reaching his hairline, “are going to spend most of today first fixing George’s sink and then tending to a few pipes in the basement, which will spring a leak and cover you with grease.”

Silence reigned in the kitchen for several moments. Lockwood seemed to be looking for the words to say, caught between trying to reassure her and trying to digest everything she’d said.

George, however, had a small smile on his face, eyes beginning to gleam in the way they did when he found a particularly interesting piece of trivia. “There’s no way you could know some of that. I didn’t tell anyone what we were having today.” He stood up, yanking a cabinet open and staring at a bag filled with potatoes. “These are definitely bad, I can’t use them. And they were fine yesterday, so the heat probably got to them, and I got down here before you, so you couldn’t have checked them without me seeing it.”

“You’re convinced because the potatoes are bad?” Lockwood asked, dumbfounded.

“Let’s run through the day, Lucy. Don’t leave anything out,” George said, ignoring him.

She groaned. “I wrote it all down a few days ago, but nothing I write seems to make it to the next day. I spend all of the fifth repeat writing notes to myself and you guys, and they were all gone the next morning.”

“Everything resets? So you’re the only one unaffected by this?”

“No,” she said. “Skull noticed it before I did. I think it might be because he’s dead, so he’s — I dunno, he’s out of the time stream or something like that.”

“Makes sense, makes sense,” George said, his words coming out rapid-fire. “I’m going to grab a notebook anyway — I left one downstairs yesterday —" He didn’t bother to finish his sentence before bolting down the stairs to the basement, steps heavy with excitement.

Lucy turned back to Lockwood. His eyes were cloudy, and although he was smiling at her, it looked fake. “You don’t believe me, do you?” she asked softly.

Lockwood’s smile faded. “I don’t know what to think. On the one hand, George is a pretty logical person, and I think you’ve convinced him. On the other hand —"

“On the other hand, I sound crazy,” she finished for him. “Believe me, I know. I feel crazy.”

“Did you — last night — er, last night for me and George —"

“I didn’t get hit on the head,” she said gently. “You’ve asked me that a few times.”

Whatever else Lockwood was going to say was cut off by George bounding back into the kitchen, the blue notebook in hand. He sat down, settling the notebook in his lap and a pen in his other hand, looking eager.

Lucy sighed. “That’s the notebook. I was touching it when I touched the wooden statue in the box the first time, and ever since it keeps following me around.”

“Fascinating,” George said, flipping it open. “I wonder if it’s some…” He trailed off, frowning down at a page. “This is a new notebook, I bought it yesterday right before we left. I wanted to use it for everything in the box.” He flipped through the next few pages,

“So?” Lockwood took a long drink of his tea, rubbing the bridge of his nose in the way he always did when he had a headache forming.

George grinned maniacally at him, sliding over the notebook.

Lucy stood, walking to stand behind Lockwood, peering over his shoulder at the notebook. She gasped.

Her handwriting filled the page, her notes from the day at the coffee shop.

Lockwood blinked down at it, shoulders tensing in surprise. He flipped through the next few pages, all covered front and back with her notes, then turned his head, looking up at her. “Luce,” he said, voice hushed.

“It stayed,” she said numbly. “Why did it stay? Nothing’s stayed before —"

“Could be a lot of things,” George said. “Maybe it’s that you didn’t write it in the house, maybe it had to do with something that changed that day, maybe -- maybe,” he said, growing more excited, “maybe it’s because you were touching it when you touched the — did you say statue?”

Lucy tore her eyes away from Lockwood, turning back to George. “Yeah, in the box. It’s a wooden statue of a guy with hair on the front of his head. There’s an inscription on it, not in English, but I haven’t been able to —"

“Grab the statue, make sure to put on the silver gloves,” Lockwood directed, business-like. “It’s daylight and it’s not a source, as far as we know, so we should be safe up here.”

“Right. Gloves and statue,” George said, sprinting back down to the basement.

Lockwood rose, standing so close to her that she could see each eyelash framing his eyes as he looked at her. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.

She could feel his hands rest on her shoulders, sliding down her arms, thumbs brushing over her biceps in a soothing motion. “We’re here to help,” he continued, voice unbearably gentle, his gaze never leaving hers, “and we’re going to figure this out. You’re not alone.”

I could kiss you, she thought. “Thank you,” she said, voice thin and quavery. “I thought — sometimes I really thought I was going crazy.”

“Anyone would,” he said firmly. “I promise, we’re here for you. I’m here for you.” He paused, frowning like he was trying to find the right words. “You — you know I — I mean, you have to know, I…I’m —"

“Got it!”

George’s voice rang out from the stairs, and Lockwood’s hands dropped from her. She took a step back, clearing her throat and willing her cheeks to go back to normal by the time George made it back to the kitchen.

“This is the statue?” George asked, holding the wooden man aloft in silver-coated gloves.

Lucy nodded, dropping back into her chair and the table and take a sip of very lukewarm tea. “That’s the bastard, alright.”

George grinned. “The inscription’s Greek, but the statue definitely isn’t ancient. The wood’s relatively fresh, definitely less than fifty years old. Thirty, maybe, but I won’t know until I run a few tests on it.”

Lockwood coughed. “That’s wonderful, George, well done. What does it say, though?”

“Kairos.”

Lucy frowned. “Like the city?”

“That’s Cairo. Egyptian. This is Kairos. Greek. The god of time.”

“The Greek god of time is Chronos, I thought,” Lockwood said.

George tapped his nose, grin widening. “Chronos is the god of time as in linear time. Kairos is the god of time as in an opportune time, or a favorable moment.”

“So not time on a clock, more like ‘just in time’,” Lucy said.

“By Jove, I think she’s got it.”

“You’re showboating, George,” Lockwood said mildly.

“If he can stop the day from repeating he can showboat all he wants.” Lucy turned back to George. “So why is the god of opportune moments screwing with my day?”

George shrugged. “No idea. Fascinating though, isn’t it?”

“Okay, you can call him out for showboating now.”

But Lockwood looked thoughtful, lacing his fingers together. “We need more information, and we have a very limited time to get it and have Lucy record it in the notebook,” he said. “Whatever we can write down will help us move more quickly tomorrow — or rather, when the day restarts.”

Lucy’s heart dropped into her stomach. “We’re not going to figure it out today?”

Lockwood shook his head, looking sympathetic. “We’ve got very little to go on, and perhaps twelve hours to do it in. We’re lucky the notebook stays written-in, honestly, or this would take a long time.”

“We’ve got to get to the Archives, Lucy,” George said. “I’ve got about a billion ideas, and we should start narrowing it down. Does the notebook keep writing other than yours?”

She frowned. “No idea.”

George nodded. “We’ll play it safe and I’ll dictate, you write. Lockwood, you —"

“I have a few people that might know something,” Lockwood said slowly. “We’ll meet back here at — let’s say 3:30? And condense all our findings into easy-to-read notes in the notebook.” He motioned for George to toss him the pen, then flipped to the back of the last page. “Let’s test the whole other-people-writing things as well while we’re at it.” He jotted down a few words, then signed his name underneath them. “If it works, it should speed up tomorrow morning tremendously.”

Lucy pulled the notebook towards her. Written above his usual careless signature were three words:

Sink. Skull. Statue.

“Seeing this will convince you?” she asked. “Just like that?”

“We’ll see, I guess.” He gestured towards the door. “I think George is already leaving, just so you know.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

He shook his head. “I’ll get more done alone.”

“But —"

“Trust me, Luce?”

She wanted to be angry. He thought he could call her by a nickname and flash a smile at her and she’d just leave well enough alone?

He was right, but it still set her back up.

Instead of answering him, she stood and threw her arms around his neck. She could feel his initial surprise melt away, his arms circling around her waist. “Thank you,” she breathed, head swimming with both his proximity and his cologne. “Really.”

Lockwood dipped his head to rest against the side of hers. “Of course,” he murmured in her ear, the feeling causing goosebumps to erupt down her arms. “Always.”

George’s voice called out for her from the front of the house, yelling something about a cab.

But she couldn’t hear anything besides the sound of her own heartbeat. Couldn’t feel anything but a warm, fleeting pressure on her shoulder as Lockwood dropped his head further to press a kiss there.

And then he stepped back, arms dropping from around her waist, and gave her a confident, easy smile like he hadn’t just fundamentally changed the world and everything in it.

“Go on,” he said, “the cab’s here, and George is never patient when he’s got a new project.”

“Right,” she heard herself say, voice even. “Good luck with your end of things.”

“See you at half-past three,” he promised, and then turned and walked out of the kitchen.

She let herself have five seconds to stand and stare blankly after him before running to catch the cab and a very impatient George.

_______________

The first few hours at the Archives were peaceful, with George dictating to her in whispers and her handwriting filling a few pages of the notebook. It was mostly background information on Kairos, and he managed to find a reference to a carved statue discovered inside an older stone statue by a construction crew when they were tearing it down to put a new one in its place. George said he thought he recognized the name of the antique expert called in — someone referenced in a few of the books annotated by Lockwood’s parents, apparently — and wrote it down to check later.

Then, of course, Lucy missed about a full minute of his ramblings about the cypress wood that the statue was carved out of — which was Lockwood’s fault, honestly, because hearing his name transported her back to the kitchen and then she was thinking about the shoulder kiss, and that meant there wasn’t room in her head for anything else — and, long story short, the floor librarian kicked them out at five minutes after three.

“Banning us for the next week was uncalled for,” George said, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.”

“She won’t remember it tomorrow,” Lucy said darkly.

George brightened. “True, very true. That’ll be helpful.”

“Well, this is an odd combination.”

Lucy turned, frowning at the speaker. “What are you doing here, Kipps?”

Kipps glanced at the sidewalk around them, winding through a public park. “Walking? What should I be doing?”

“Finding another job?” George muttered. “What, are you just on permanent holiday since quitting Fittes?”

“Freelancing can be very lucrative,” Kipps said mildly. “My expertise is worth a lot to the right people.”

“Congrats,” Lucy said flatly. She’d feel worse about being short with Kipps — they were nearly friends now, after all — but he’d been the reason she’d had to rush home on day 9, having collided with her, ricocheting her into a water fountain in the park, and she hadn’t seen him since.

“Why are you two leaving the Archives? Got a job?”

“Lucy’s repeating the day,” George said eagerly.

“George!”

“What? He won’t remember this tomorrow, what harm can it do?”

“That’s….true.” She turned to face Kipps again, shrugging. “Touched a relic, now I’m reliving the same day over and over. You just came from Heird’s Bakery, right? Two orange scones and a fruit tart?”

Kipps glanced down at the plain brown bag in his hand, eyes wide. “How did you —"

“Time loop,” George said, obviously relishing having the upper hand in the conversation. “We found a box with relics in it last week, and Lucy touched the statue of Kairos inside.”

“The Greek god of opportune moments?”

Lucy frowned. “How’d you know that?”

“There are more people who crack a book open than just Karim,” Kipps said, amused. “Sounds about right for you, honestly.”

George held up his hand, stopping Lucy from sniping back. “What do you mean by that?”

Kipps just shrugged, pastries jostling in the bag. “I’m just saying that she’s the type of person to miss opportunities. Maybe Kairos is trying to help her out.”

George grabbed the notebook from his bag, holding it out to Lucy. “Write that down.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “When we get home. Lockwood’ll be waiting.”

“Case in point,” said Kipps, smug.

“What do you —“

“C’mon, Lucy,” George said tugging at her. “You’re right, Lockwood’ll be waiting, and I want to make sure we have time to write down everything before dinner, just in case.

“I can’t believe you just believe me,” Lucy said, hands on her hips.

Kipps shrugged. “Relics are strange things. This doesn’t even make the top ten weirdest stories I’ve heard from agents.”

“Lucy, let’s go.”

“Good luck,” Kipps called after them. “If you need help one of your tomorrows, just call the bakery. I’ll be there til 3:30.”

He wandered off, stride confident, and Lucy scoffed, turning to George. “Why did you run your mouth?”

George rolled his eyes, tugging her along the path. “The more information we get, the better off we are for tomorrow — like Lockwood said. Right now we’re in preliminary research, which means all ideas are valuable. Even Kipps’.”

“I don’t like it,” Lucy said, grouchy. “He pushed me into a fountain a few repeats ago.”

“Really? What’d you do?”

“Why do you just assume I did something? I was just walking!”

“You were just walking and Kipps showed up out of nowhere, pushed you into a fountain, and ran away cackling? Did he have a curly mustache that repeat?”

“Let’s find a fountain and I’ll demonstrate.”

They bickered the rest of the way home. Sadly, the road home was fountain-less, or they would have been even later than they were. As it was, they made it to 35 Portland Row at quarter to 4, facing down a slightly impatient Lockwood, and got to work.

_______________

Lockwood’s sources had come up “mostly empty”, according to him, so Lucy duly wrote down the names and crossed them off, hoping to save time tomorrow.

George had just gotten through telling Lockwood about the Archives and was on Kipps’ comments on the way home when Lockwood held up his hand, frowning.

“He’s seen this before?”

“Not specifically, at least not that he said,” George admitted. “He just knew who Kairos is and said it wasn’t in the top 10 weirdest things he’d seen happen.”

“He’s lying,” Lockwood said flatly. “Write that down, Lucy.”

Shrugging, Lucy wrote KIPPS IS A LIAR underneath her notes about their conversation, underlining it three times.

“Perfect. And that’s all he said?”

“Pretty much,” George said. “He said to call him at Heird’s Bakery if we needed him, and — actually,  no, he said he wasn’t surprised.”

Lockwood leaned forward. “Not surprised? At Lucy being stuck in a time loop? A phenomena that, as far as the three of us are aware, is unknown?”

“Not that,” said Lucy slowly. “He just didn’t seem surprised that it was happening to me… I guess I attract weird things though, look at the skull.”

Skull, having been very quiet on the kitchen counter, grumbled audibly but said nothing.

Lockwood hmmed. “Interesting.”

George rolled his eyes. “Alright, out with it. What do you know.”

Lockwood just shrugged.

“Lockwood?” Lucy asked. “We are kinda on a time crunch.”

It took another second, but he met her eyes. “It’s just something that Christopher Munson said.” He tapped the crossed-out name on the page of the notebook. “He didn’t know anything about this specific situation, of course, but this is hardly the only statue that’s seemed to — well, have a sort of effect tied to its likeness.”

“That’s important information! Honestly, Lockwood, you’re going to have to take us through every call you’ve made, because —"

“Every other call was a complete dead-end,” Lockwood said, brow creasing. “And this may be as well. But Munson said that there was an old relic — a woven blanket or a shawl, no one was quite sure — that used to possess anyone who wore it. The unfortunate person would grow obsessed with their own skill, bragging about it to anyone who would listen, until…”

Lucy looked up from the notebook, pencil poised to record whatever gruesome fate awaited the poor bastard. “Until?”

Lockwood grimaced, looking apologetic. “They picked a fight and ended up dead.”

“Every time?”

“Every time,” he confirmed. “And it only happened to people who were — well, some would say inordinately proud of themselves to begin with, almost like they attracted it. Obviously, this isn’t the same situation at all, but —"

“That’s Ariadne,” George said, frowning. “Another Greek relic. But those are myths, Lockwood, they’re not real.”

“A hundred years ago, ghosts were myths as well.”

“I thought you said that the story was a dead end,” George pointed out.

Lockwood looked at Lucy, eyes narrowed in concentration. “We have an actual time loop happening in our house. I think learning about a few myths might be worth our time.”

“Well, I’ve written it down, so that settles it.” Lucy said loudly over George’s protests. “Didn’t you say that any information is good information at this point?”

George didn’t say anything, setting his mouth in a stern line.

“It’ll be a few days yet, Lucy,” Lockwood said gently. “Why don’t you take a nap before dinner?”

A nap sounded wonderful, honestly. But something in her hated the idea of it, and she shook her head. “No, I need to do something. Anything.”

Lockwood nodded. “Alright, what about the library?”

“You want me to sort books?”

“Not alone. There might be something in one of them that’ll help us understand the situation, after all. A second set of eyes will help you get through it faster — and get us out of George’s hair for a bit.”

George harumphed his agreement.

She felt a warm bubble in her chest rise up to her throat, and couldn’t help but smile at him. “You’re gonna help me?”

He matched her smile, standing and reaching out to tap on her arm. “The plumbing can wait til tomorrow. If you’re okay with me helping you?”

Lucy stood, nodding. She knew it probably looked far too eager, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Yes. Of course.” She grabbed at the hand that had just been on her arm, his palm warm against hers, and started towards the library.

She’d meant to pull him behind her, sort of a “let’s-get-going” gesture that they used on jobs frequently. That’s what she’d meant to do. Somehow, her fingers ended up interlocked with his, and they stood in the library, the door swinging shut behind them, holding hands.

Lucy turned back to him, ready to apologize, to find Lockwood looking directly at her. His gaze was warm and soft, eyes meeting hers and not looking away.

His hand didn’t slip from hers, fingers firmly anchored on the back of her hand, rapier calluses pressed against hers.

“I —" she said, having no idea what she was going to say. She wasn’t sure she could say anything. Her heart was beating out of her chest, she could feel her palms starting to sweat —

Shitshitshitshitshit. She was not holding his hand with sweaty palms, that’s for damn certain.

Ripping her hand away from his, Lucy forced a smile at a slightly confused-looking Lockwood. “I think we should probably get started, yeah?”

Lockwood nodded, offering her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”

They sat in silence, trading books back and forth as they created little stacks — “useful”, “possibly useful”, and “has sod-all to do with anything” — on the library floor. Lucy was just about to break the silence by commenting on the number of papercuts she’d received over the past looped days when Lockwood cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes.

“I don’t know what Kipps is talking about, honestly.”

She frowned. “About what, exactly?”

“You said he wasn’t surprised that it was happening to you. But I don’t see how you’d be the target of some malevolent force seeking out people who missed opportunities. You’re so — active.”

Lucy was sure that he’d probably meant it as a positive thing. It didn’t feel positive. “I’m active?”

Lockwood gestured at the book piles around them. “You could be napping right now, but instead you’re sorting books that you don’t give a single damn about, just to make George happy. You’re not the type of person to let opportunity just fly by you.”

Moments from the first time she’d lived this day started flooding back to her. Sniping at George over breakfast. Going upstairs to nap. Leaving Skull upstairs. Saying no to Lockwood when he offered to help. Starting a fight over dinner. Isolating herself downstairs, grumpy and sore. Reaching inside the box without protecting her hands.

“I’m not,” Lucy said slowly, considering, “and I am. I guess it depends on how you look at what an opportunity could be.”

He scoffed. “Come on, Lucy, name one missed opportunity from today, just one.”

Kissing you this morning, she thought immediately. Telling you to do it again when you kissed my shoulder before we left for the Archives. Keeping hold of your hand just a few minutes ago, sweaty palms be damned.

“See?”

“I got distracted in the Archives today,” she said, picking the safest option, “and ended up starting a fight with George over it that got us kicked out. Maybe that’s a missed opportunity, maybe we would have found something in the archives had we been able to stay the extra half-hour.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t see that it signifies.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? It’s a perfect example of a missed opportunity.”

“It couldn’t have happened on the first time you lived through today, though,” he pointed out. “And that’s the day that Kairos — if we’re right, anyway — is making you relive til you get it right. Besides, you fight with George most days.”

She felt like something had shocked her. “You’re right.”

“Of course,” Lockwood preened.

She cut him off. “No, no you’re right. I’ve fought with George every day that I stayed at home in this time loop. Over stupid stuff — I started most of them, honestly, because I was grumpy about other stuff, or I didn’t listen when he was trying to tell me something, or once because his apron caught fire and I’d laughed until I cried instead of helping him put it out. I don’t even mean to most of the time, and then suddenly we’re both screaming at each other and you’re trying to get between us.”

“It’s good to know I’m heroic in every timeline,” Lockwood said cheerfully, but his eyes were focused. “I’m grabbing your notebook and a pen, and we’re going to figure out everything that happens consistently to you. It’s been nearly two weeks, we should be able to isolate at least a handful of things."

Sure enough, after another hour’s worth of ignoring the books around them, she and Lockwood had a fairly solid list in the notebook:

THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED AT LEAST 7 TIMES (NOT COUNTING CURRENT REPEAT [12]):

1. Fighting with George (usually over the books).
2. Turning down help with said books
3. George burning dinner (distracted by Lockwood and/or Lucy)
4. Lockwood making a mess with the plumbing (usually grease; once flooded the basement when Lucy went to do rapier practice when he was down there)
5. Lucy taking a nap.
6. Lucy running away (either upstairs, downstairs, or out of the house) after a row with George.

“Is that it?” Lockwood asked, reading back over the page. “Nothing else you can think of?”

Lucy shook her head. “I went with your theory that the first day matters most, so I only included things that happened for sure that day.”

Lockwood nodded. “I flooded the basement once?”

“That one was my fault. I kept distracting you while you were trying to work.”

“Yeah,” Lockwood said quietly. “I’d bet.” She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but he beat her to it. “Alright, I doubt that all of these are important, but a few definitely have to be.” He gestured to her hand holding the pen. “Make a note by 1, 2, 5, and 6.”

Lucy did so, starring each one. “Why those?”

“Those are the things you have full control over,” he said simply. “3 and 4 have more to do with me and George, so it would be incredibly arbitrary to have those be the missed opportunities.”

“Those have the biggest impacts, though,” she argued. “Maybe I’m supposed to do something about them and I don’t.”

Lockwood shrugged. “So write both theories down. You’ll have plenty of time to test them.”

Lucy scribbled down the argument, her heart sinking. “Yeah, I will. It’s not like you’ll remember helping me, after all.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, you’re right,” she said, looking him squarely in the eyes. “At the end of the day — at the end of every day, I guess — it’s up to me. You guys can help, but you can’t fix it for me.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re right.” He worked his arm around her shoulder — they were practically pressed up against each other from shoulder to hip, as Lockwood had wanted to see what she was writing — and pulled her into his side. “I want to, though. Fix it for you.”

She laughed hollowly. “Why don’t you focus on keeping the plumbing running smoothly instead. I’d hate to have the basement flood us out again. Besides,” she said, trying for humor, “maybe this will build my character or something. Why would you want to fix that?”

Lockwood mumbled something, but she couldn’t quite make it out.

Just like before.

Lucy gasped, fumbling for her pen, and added one more point to the list:

7. Lockwood says something, but Lucy can’t quite catch it.

Lockwood frowned, reading the entry. “This happens a lot?”

“Nearly every day,” Lucy said fervently. “You usually leave after I tell you I don’t need help with the books, and you say something when you’re in the hallway to me, but I can never make it out.”

“Odd,” Lockwood said slowly, considering. “I can’t imagine what it is.”

“What did you say just now — right before I started writing? I didn’t — I couldn’t hear it.”

He blinked. “I doubt that that’s it.”

“Please?” she wheedled, opening her eyes as wide as she could, pleading with him. “It might be important."

Lockwood’s ears turned faintly pink.

She wanted to bite one. Just to see how he’d react.

Lucy Carlyle, she thought, get a damn grip on yourself. Biting his ear is definitely not the opportunity you should be taking. Out loud, she tried again. “You won’t tell me?”

He cleared his throat. “I was just — I just said that I was fond of you. You asked why I’d want to help, and it’s — I’m fond of you, you know. So I want to help.”

“Oh.” She could feel herself blushing, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t notice. “Yes, you’re right, that probably isn’t what you say every day. Since you were answering my question.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

Lucy breathed in deeply, avoiding his eyes. “I — me too, you know.”

He was staring at her. She could feel it, feel his eyes tracing her face. “You too?”

She risked a glance at him, knowing that her cheeks were definitely pink. “I’m fond of you too.”

Lockwood nodded, the room silent.

“And George too, of course,” she added. “We’ve been a tight-knit trio for a while, now, so of course we’ve — bonded.”

“Of course.” Lockwood’s voice was bland, almost emotionless.

“What about George?” George said, walking into the library, noticing the books stacked haphazardly on the floor. “You’re kidding me. Two of you on the job, and the library’s still a mess?”

Lockwood laughed, the sound harsh against the wooden walls. “No need to take your disappointment about not being able to feed Flo your homemade shepherd’s pie out on us, George.”

George bristled. “I’ll have you know that —"

“George,” Lucy said, feeling another wave of deja-vu hit her, “I think the fried rice is burning.”

“Oh, dammit.” George turned around and walked out as suddenly as he walked in.

Lockwood raised his eyebrows at her. “There’s point number three, present and accounted for.”

“Come on,” Lucy said, pulling herself to her feet. “Let’s go set the table.”

_______________

George said he wanted to fully clean the kitchen after dinner — “just in case telling us about it breaks the time loop, I don’t want to wake up to a mess” — so Lucy traipsed down to the basement, Lockwood on her heels.

“You don’t have to come down here if you don’t want to, you know,” Lucy said, looking around at the slightly cluttered tables sitting untouched. “You’d probably rather rest.”

“I was planning on asking if you wanted to do some organization or rapier practice after dinner anyway,” he says, tone light as his feet leave the stairs and hit the basement floor. “This just cleans up the matter, that’s all.”

Lucy shrugged, feeling a pleased contentment wash over her, steadying her body and focusing her mind on the present.

Now that she was down here, she wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to do. The kitchen was off-limits, she’d rather pull out her own teeth one-by-one than deal with the books in the library again, and — though she needed one badly — she just didn’t feel like sleeping in her bed before inevitably getting woken up in an hour to go touch the statue again. “Should we look in the box that had the statue? There might be something else that might help.”

Lockwood pointed at her, nodding, his elegant fingers cast in half-shadow by the burned-out bulb in the ceiling. “Right. Good instinct Lucy, well done.”

It shouldn’t have made her glow with pride, but it did.

Unfortunately, there really was nothing else of note in the box. Lockwood jokingly referred to the jewelry box inside as Pandora’s Box, but after that neither one of them wanted to touch it. They covered their hands with gloves as a precaution, as night had fallen, but nothing else seemed to have the same draw that the statue did.

“You felt connected to it? Like a psychic connection?”

Lucy shook her head. “Not like Annabelle’s ring, no. It’s not like anything was calling out to me, needing my help. It just…seemed interesting.”

“And so you touched it, right at — well, at the opportune moment, I suppose?”

“Or the inopportune moment.” Lucy sat in the chair, vacant since they’d moved the box to the floor, and rubbed at her nails. “I just wish I knew what it wanted from me.”

“Early days yet,” Lockwood said, leaning against the table beside her. “I mean, I know it may already feel like an eternity, but for the purpose of figuring out the why, we’re barely scratching the surface.”

She frowned. “Do you think Holly would know any researchers that we could contact? Experts in relics or statuary or something?”

“Holly’s on vacation,” Lockwood said. “She may very well know of someone, but she said she wasn’t to be contacted for anything short of a disaster.”

“It feels like a disaster to me,” she groused. “But point taken. I’ll wait a few more days, see what the three of us can come up with.”

“You’re not going to take Kipps up on his offer?” Lockwood’s voice sounded strange, a few steps higher than normal.

“Do you think I should?” She turned her neck, looking up at him.

Lockwood looked straight ahead, knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. “I think you should do what you want, Lucy. I always think you should do what you want.”

Lucy moved, standing in front of him so that he couldn’t avoid her eyes. “I want to know what you think, though. Do you think he’d know anything, or would it be a waste of time and just prolong this further?”

He squirmed under her gaze, something that she would have found almost funny, almost adorable, if it weren’t for how uncomfortably sad he looked. Finally, he met her gaze, strong and unblinking, and shrugged. “I think Kipps knows more than he’s letting on. Spend enough time as an agent and you encounter all sorts of things — case very much in point,” he said, gesturing at the cardboard box. “I just…wish I had the answers for you.”

“I wish I hadn’t tried to do it all by myself these last near-two weeks,” she said matter-of-factly. “It could have been over by now. And if Kipps knows something —" She broke off, staring up at him.

The warm feeling was fading the further they got into the conversation and she hadn’t even noticed.

“Lucy?” Lockwood asked, tentative. “Are you alright?”

“Did you say,” she said, trying to sound as normal as possible, “that you were going to ask if I wanted to come down here after dinner?”

Lockwood flushed, a pale pink dusting his cheeks, his ears glowing red.

She had to focus, dammit.

“When did you want — when did you think that?” she asked.

“This morning, when you were sleeping at the table,” he said slowly. “Are you thinking—"

“Maybe that was an opportunity? I — it feels right. Like it was supposed to happen.”

“What does that mean?”

She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t give a reason. George would have scoffed, would have told her that without proper evidence, she was basically flying blind.

But this wasn’t George, this was Lockwood. Lockwood, who believed her about Skull without any proof, who trusted her abilities even through the whole mess when Holly first arrived and when she was pushing her limits to see exactly what she could do.

Lockwood, who she trusted, who trusted her. Who’d gone to the Other Side with her and refused to leave her behind no matter what. So she had to try.

“Every day, when something happens that — well, that always happens, it’s like it slots into place. So when you said that, it — it felt the same. It felt warm when you said it. It felt right.”

He was silent for a few moments, looking down at the floor. Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

Lucy blinked. “Okay? Just like that?”

Lockwood gave a breathy laugh, shaking his head, eyes still fixed to the floor. “I don’t know how you do half of what you do, Lucy. Your instincts are terrifying sometimes, but…” he shrugged, eyes flitting to hers beneath long lashes as he opened his mouth again, “…they’re usually right. So yes, okay. Just like that.”

She wanted to hug him.

If she hugged him like she had this morning, would he kiss her shoulder again?

Would he kiss somewhere else?

“I’d better write that down,” she said, trying to sound casual. She reached around Lockwood for the notebook on the table, fingers brushing carved wood instead of paper.

I thought that was upstairs, she opened her mouth to say, and then the darkness came crashing in.

_______________

Four days of patiently explaining to the boys the situation over the breakfast table later, Lucy was more tired than she’d ever been. This wasn’t the same tired feeling after a long, dangerous job, or after hours of research without moving, or even after moving all of the furniture around her room to give herself a new look (that she always hated and then had to move everything back from).

This tired had moved past her muscles, past her bones, and into her soul. She was tired of explaining every morning, tired of burying herself in Greek Mythology books only to have George discover everything she had in half the time, tired of the endless bickering over dinner and the smell of burned fried rice and even tired of the occasional naps she allowed herself.

George had wanted to follow up on a thread he’d discovered two repeats ago, reading his past work — in his handwriting, as Lockwood’s experiment had proved that it didn’t matter who wrote it as long as it was in the blue notebook — with a smug face that she’d barely avoided slapping off of him. He’d disappeared to some museum an hour from Portland Row, and the kitchen had fallen silent.

Lockwood, for his part, was examining the notes she’d briefly written on a loose sheet of paper, copying the very essentials out of the notebook before George took it with him.

He didn’t look any less confused than he had the past few days.

“Shoulder?”

“What?”

He flashed the list at her. “On the list of things that happen a lot, one of the items is just ‘shoulder’.”

Her face warmed. “It’s just — a note to myself. I keep waking up with my neck sore, so…” she trailed off, hoping he’d buy it.

“Really.”

She waited a few moments, but Lockwood didn’t say anything further, turning his gaze back to the paper.

Lucy sighed. “Look, let’s just fix the pipes.”

Lockwood looked up, frowning. “You don’t want to —"

“Let George do his thing, he said he’d be back by 1, and we can keep researching then. There’s nothing in the house that’ll help us — I know that for a fact.”

“And the plumbing will help?”

She shrugged. “Busy hands, clear mind?”

He stood, long fingers folding the notes in half, then half again, creasing it with short, sure movements. “Are you okay, Luce?” he asked, stepping around the table to stand in front of her, peering down into her face. “You don’t seem — quite yourself.”

Lucy sighed. “I’ve been at this for 16 days, and the last four have been nothing but researching one dead end after the other.” She rubbed at her eyes, feeling her shoulders and neck scream in protest at the motion. “I’m sore, and I’m tired, and I’ll scream if I have to sit in front of one more dusty manuscript that has nothing to do with anything.”

“And the plumbing will help,” he repeated. Lockwood thought for a moment, then offered her his hand. “Rapier practice? You said you wanted to learn some of my clever tricks.”

She grinned, placing her hand in his and allowing him to pull her to her feet and towards the door to the basement. “I never called them clever.”

“Oh, I believe you did. I remember all your compliments very clearly.” He had the audacity to wink at her before turning back to lead them down the stairs.

Lucy did her best to ignore it.

_______________

“Again.”

Sliding her rapier back into its sheath, Lucy bit back a curse. They’d been at it for a couple of hours now, and while she’d managed a few of the more basic frills — “extras”, Lockwood had corrected her — the smooth draw-to-chin maneuver she’d seen him use on Kipps in the library back when they’d first met was eluding her.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t draw her rapier quickly — and she hadn’t cut herself since that awful night in the cemetery with the discovery of Bickerstaff and the Bone Glass, years ago — but she couldn’t seem to stop overcorrecting, her movement wide and sweeping, rather than economical and precise.

“It’s not a club or a fire poker, Lucy” Lockwood chided. “It’s a rapier. A weapon of precision and finesse.”

She glared at him. “I do just fine with a rapier. Been using one since I was 13.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes, and you learned from a man whose skill -- using the term lightly —with a rapier had long since lost its sheen.”

“As opposed to you, who came out of the womb with one.”

Lockwood barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Not far off. Fencing had been a family sport even before The Problem. Nearly as soon as I could walk, my grandfather had me running through position drills with a stick.”

Lucy set her jaw. “Right. So I’m playing catch up with a toddler.”

He frowned, stepping closer to her, within range of her rapier. “That’s not it, Lucy. I’m not bragging —"

“Oh, you are so bragging —"

“—overmuch,” Lockwood continued, flashing his blindingly white teeth at her. “I’m saying that your rapier skills aren’t your genius. Not,” he said, raising his voice slightly to cut off her protest,” “that you aren’t fully capable with one. You’ve saved George and me a thousand times over with it. But, like George, your true proficiency lies elsewhere.”

“Like George’s research skills.”

He shook his head. “He’s an amazing researcher, but I was speaking more physically. George is a dab hand with a rapier, but it’s his work with the chains that’s truly impressive.”

Lucy thought back to the many times that George, rapier knocked out of his hand or dropped, reached for the iron chains, wielding them like a whip despite their weight. “That’s true. Did he learn that at Fittes?”

Lockwood scoffed. “Fittes’ training agents aren’t anywhere near that flexible. They train rapiers with a dash of hand-to-hand — more useful against rogue agents than Visitors, but that’s a discussion for another day.” His face darkened for a moment, deep in thought.

Resisting the urge to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows with her thumb — or worse, her lips — Lucy coughed. “So what’s mine, then? Iron filings?”

His face cleared. “Lucy, everything’s a weapon in your hands. You’re just as dangerous with a plank of wood or a chair as you are with a rapier — more so, honestly. You can look around a room and find ten different weapons before most people can draw their rapier.”

That warm feeling that bubbled up in her chest any time Lockwood praised her threatened to knock her over, and she couldn’t help the wide grin that stretched across her face. “Most people?”

Lockwood shrugged. “It wouldn’t do to downplay my own skills when I’m trying to praise yours.” He took a step back, attention snapping to her rapier hand. “Again.”

She could feel her absurdly obvious smile still plastered on her face, but her hand moved faster than she could think, and suddenly her rapier was out and straight, pointing straight (albeit with a wobble) at Lockwood’s chin.

“Better.” He smiled that ridiculous, heart-ruining smile at her, then stepped to the right, walking behind her. “A few things, hold that pose steady.” He stood directly behind her, so close that she could feel his warmth radiating onto her back. His hand came up, stopping just below her wrist. “Can I touch you?”

Shit. She was going to hear that every time she closed her eyes.

Not trusting her voice, she nodded, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist, steadying her grip.

“If you rotate your wrist just slightly,” Lockwood said — she could feel his voice rumbling down his chest, fully pressed up against her — as he tightened his hold, “you’ll get rid of a bit of that wobble. Grip strength is important, but 70% of your control is going to come through your forearm, so you want one continuous line from your elbow to your thumb.” He rotated her wrist counterclockwise a few degrees. “Feels better, right?”

“Right,” she managed.

“The only other thing you want to make sure of is your stance. Your foot placement is good, but your power comes from your —" his voice faltered for a moment, and she could hear him swallow. “From your, ah, hips. Making sure that they’re in line with your arm —" his other hand settled at her hip, fingers splayed as he adjusted her stance “—will help you keep steady.”

She was feeling anything but steady. “Right,” she said again, feeling stupid. Shouldn’t she have something else — anything else — to say?

For a few moments, they were both silent. Her, rapier outstretched, nearly holding her breath, wondering how long she could stay there before evaporating into a cloud of embarrassingly turned-on steam. Lockwood, breathing deeply, pressed up against her from her shoulders to her waist, his grip firm on her wrist and hip.

She could see from the corner of her eye his head dropping slightly towards her shoulder.

And then he froze.

“Lucy?” His voice was miles away from the soft, warm tone he’d been using before. It sounded like cracked ice, jagged at the edges — cold, clean, and precise.

“Lockwood, what’s —" She tried to move but couldn’t, his grip holding her in place. “What’s wrong?”

“What does ‘shoulder’ mean?”

Not good. “I told you, it’s just —"

Lockwood’s voice was steady, detached. “Yes, I know. But what does it actually mean?”

She might have believed he was calm if she couldn't feel his breathing getting quicker against her back.

Lucy dropped her rapier, the sound of it clanging against the concrete floor enough of a distraction for her to duck out of his hold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do. Because I know what I was about to do.” His gaze moved from her face down to her shoulder, then back up. “And you know what I was going to do. Because I’ve done it before. Enough times to make it onto your fun little list.”

Her temper flared. “You’re right, because I’m repeating the day for shits and giggles.”

Lockwood set his jaw, lips thinning. “That’s not the point and you know it.”

“Then inform me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “What is the point?”

But he didn’t say anything. His fists clenched and unclenched at his side, and he dropped his gaze to her feet.

“Fine,” she said, biting out the word. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up — or do, I guess. Doesn’t matter since I know what’s gonna happen anyway, right?”

And with that she pushed past Lockwood, taking the stairs two at a time. Her only thought as she slammed the front door behind her was that she needed someone who would sit down, shut up, and not ask her any hard questions.

She considered for a moment before turning up the street.

To the bakery, then.

_______________

“Can I help you?” Kipps asked, eyebrow raised, as she sat down in the chair opposite him with a thunk.

Lucy sighed. She couldn’t do the whole explanation thing again or she’d scream….so the best course of action was to just open her mouth and let it out. “I touched a statue of Kairos that turned out to be a relic and now I’m repeating the day and I need someone that I won’t feel bad about insulting to vent to.”

Kipps blinked at her twice, then nodded. “Alright. At your service.”

Despite everything, she had to ask. “Why do you always just believe me whenever I tell you that?”

“Stranger things have happened. A Fittes agent under my command once touched a coin with Fortuna’s image on it — that would be Kairos’ Roman equivalent — and ended up seizing the day so hard he tried to take on a Type 2 single-handedly.” Kipps took a long drink from his glass, shrugging. “And you look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

She groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “I mind.”

Kipps laughed at that. “Where’s Karim and Tony? Not helping out?”

“George is at some museum doing research.”

“And Tony?”

Lucy flushed, turning her head to stare out the window. “Burning in hell for all I care.”

Kipps choked on his drink, raising a napkin to cough into. “So you’re not here with some hard-earned existential dread over the pointlessness of the human experience, you’re here because you’re in a fight with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Isn’t he?” Kipps asked, sounding smug. “You two do everything together, go everywhere together, have your own little inside jokes, and go insane whenever someone else even looks at the other person. If you were any other people —"

“Exactly,” Lucy said flatly. “If we were any other people. But we’re not.”

He nodded, waiting for her to keep going. When she didn’t, he sighed and pushed his plate over to her, a scone sitting atop it. “Alright. If you’re repeating the day, then the first day must be important. Go through it step by step.”

By the time she finished, Kipps was leaning on his hands, deep in thought. He was silent for another minute, then cleared his throat. “So some things — spare me going through them all again — feel right, and most of those happen — or have the possibility of happening — every day?”

Lucy sighed. “I can’t explain it well, but basically.”

“Then your answer is staring you in the face. The first day is the most important, so go live it again.”

“That’s your grand plan? ‘Do it again’?”

“Don’t be negative,” Kipps said, waggling a finger at her.

She wanted to break it off.

“You already know you’re supposed to accept help with the books, and not go down to the basement alone. There’s two ‘opportunities’. So go look for any others. Live through the first day again as closely as possible — but this time, pay attention. Look at times when you didn’t do what you should have, or what you could have. Then it’s just trial and error.”

“Testing out each situation and seeing if it feels right,” Lucy said slowly.

On one hand, the thought of taking the next however-long-it-takes to test one thing at a time seemed like her idea of hell. On the other hand, wasn’t she already trapped in a different kind of hell?

“Lucy. Lucy!” Kipps snapped his fingers in front of her, impatient.

“Don’t call me like I’m a dog.”

“Then pay attention,” he said severely. “Or this is a waste of both your time and mine.”

She scoffed. “Can I even waste your time when you won’t remember it?”

“Of course you can.” Kipps frowned, leaning back in his chair. “Everything you do matters, no matter if you repeat the day. Hasn’t living through the same day for two weeks taught you anything? Or did it take your fight with Tony to consider that how you do things makes all the difference?”

Lucy shifted in her seat, uncomfortably replaying her fight with Lockwood in her head. “How would you even know what happened?”

“Lucy Carlyle,” he said, fixing her with a look that was equal parts amusement and pity. “If you were any easier to read, you’d be a pop-up book.”

Prick.

She stood up. “I think I’ll just go get insulted at home, thanks.”

Kipps shrugged, drinking the last of his glass. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

Lucy walked over to the door, then glanced back. Kipps was watching her, gaze calm and steady, and she felt her anger deflate. “Kipps? Thank you. Honestly.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgement, a small grin on his face. “Thank me when you get out of this.”

_______________

But Lucy couldn’t face Lockwood. Not yet. She had to build up to it, figure out what she was going to say.

“…or at least how to apologize without, well…” she trailed off, looking at Skull imploringly.

“Without actually apologizing. Great idea.” Skull said in a monotone from his perch on the couch in the front room. “Nothing stops a lovers’ quarrel quicker than doubling down.”

“Shut up.”

“No, really, it’s a genius plan. I especially like the part where you don’t do anything and it solves everything. Inspired.”

Lucy glared at him “Could you be helpful for once in your…after-life?”

“I don’t know,” the skull sniffed. “You did leave me alone for five whole days without so much as a ‘Hi, Skull, my friend, my only light in the storm of this time-loop bullshit, how are you?’, so I think I’m justified in a little fun at your expense.”

“Uh-huh. And your general unhelpfulness when we’re not in a time loop?”

“I have a natural sense of joie de vivre.”

“Asshole.”

‘That’s natural too.”

She groaned. “I don’t know what to do. If on the one hand, I tell him everything that happens, he’ll get embarrassed. Maybe. And if I don’t, he'll feel like I’m hiding something? Maybe?”

The skull cackled. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you should do anything. More fun for me this way. Besides, those two have only been running themselves in to the ground trying to help you with your little problem for a few days now. They’ve been generally useless, so who cares what they know or don’t know? It’ll all go away for them, so why not do whatever you want?”

She stopped pacing to glare at Skull. “George hasn’t remembered to eat for the last two days he’s been so engrossed in his research. And Lockwood — Lockwood’s been trying to cheer me up and take care of me in addition to using every resource he’s got to break this loop. Sure, he can be an ass sometimes, but he’s trying to help, and normally without all the information, and it doesn’t help that I’m taking it out on him because I’m embarrassed and uncomfortable and I want more than I’m willing to give.” She groaned. “And I’m supposed to figure out how to tell him any of that? Where do I even start?”

“I think you’re doing fairly well.”

Lucy jumped, spinning towards the door.

Leaning in the doorway looking careless and bored was Lockwood. HIs dark eyes, normally warm when fixed on her, looked like ice, his folded arms a barrier separating him from the room and from her.

She cleared her throat, feeling her flush creep up her face and down her neck. “You couldn’t have coughed or something to let me know you’re there?”

“I could have.” He shrugged. “Not a very nice feeling when someone knows more about you than you think you’ve told them, is it?”

“I can’t help knowing what I know,” Lucy said, knowing it sounded petulant “I’ve just — it’s been sixteen days, Lockwood. Too many things have happened — and not enough things have happened at the same time. And I know — I know I should say something like an apology but tomorrow I’m going to wake up on that kitchen table and you’re not going to remember any of this and I won’t know how to face you, or if I should tell you, or if it matters to anyone besides me. And yeah,” she cut him off, taking a step towards him, “I know it matters. I know. But — I don’t know how to handle this—" she gestured between the two of them “—on the best of days. And this? This isn’t the best of days. I wake up cranky and sore and hopeless and tired and sorry.” She sighed, ducking her head to stare down at the ground.

“That was a lovely half-coherent apology rant. I would clap if I had hands.”

“And you,” Lucy said, turning to glare at the skull, “can shut the hell up.”

“Meanie. Can’t wait for my apology rant. Can I pencil you in for next Tuesday? Assuming we get to next Tuesday, of course.”

Lucy ignored him looking to Lockwood. “I know it’s not — not full disclosure, or anything close to it. But I’m sorry, Lockwood.”

For another moment, his eyes were still cold, posture guarded and aloof. Then, like the sun peeking through after a week-long rainstorm, a small, sincere smile broke out over his face, and his eyes were as warm and deep and trusting as they’d ever been. “Truce?” he asked, holding out his hand.

She took it. Of course she did.

Lockwood pulled her towards him, through the doorway and into the hallway, raising her hand to his mouth and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “To make up for missing my chance earlier,” he said, looking at her from behind their joined hands, smiling that damned mega-watt smile.

She yanked her hand back, unable not to return the grin. “Charming bastard.”

“So long as we both agree I’m charming.” He winked at her, confident as always, even with pink ears.

Lucy reached up her hand, tracing the shell of his ear with her fingertips. Their color deepened past pink to a bright red.

“Luce,” Lockwood said, voice unsteady, fingers wrapping around her wrist, “what are you doing?”

She kept her eyes on his ear, knowing that her cheeks were probably even redder. “In the spirit of full disclosure,” she said slowly, “when you were blushing earlier. I wanted to — to bite your ear.”

Lockwood swallowed hard, his grip around her wrist tightening.

Lucy stared resolutely ahead, his grip keeping her hand in place.

When he spoke, his voice was low and rumbling, washing over her in a buzz of electricity. “In the spirit of full disclosure,” he said, every syllable deliberate, “I would welcome that.”

She looked at his face. His eyes were as dark as they’d been earlier, but they were the furthest thing from cold or aloof.

The front door opened, slamming shut a moment later.  “Lockwood? Lucy? The museum —"

Lockwood dropped her hand as she jumped backwards, nearly losing her balance in her hurry to be an appropriate distance away. He spun on his heel, walking towards the stairs and rushing past George who frowned at him as he climbed.

“Lockwood, where —"

“Shower.”

George turned to look at her, eyebrows furrowed. “What’s his problem?”

Lucy shrugged, knowing she could probably fry an egg on her face. “I’m gonna go nap. I’ll read your notes in the notebook tomorrow later,” she said, beating a hasty retreat to her attic.

This couldn’t happen again. Her heart couldn’t take it.

_______________

She woke up at the kitchen table with one overwhelming thought: everything was going to be the same today. The only difference would be that she was aware of everything, making meticulous mental notes that she could transcribe after dinner. If Kairos — or his statue, same difference — thought she was missing important opportunities, then she was going to make sure she knew what the options were.

And if the feeling of rightness in her chest when Lockwood helped her with the books in the library, when they went to the basement together after dinner, when — when other things happened, meant more than her own embarrassingly strong feelings for him.

Lucy feigned grogginess at the table, answering Lockwood’s queries as to her well-being, sniping at George about his supposed annoyingness, the works. She even remembered to ogle Lockwood a bit in a purely scientific effort to get him to comment on her blush the way he had the first day.

Not that she needed an excuse to blush after the events of the previous day.

Emphasizing her sleepiness and promising to do the book sorting after her nap, Lucy climbed the stairs to her attic, shutting the door behind her. Looking around and satisfied that everything was exactly the same as before, she grabbed a safety pin keeping the shower curtain tucked together and burrowed under the covers.

She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep with how wired she felt, but just in case she felt herself dozing, a prick in her thumbpad from the pin should annoy her into wakefulness.

Lucy closed her eyes, feeling more awake than she had in two and a half weeks. All she had to do is wait for evening to fall, go downstairs and make a start on the books, get in a row with George and try to tackle him, and then fight over dinner. She’d feel a bit bad over the row since George hadn’t really done anything to her, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made.

And speaking of sacrifices…

It hadn’t even been an hour before she could hear George tramping up the stairs, steps heavy, and Lucy winced, preparing herself for what would be the worst part of her day.

Her doorknob turned, George climbed up the last bit of the stairs, and she heard him scoff.

Lucy willed herself to relax fully, breathing deeply and slowly, and sighed “Lockwood…”, imitating herself (according to Skull, who she desperately hoped had been telling the truth) on the first time she’d lived through the day.

She could hear the thump of George setting Skull on top of the wardrobe, then another quiet scoff. “Typical,” he muttered, then stomped back down the stairs, closing her door behind him.

Her ears were burning, her cheeks were burning, she could swear that her blush covered 90% of her body by now, and she wanted to die.

She wanted to die.

“Kairos,” she whispered, voice cracking in embarrassment, “if you’re listening, just strike me dead, please. Nothing could be worse than doing that again.”

“Oh please,” the skull piped up, sounding incredibly amused. “Didn’t you notice? Karim wasn’t even surprised. It’s a common sound from you when you’re sleeping. I barely notice it by now — it’s like white noise.”

She moaned pathetically.

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“Shut up,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m supposed to be napping, you know.”

Skull laughed.  “Don’t worry, your dumb little plan was obvious from the scene in the kitchen — though it would have been nice to be filled in. Have you learned anything yet?”

Just that I’m pathetic and obvious and disgusting, Lucy thought, despairing. She curled tighter into a ball, pulling the covers up over her arms.

He laughed again. “Fine, ignore me. I won’t tell you what’s coming, then.”

Lucy frowned, peering at him over her blanket. “I know what’s coming. I slept til evening, then got up and did the books. And left you alone up here because you were being obnoxious, remember?”

“That did happen,” the skull admitted. “But — oh, never mind. Girls love surprises, right? Even if you barely qualify, you’re in for a doozy.”

“Skull,” she said, trying her best to sound dangerous, “if you’ve known something that I haven’t this whole time, I will — I will Tweety Bird you for a month.”

“What the hell does that mean.”

A wave of embarrassment washed over her. “I — you know. In the cartoon. Where the grandma puts the blanket over the birdcage to make Tweety Bird think it’s nighttime.”

There was a beat of silence, then a horrible choking noise.

She sat up straight. “What —"

The bastard was laughing at her. Full on, ugly, awful mocking laughter. At her.

Her pride couldn’t take much more of this.

“Oh,” the skull said in between wheezes, “oh, thank you so much. That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, flopping back down onto the bed. “I hate you.”

“Yes, yes. As a treat, I’ll give a hint of what’s to come.”

“I don’t want your hints.”

“In about 20 minutes, your boytoy is going to walk in here.”

Lucy froze. “What?!?”

“Sweet Dreams, Lucy Carlyle~”

There wasn’t even a hint of sleepiness in her after that. Even her previous embarrassments — horrible as they were — were nothing in the face of the mountain of trepidation she was facing for the next near half-hour.

And that was if the skull was telling the truth. Maybe he just wanted to watch her sweat for a bit. Some entertainment, since they were stuck up in the attic together until the sun started to set.

Twenty-two minutes later, the stairs started to creak with the weight of someone climbing them. The footsteps were a little too light to be George’s, and Holly was on vacation.

Lockwood.

The skill tittered. “Here he comes.”

“Quick,” Lucy hissed, “how was I laying down that day? I have to do it perfectly.”

“If I don’t help, are you going to Tweety Bird me?”

“Please,” she whispered desperately, the footsteps getting nearer to her door. “Please, please help me.”

Skull sighed. “You were on your side — no, facing the stairs. And you grabbed his hand when — oh, you’ll know when. Now shut up, you’re going to ruin everything for yourself.”

Lucy settled onto her side as directed, closing her eyes and relaxing her face as much as possible. She hoped she looked asleep from the outside, because her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears that she could barely hear the door creak open.

“Luce?” Lockwood’s voice was barely a whisper, soft enough that it wouldn’t have woken her from the lightest sleep. “You awake?”

She kept her eyes closed, breathing evenly as she heard him finish coming up the stairs, willing her heart to calm down from its breakneck pace.

His footsteps came nearer, stopping at the side of her bed. She could feel his hand land lightly on her shoulder, then drift down her arm. When she felt his long, tapered fingers touch her hand, she pretended to sigh and reach out in her sleep, using maybe a fourth of her grip strength to hold on to his hand.

Lockwood’s breath caught for a moment before he laughed softly. “Lucy,” he whispered, his thumb tracing over her clenched fingers, “Lucy, I need that.”

She didn’t dare relax her fingers, didn’t dare do anything that would make him think that she was anything other than deeply asleep.

She didn’t want to let go anyway.

Laughing quietly again, Lockwood eased his hand out of her grip, settling it on the skin between her arm and her shoulder. “Sleep well,” he whispered.

Very glad that her hair was covering her flaming-red ears, Lucy breathed in and out, willing her body to stay relaxed, waiting for him to remove his hand and go back downstairs.

She did not expect to hear him stoop down, his hand on her arm for balance. He pressed his lips to her shoulder for one — two — three seconds, then stood back up, the warmth of his mouth and hand burning into her even after he removed them.

His footsteps moved back away from her, moving towards the stairs, then stopped again. “I…I’m…very fond of you, you know,” he whispered.

And then his footsteps were on the stairs, her door closing behind him, the sounds of him continuing down muffled by the door.

“Ugh,” the skull complained, “that was worse than the other times, somehow”

Lucy didn’t say anything. She settled for pressing her face into her pillow,  her feet kicking out in silly, excitable glee below the covers.

_______________

She’d only gotten maybe an hour of sleep — it took her heart a long time to calm down after that — but Lucy traipsed down the stairs once the sun was in its proper position. Next up was sorting books in the library, then dinner, then the basement.

She could do this. Just keep to how things went the first time. The book sorting was just an unpleasant side effect of victory

Five minutes into sorting the books into piles — sans the loud grumbling she’d done the first day — she heard a loud curse from the kitchen.

She hadn’t heard that the first day.

“How?!? How are they bad? I checked them last night, what the hell —"

The potatoes. George must have just discovered them.

That explained his bad mood over dinner, at least.

And while she knew she shouldn’t, that she should stick to the script, Lucy stood up, walking over to the kitchen door and peeking in to see George dumping leftover rice into a smoking wok, scowling. “George? You okay?”

George spun around, narrowing his eyes at her. “Does it sound like everything’s okay? Somehow the potatoes are bad, and I was planning on —"

“Do you want me to pop ‘round to the shops to pick up more?” The second she said it, that warm feeling of rightness washed over her, wrapping around her like a blanket. “There’s still almost an hour before curfew, and it’ll only take twenty minutes.”

George stared at her for a few seconds, mouth hanging open. “You don’t mind?”

“‘Course not. How many?”

“Four big ones. Grab your rapier and — oh, Lockwood.” George’s eyes flicked to her right. Lockwood stood next to her, hands a mess of grease, eyebrow raised. “Perfect. Grab him as well, just in case.”

“We’re running out for potatoes,” Lucy said to Lockwood, trying to ignore the fact that he was very much in her personal space. “Ours are bad.”

Lockwood clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Damn. And after you promised Flo some of her beloved shepherd’s pie.”

George glared at him. “Do you spend all of your time listening at doors, or —"

“Your rice is burning.”

“Oh, dammit.” George turned back to the wok, stirring furiously. “Go on, it’ll be curfew soon.”

Lucy nodded, turning around and grabbing Lockwood by the arm. “Let’s hurry.”

She could hear the amusement in Lockwood’s voice as her hurried behind her, grabbing two rapiers from the stand by the door. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, shaking off her grip.

You should be sorting books, not running errands, she thought to herself. So much for keeping to the schedule of the first day.

But it had felt right to ask what was wrong. It had felt right to offer to help.

They stepped outside and Lockwood’s hand slid into hers, their fingers interlocking as he pulled her along.

That felt right, too.

_______________

Lucy did her best to keep dinner back on track, squabbling with George over the burned rice and the way he kept tapping his foot against the floor, but it was half-hearted at best. The potatoes had put him in a good mood, and — as much as she’d rather die than admit it out loud — her shopping date with Lockwood had her in a good mood too.

Trip. Shopping trip with Lockwood.

“Oh, I meant to ask before we went out,” Lockwood said, handing her the last washed plate for her to dry, “do you want help with sorting the books?”

“I’ve got it,” she said. “I’m the one who made the mess, after all, and you spent all day with the plumbing.”

“Are you sure?”

Lucy nodded. “I’m sure.” Then, well aware that she’d already messed with her ‘perfect’ day, she cleared her throat. “But afterwards did you want to do a bit of rapier practice or something in the basement?”

Lockwood turned off the sink, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “It’s a date,” he said, eyes sparkling.

She got half an hour into book sorting before her heart calmed back to normal. Finally, the last book was in, the sorting system immaculate — not to mention written down a piece of paper taped to the side of the bookshelf — and the shelves dusted for good measure.

Lucy had to step back and admire it, it was that good. And still forty minutes until she was due to start the day again.

“Wow, you actually finished.”

She turned around to see George poking his head in the door, knife in hand, and smiled wearily at him “All done, and it’s perfectly organized.”

“I can see that. Good job.” George looked a few seconds longer, then nodded at her cheerfully and went back to the kitchen.

Leaving her alone with the books. No warm feeling, no sense of rightness, not even the satisfaction of a job well done. She bit back a scream and the desire to tip the bookcase over.

“Luce?” Lockwood appeared, tapping her on the shoulder. “Great job in here. Up for some practice now?”

She nodded grimly, noting the return of the warm feeling as she accepted his offer.

If she was lucky, she’d manage to slash the damn statue with her rapier before it took her back to the beginning.

_______________

It took five more days — plus a day in the middle where she slept the whole time, her exhaustion finally making her body shut down — to narrow down her opportunities, to make sure she had the timing of the day down, and to get her speech to Lockwood and George about repeating the day under five minutes.

But she’d done it. 22 full days of this bullshit, of falling on her ass, of putting up with George’s potato tantrums and Lockwood springing a leak in the pipes and Skull throwing insults and shoulder kisses and burned fried rice and that damned statue smirking at her despite its complete lack of face.

Day 23 was going to be perfect — imperfect by any other standard, yes, because she’d learned that trying to micromanage the day only resulted in fights and headaches — but she had her three opportunities all figured out, and she was going to nail them to the wall if it killed her.

Lucy opened her eyes, the bright light of morning in the Portland Row kitchen shining back at her.

“Luce?”

There was Lockwood, right on cue.

Lucy sat up, nodding to him, then George. “I’ve been trapped in a time loop for twenty-three days today,” she said calmly. “The blue notebook downstairs has your signatures in the back, plus a brief explanation. Lockwood?”

Lockwood set her tea down in front of her, frowning. “You want me to go get it?”

“Yes. It’s down by the cardboard box of relics. Don’t touch anything inside, it’s the wooden statue of Kairos in there that caused this.”

He shot her an odd look but nodded, disappearing into the basement.

Lucy turned to George, who was openly staring at her. “Your potatoes are bad, even though you just checked them last night.”

George opened the cabinet, looked inside, then shut it and sat back down. “Alright. How do we fix this?”

Lockwood came back in, the notebook open to the back page. “She’s right, we’ve got our signatures back here.” He looked at Lucy, brow creased. “Twenty-three days?”

She nodded, launching into her speech. “Kairos is the Greek god of opportune moments. Basically he’s in charge of —" she grabbed the notebook from Lockwood, flipping to the notes that George had made the day he’d gone to the museum “—the thing that is Fitting and comes at the Proper Moment. When I touched the statue — yes, at night, without gloves, I know — it knocked me out, and I woke up back at the start of the day. You two have been helping me research and figure things out since Day 12, and after a lot of trial and error, I’ve narrowed it down to three distinct opportunities I missed.”

Both boys looked at her, then each other, then back at her.

Lucy took another breath. “Thank you guys for your help. You’ve both given up your time, food, and sleep, and I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You haven’t done it yet,” George pointed out.

“George.” Lockwood shot him a look across the table.

“He’s right,” Lucy admitted. “But today’s it.”

“What makes today different? Because you figured out the variables?”

“George.”

“Because I know the why behind them,” she said simply.

Silence.

“So what’s the why?” George asked, visibly losing patience.

Lucy smiled. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“But that’s —"

“What do you need from us, Luce?” Lockwood asked. “How can we help?”

“Breakfast?” she said hopefully. “And then I’m going to take a small nap.”

He frowned. “You don’t just want to get your three opportunities out of the way right now?”

“I’ve tried that,” she said dryly. “Turns out they’re not opportunities if you just force them to happen.”

George nodded slowly. “That makes sense, actually. Scrambled eggs, then?”

“And more tea?”

Lockwood laughed. “And more tea.”

After the eggs were cooked and consumed, George disappeared downstairs, saying something about wanting to grab the statue for inspection, and Lockwood filled the kettle back up, setting it on the stove.

He turned back to look at her as it heated up, head cocked to the side.

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “What is it?”

Lockwood shook his head. “Nothing. Sorry.”

“Lockwood.”

“Lucy,” he mimicked, grinning at her. When she kept looking at him, he shrugged. “It’s just…it can’t have been easy, doing this every day, with George and me forgetting every morning.”

“It wasn’t,” she said fervently. “Sometimes I — it didn’t seem like I’d ever get there. It still doesn’t, honestly”

“You will. I know you will, you’re — you’re Lucy Carlyle.” He smiled at her, the soft smile he used when it was just the two of them, and switched off the stove under the whistling kettle. “You can do anything.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Anything.”

Lucy nodded, looking down at her hands, knowing what was coming later. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“Please do. I’m trying to say,” Lockwood said, placing fresh tea in front of her, “that I’m proud of you. And…”

If her heart was beating a little faster, she could blame it on the hot tea scalding her mouth. “And?”

“And I’m fond of you,” he said quietly.

She’d heard him say the same things a dozen times, but she couldn’t help smiling brightly at him, watching as his nervousness melted away and he matched her smile. “I’m fond of you too. And also very tired.”

Lockwood laughed. “Go nap. I’m going to go fix George’s sink.”

Lucy stood, feeling more relaxed than she had in a while. “Wake me at two? I’ve gotta fix up the library before curfew. I’ll take Skull up with me so he’s not distracting George while he works.”

“Two it is. Sweet dreams, Luce.”

Yes, she rather thought they would be.

_______________

Morning tackled, check. Skull placated, check. Nap taken, check.

And now, she thought, surveying her and Lockwood’s handiwork, books organized and Opportunity #1: Accepting Help and Not Trying to Do Everything Myself, check.

Lockwood sighed, slumping against her on the library floor. “Let’s not do that again.”

“Agreed.”

“Ever.“

Lucy nodded, Lockwood’s head dropping to her shoulder with the motion. “With any luck, we won’t have to.”

“I can’t imagine doing that for twenty-three days in a row,” Lockwood muttered.

She snorted. “You’re giving George way too much credit. I think I did it six times, maximum.”

Lockwood laughed at that, shaking against her, and she couldn’t help but join in.

Repeating the day had brought a lot of frustration and hardship, but she’d also gotten to do this — to sit on the floor, giggling with Lockwood over something as stupid as George’s filing system for the books, watching the sun fall further towards the horizon.

Shit. The horizon.

Lucy sighed. “Feel like heading to the shops for George’s potatoes?”

Lockwood groaned. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,“ called George’s voice from the hallway, “that would be very helpful, thank you Lucy.”

Opportunity #2: Pay Attention to George’s Mood and Offer to Help Out Instead of Ignoring Him, check.

“Fine,” Lockwood mumbled, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before standing and offering her his hand.

Maybe she was just more relaxed, anticipating the end of the time loop, but the look of muted horror that crossed his face a moment later — not to mention the flush that worked its way up his cheeks and to his ears — was enough to make her giggle.

“I…” he started, hand still hanging in the space between them, “I didn’t mean to —"

She took his hand, her grin widening. “Let’s go, yeah?”

Lockwood huffed out a breath, grinning back at her. “Race you?”

“You’re on.”

_______________

She was so close. With the shopping accomplished, dinner cooked — yes, the rice still got slightly burned, but she’d learned that was inevitable — and the washing up done, George was starting on preparing his shepherd’s pie for him and Flo the next day, and Lockwood had offered to spar with her downstairs to finish out the day.

Opportunity #3: Spend Time With People She Loved Rather Than Isolating Herself, check.

She’d gotten that warm feeling of rightness each time, the statue was waiting upstairs next to her bed for when she was ready to go to sleep, and everything had gone off without too many hitches.

So why did she feel uneasy? Why did it feel like something wasn’t quite finished?

“Maybe it’s something you haven’t encountered yet,” Lockwood suggested, sheathing his rapier with a flourish once she finished telling him her worries.

“But that wouldn’t be fair,” Lucy objected. “If I’m missing opportunities, then it’s something that happened on the first day, or that I made not happen on the first day. If it’s random, then I can’t — I can’t fix that, I can’t plan for that, I can’t do whatever it is I need to do. I’ll be stuck like this forever, and I won’t ever know why.“ She let her rapier clatter to the floor, unbuckling her belt with its sheath and letting it fall as well. “I can’t do that, Lockwood. I just can’t.”

“You’re not going to have to,” he said reassuringly, hanging up his belt over the railing of the stairs and coming to stand by her, learning against the table by the cardboard box. “I’m sure you’ve got it, Lucy, you’ve done this so many times. Maybe you’re just feeling anxious because it’s nearly done?”

She shook her head, looking around for anything that would help her. “We’ve only got forty-five minutes until that timer goes off and I have to go upstairs, and it’s like — it’s like there’s this knot in my chest, the whole time we’ve been down here, and it’s getting stronger, and stronger the more I—"

“What?” Lockwood frowned at her, worried. “Lucy, the more you what?”

And then she knew. Something she avoided the whole day — something she avoided every day, something that they’d gotten into arguments about — spoken and unspoken — more than a few times during these repeats, something that was always hanging over her whenever Lockwood smiled at her; whenever they went off to do errands together, her hand in his; whenever they sat together after a particularly dangerous case, leaning on each other, taking comfort in each other’s heartbeat and knowing that they were still somehow alive.

The more I look at you, she wanted to say. But it wouldn’t make any sense to him, not if she didn’t explain what she meant.

Not if she didn’t finish the issue she’d started by blushing over him at the breakfast table. That she’d started her first time in 35 Portland Row when he’d turned around, introduced himself with a smile, and she’d felt her heart beat all the way through her body, loud enough for everyone in London to hear.

“Luce?”

Just like he greeted her every morning, wanting to know if she was okay.

She was going to be okay. She could recognize an opportunity when she saw it now, after all.

The right moment, the right words.

Opportunity #4: Tell Him the Truth.

Lucy opened her eyes, looking at Lockwood, and did her best to smile. “I’m fine. I just — I figured it out.”

Lockwood blinked, confusion written on his face. He shifted his weight, moving to push off the table and walk towards her.

She shook her head. “No, stay there. Just — just let me think it through for a second.”

“Whatever you need,” he said softly.

Lucy nodded, then shook her head quickly. “No. I mean, yes, thank you, but no it can’t be whatever I need, ‘cause I’m not the only one involved here, right?”

“I…I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Luce.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, looked him straight in the eyes, and nodded again. “We had an argument, a few days ago. I wasn’t telling you everything, and you knew it, and you were — mad, I guess, is the right word for it, because you didn’t know what was going on, and I knew how everything was gonna happen.”

Lockwood watched her carefully, but said nothing.

She went on. “And we made up, don’t worry about that, but I said — I was rambling to Skull, and you were eavesdropping — that I didn’t know everything, and that I didn’t know how to handle this — handle us — on the best of days.”

“Luce —"

“But I would know,” she said, cutting him off. “That’s the thing. If it was anyone else — if we were any other people, I would know. I’d know what to do and what things meant and how to act and — and where the lines are. But because it’s you,” she took a deep breath, steadying her voice and trying not to look directly at him, “and because it’s me, I just don’t. And —" she groaned, frustrated. “Is there any way you can look less…”

“Less…?”

She groaned again. “I’m trying to focus here, Lockwood.”

The corners of Lockwood’s mouth curled up, his hair falling rakishly into his face, his tie loose around his neck and his sleeves rolled up past his forearms. “Less what, Luce?”

Lucy glared at him. “Shut up. I’m not going to stand here and — and inflate your ego.”

He nodded sympathetically, smug grin growing wider.

Bastard.

She breathed in, trying to refocus. “Okay. It’s the last thing to do. And I’ve — I’ve kind of known all along, because I’ve wanted to do it every single day, but — but this is bigger than just trying to help out and not isolate myself when I’m feeling down or trying to do everything myself even if it’s dumb. If I — if I do this, then it won’t be vague anymore, we’ll know — I’ll know — and we can’t go back from that. It’ll change everything. And it can’t change everything, not yet.”

Lockwood’s grin faded, understanding flickering in his eyes. He shifted forward again.

She shook her head. “Please stay there. Let me finish, and — and we can go from there. Please.”

He leaned back, hands gripping the edge of the table, but didn’t say anything, watching her face.

“There’s still Penelope,” she said quietly. “And the Orpheus Society to deal with. Not to mention the Golden Blade, and Fittes taking over Rotwell, and everything else. There’s no guarantee that we’ll get through this one, and I can’t watch you die, Lockwood, not for real, and I can’t watch you watch me die either. And if I — if we…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “It’ll make it worse, if we do, and everything blows up in our faces.”

“We might die, true,” Lockwood said, voice quiet, eyes locked on hers. “So it’s better not to even try?”

“We can’t start anything — I can’t start anything — that’s officially a thing.” She knew she was pleading, desperate to make him understand. “Not until we finish this.”

“So we don’t. Whatever happens here…just happens, Lucy. We can talk about it — later. No expectations for tomorrow.”

She blinked. “Later? And you’re okay with — with that?”

“With you?” Lockwood’s eyes burned into her, warm and dark and deep. “Yes, Luce. That’s my choice. So what do you want?”

In the end, it wasn’t really a choice at all. But she’d known that from the moment she’d opened her mouth.

“I wanted to kiss you,” she said, matching his tone and taking a small step forward, “when you bandaged my arm after the cemetery with Bickerstaff and the Bone Glass.” Another step. “And after we crawled out of the Thames outside of Winkman’s auction.” A step closer. “And when you asked me not to give up on you, and after you smiled at me with a bullet hole in your shoulder and said you’d been just reckless enough, and a thousand other times since then.” She was close enough that she was standing in between his legs, close enough to feel his breath on her mouth, close enough that their noses were brushing, her lips a centimeter away from his. “You’re really white-knuckling that table,” she said, glancing down, desperate to focus on anything but the weight of all this.

Lockwood swallowed hard. “You told me to stand right here.”

Lucy felt far too raw and exposed for comfort. “What if you push me away?” she asked, knowing her voice sounded high and reedy and a little pathetic.

He huffed out a laugh, no more than a breath, against her. “Does it look like I’ll push you away?”

She leaned a fraction more into him, her hand steadying herself on his chest, above his rapid-fire heartbeat. “What if George comes down to check on us?”

“Then he can bloody well watch.”

And, Lucy supposed, there wasn’t really anything to say after that.

She closed the space between them, shutting her eyes fully, breathing in sharply as she kissed him.

Her first thought was warmth. The warmth of that sense of rightness, the warmth of his chest below her hand, the warmth of his mouth on hers, the warmth of the tear trickling from the corner of her eye down to where their cheeks pressed together, staining them both.

She kissed him softly, willing herself to keep things light, not to give in to the urge to wrap herself around him, to pull him under, to drown him in her until he gasped for breath.

His hands stayed firmly on the table, mouth soft and pliable under hers. Letting her lead, not directing, not taking more than she was giving.

It tore open her heart that there was a limit to what she could give.

Lucy broke the kiss, taking one more shared breath, then stepped back. She could do this. She could look Anthony Lockwood straight in the face, knowing that he wouldn’t forget it, knowing that they’d both remember it, and still be okay.

Lockwood dropped his chin to his chest, breathing loud but steady. After a few moments of silence, he cleared his throat. “Time loop broken?”

Oh.

She flinched, willing her eyes to stay dry. “Feels like it.”

“Did what you needed to do?”

“Think so.”

“Kairos appeased?”

“Yup.”

“Good.”

She didn’t have time to breathe in again before Lockwood, eyes flashing, pushed off the table, grabbed her hips, and crushed her mouth to his.

Heat — scorching, burning, branding — lanced through her, spreading from where his palm rushed roughly up her spine, bending it in tandem with his, from where his other arm was cinched around her waist, erasing any space between their bodies. It was all she could do to hold on at first, to keep her feet on the ground rather than letting her knees buckle like they desperately wanted to.

Lucy didn’t know when she went from simply holding on for dear life to fisting her hands in his hair, pulling a ragged groan from his mouth and into hers, but it was sometime in between her back hitting something solid — a wall, the tall cabinet, the edge of space and time, it didn’t matter — and Lockwood’s arm dropping from her waist, the rapier calluses on his hand sliding against the bare skin of her waist, his grip somehow both bruising and not nearly enough.

She’d probably be embarrassed later at the noises she could hear herself making, bouncing off the concrete floor and walls, she thought dimly. It didn’t matter so long as Lockwood kept kissing her, hips pressed against hers, his hands wandering further and further up past her waist, past her ribs, fingers playing at the edge of her —

They both froze, an incessant beeping cutting through the basement.

The stopwatch she’d so helpfully remembered to set.

“Lucy,” Lockwood said, voice much deeper than usual, “your timer.”

“I know,” she said, trying to force air back into her lungs.

“Ten minutes until —"

“I know.” She sagged against the wall, blinking as the rest of the room came back into view.

Lockwood took a small step back from her, then another, wobbling slightly as he turned to find the stopwatch and clicked the alarm off. He paused for a moment, adjusting his extremely rumpled clothes, then turned back to her. “I — I guess we’d better —"

Lucy blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes, I know, give me a second before you start shepherding me up the stairs, I don’t think my legs can handle it just yet.”

A beat.

“I thought you weren’t trying to inflate my ego.”

It was the most ridiculous thing he could have said, and Lucy couldn’t help laughing, what little air she’d managed to recover stuttering out through her grin. She could hear Lockwood laughing too, the tension in the room breaking without ceremony.

They’d both calmed down when he spoke again, voice soft. “Will you be okay getting upstairs?”

“You’re not going up?”

Lockwood pursed his lips, eyes dropping to the floor. “I think it’s probably best I don’t walk you to your room, Luce. All things considered.”

The idea made her slightly giddy. “Right. Good thinking.”

She’d made it halfway up the stairs when Lockwood’s voice floated up to her. “See you tomorrow, Lucy.”

“See you tomorrow, Lockwood.”

As she flopped down onto her bed, ignoring Skull’s questions-slash-insults and staring at the unassuming little wooden statue on her bedside table, she prayed it was true.

_______________

Bright light burned through her closed eyelids, and she felt her heart sink.

She’d been so sure that she’d figured it all out, that she’d passed the day with flying colors. Everything had gone mostly according to plan — even her surprise at the end of the day (as she was firmly determined to think about it), while exhausting emotionally, had been a success.

Lucy choked back a sob, pressing her face into her pillow, absolutely unable to face another repeat of the day.

…her pillow?

Her eyes snapped open, glaring against the harsh light that her curtains never did much against to see her bedroom. Her blankets were piled haphazardly on top of her, socks thrown halfway across the room, and the statue of Kairos stood on her bedside table, looking small and harmless in the morning light.

“Son of a bitch,” Skull said from atop her wardrobe, a note of wonder in his usually caustic voice. “Lucy Carlyle, welcome to tomorrow.”

For a second, she stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open, the reality of his words hitting her.

“Hell YES!” Lucy screamed, ripping off the covers, breaking for her stairs and throwing her door open. “LOCKWOOD! GEORGE!” She stampeded down the stairs, nearly slipping in her haste. “GUYS!”

George’s door opened first when she got to their landing, blinking owlishly behind his glasses, trousers, as usual, nowhere in sight.

She threw her arms around his neck anyway, almost giddy despite his protests.

“Ouch, Lucy, get off, you’re —"

“It worked?”

Lucy let go of George, spinning to face Lockwood as he stepped out of his room. His hair was sticking up on one side, pillow creases on his cheek, the ever-present dark circles a worrying shade of purple, and he was still working one arm through the sleeve of a grey t-shirt, but his eyes were crinkling at the corners as a grin spread across his face

He was the best thing she’d ever seen, she thought fleetingly before she launched herself at him, hugging him tighter than she’d hugged anyone before.

“I’d say so,” said George, tone dry yet amused, “given that I remember yesterday and that the notebook is still in my room where I left it last night.”

“Luce, I need to breathe,” Lockwood said in her ear, laughing through the sentence. His arms were still wrapped around her like vises, however, so she just held on tighter, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath hers.

“If you could stop all of that for a few seconds, I have a couple of questions —"

“No questions,” Lucy said firmly, relaxing her hold on Lockwood. She dropped her arms from around him but didn’t move more than a half step away, their arms brushing as she turned to face George. “Not right now.”

“But yesterday you said – Lucy, this is a phenomenon unknown to the physical and metaphysical world, and you lived it for twenty-three days. The amount of research needed in order to even begin to understand —"

“And we’ll do it,” she said. “We’ll sit down and you can ask all the questions you want and take notes and run calculations and whatever you want to do.”

George grinned widely at her, eyes lighting up at the idea. “You promise?”

Lucy nodded firmly. “Absolutely. But today I feel like I haven’t slept in a month, and I would very much like to.”

From beside her, Lockwood nodded. “I’m oddly tired myself, honestly, like we skipped from last night to this morning in the blink of an eye.”

“Might be a side —" George broke off, yawning widely, “—effect. I’m feeling it too. Fascinating.”

“It’s not even eight,” Lockwood pointed out, looking at her, then George, then back to her. “What say we take, oh, four hours to catch up on sleep, then reconvene for the biggest breakfast we can manage?”

If she hadn’t already known that she loved Lockwood, hearing that would have convinced her.

“Sounds like a plan,” Lucy said. “We shouldn’t do anything science-y if we’re not well-rested, anyway, and you’ve got your date with Flo tonight. Should we make ourselves scarce once she's here?” she teased.

“She’ll be over at five for a picnic,” George said stiffly, “not that you need to know. Noon it is, then.” He waved at them both, eyes tracking suspiciously between them for a second, then retreated back into his room door closing softly behind him.

Lucy glanced up the stairs, frowning. “Skull’s up there. And that statue.” And my curtains are useless, she wanted to add, but it felt a little too much like whining for her taste, and she was still almost deliriously happy.

“You could always sleep here.” Lockwood had moved, standing in the doorway of his room. His voice was light and confident, but she could see him rubbing his thumb along the knuckles of his pointer finger, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor.

And oh, did she want to. She wanted desperately to walk in, curl up in his blankets, safe and warm and —

“Lockwood,” she said gently, willing her voice to sound calm and reasonable. “I don’t think that’s…”

When she didn’t finish her sentence, he shook his head. ‘I remember last night, Lucy. All of it. You don’t have to worry.” He took a step towards her, staying just outside of her space. “But my room is dark, the bed is more than big enough for two, and it has a distinct lack of curmudgeonly Type Threes.” He extended his hand towards her, raising an eyebrow. “Your choice, as always, Luce.”

Her choice.

Her opportunity.

She could feel that ridiculously smitten grin that she always had around him spread across her face as she took his hand. “If you insist.”

Lockwood led her over the threshold, closing the door behind them. He cocked his head at the bed, palm warm against her own. “Pick your side?”

“That sounds,” she said, risking looking him in the eyes, risking the reference to last night, “like a discussion for later.”

“Later?” He raised an eyebrow, a shy smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “Later like in about five minutes when you steal all the covers, or…or, —"

Lucy laughed, pulling him with her towards the bed. “Later, Lockwood.”

He followed, hand never leaving hers.