#Anthony Lockwood fan fiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

silver-scripts · 7 months

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Don't be lonely, I'm right here by your side

pairing: Lockwood & Lucy

summary: When the crew drinks to celebrate surviving a mission gone wrong, the alcohol reveals things that the sunlight never would. Or the one where Lockwood drunkenly kisses Lucy

word count: 4.8k

crossposted: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50742568/chapters/128183305

The crew had intended to go out for a pint to celebrate their success for the night — or rather, to celebrate the fact that they hadn’t died. There weren’t supposed to have been three wraiths in the basement of that house, and while Lucy had been traumatized enough by their whispers of what had happened to them, George seemed too keen for her liking to get back to his research about the place.

Any one of them could have been blamed for Lockwood & Co. going in so unprepared, but honestly, Lucy was too focused on having survived to get into that right now. So when Kipps huffed and declared that he needed a drink, the rest of them happily agreed.

The issue was, dawn was quickly approaching, and as much as London loved its beer, 4:30 in the morning wasn’t exactly the prime time to hit up a pub. And even if one was, by some chance, open, the ever-worsening snow would have shut it by now anyways.

“Come on,” Lockwood said, ushering them all forward. “There’s an old wine cellar off the basement. My parents had a collection.”

Shivering, Lucy found herself wishing she had a warm cup of tea right about now, but figured that the hot bite of alcohol would just as easily do the trick.

—

Lockwood wasn’t lying when he said his parents had a collection.

He’d pushed aside a shelf of supplies downstairs, revealing a small door. How none of them had ever noticed it was beyond her, but here it was — a wine cellar stacked wall to wall with must have been a hundred bottles of wine.

“Christ, Lockwood,” George muttered. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

Lockwood just grinned. “Take your pick.”

Lucy would have felt like a kid in a candy store had she known anything about wine, but she didn’t. She just grabbed a bottle at random (noticing, laughably, as Kipps grabbed three) and headed back up to the library with the rest of them.

Holly had already started a fire and snorted when the lot of them wandered in.

“Save enough wine for the rest of London, did ya?”

Kipps snorted. “After the night we’ve had, I need it.” He set his collection of bottles on the coffee table and picked up one, popping off the cork with ease and taking a heavy swig of it. It was, Lucy had to admit, rather impressive.

“Christ, at least use a cup!” Holly protested.

“What for? We each have our own bottle.”

“God help us,” Holly muttered, walking away from the fire and sitting down in one of the arm chairs.

Lucy ignored them. “Christ, it’s freezing,” she muttered, plopping down onto the couch nearest the fire.

Unlike Kipps, George reached instead for a cork screw and clumsily stuffed it down on top of his bottle. He made awkward progress on the thing, but eventually managed to pop it open.

“Cheers,” he said to no one in particular, grinning, and promptly took a hefty sip from the depths of the bottle. “Want some help with yours?” he asked, motioning towards the unopened bottle that sat propped between Lucy’s knees. Without waiting for her to respond, he set down his drink and removed his cork from the cast-aside cork-screw and moved to take the bottle from her.

“I don’t think so,” Lockwood cut in, intercepting him with all but a flourish of his coat. Lucy repressed the urge to snort. “You’re not exactly skilled with this, my friend.” Lockwood turned to Lucy. “May I?” he asked.

Lucy nodded and extended the bottle to him. His fingers brushed against hers as he grabbed it, sending a spark of electricity up her veins. She swallowed. Hard.

Lockwood opening a bottle of wine for her shouldn’t have been attractive, and yet somehow, it was. His movements were marked with such ease, a steady contrast to the way George had struggled with the thing. She meant no offense to George, of course. Lockwood was just… Lockwood.

The cork was set free with a resounding pop of pressure, and Lockwood turned the bottle in his hands so the label was facing him. He scanned it, glanced back at Lucy for a moment, and then took a sip. He held the drink in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, and Lucy did her best to ignore the shift of his Adam’s apple.

“A solid Riesling,” he said. “A hint of peach and honeycomb. Rather light-bodied. Enjoy.” He handed it to Lucy with a wink.

“Oh, shove off,” George said, plopping down on the couch next to Lucy. She was thankful, because his movement drew Lockwood’s attention to him instead so no one had to see the jolt that went through Lucy from that wink. “Stop showing off.”

Lockwood just grinned.

Lucy took the wine back with a roll of her eyes and took a sip of it, trying to ignore that Lockwood’s mouth had been on it before hers. They’d shared tea plenty of times in the field. Truly, this was nothing different.

No different at all.

She decided Lockwood was full of shit though. She couldn’t detect a hint of apple or honey or whatever it was he’d said. She had half a mind to think he’d made it up.

A few more sips and she felt the heat of the alcohol begin to settle in her chest. Her hands were still like ice, but at least the rest of her was beginning to stop shivering.

“So what happened tonight?” Holly asked.

“Do not ask,” Kipps answered immediately. “Next question.”

Holly pursed her lips but shrugged. “Alright,” she continued. “What do you want us to do then, play truth or dare?” She said it like a joke, but Kipps looked like he was actually considering it. He was probably just trying to think up a way to get Lockwood to do something stupid.

But George’s eyes grew wide. “I am not playing truth or dare. No thanks.” He punctuated the sentence by taking another sip of his wine.

“I second that opinion,” Lockwood added, staring at his bottle instead of them. His opinion on the matter, Lucy had to admit, was utterly unsurprising. She knew he’d choose “dare” every time if he had to — anything to avoid sharing more than he felt comfortable with.

“I’d suggest strip poker, but somehow I think that’d get shot down,” Kipps said, a sly smirk on his face. Holly threw a pillow at him.

“You shut it.”

Instead of laughing, Lucy just shivered.

“Cold?” George asked softly.

She didn’t even need to reply. Ever the gentleman, George pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over the both of them. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of them to share personal space; she was particularly prone to falling asleep on him when they all watched movies together, and anyways, he never seemed to mind. They both knew they were just friends, which meant that while she might have been single, she didn’t need to be perpetually touch-starved. So she was more than happy to cozy up next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

George took another sip of his drink, as did Kipps. As did Lucy. She felt the edges of her vision start to grow fuzzy as the alcohol washed over her.

And so the night went.

An hour later and most of her bottle down, Lucy was acutely aware of how badly she needed to pee… and also how little water she’d had to drink. She pulled away from George and stood — or rather, stumbled — as she got off the couch to make for the loo. It took her a second to right her balance, but then the world settled around her and she was fine.

“You alright?” George asked, reaching for Lucy’s arm to steady her.

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, Georgie. I don’t need an escort to the loo, thank you very much.”

George snorted. “Let me know if you still feel that way when you fall down the stairs.”

Lucy swatted his hand away and stepped out of his grasp, heading for the hallway. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving her hand dismissively behind her as she walked — or rather veered haphazardly — out of the room. The alcohol hit her harder now that she was standing, but she didn’t mind. It was nice, for once, to feel somewhat free. She spent most of her days worrying about their next meal or their next job or their next bill — it was nice to just exist.

Lucy stumbled into the bathroom and sighed with relief when she finally hit the toilet. Afterwards, in true drunken fashion, she found herself meeting her own gaze in the mirror, searching her face. The wine had given her cheeks a pleasant flush, her eyes a glinting shine. She looked, well, happy. She gave herself a small smile before washing her hands.

Lucy cracked open the door and slipped into the hall. She was about to head back downstairs, but the sound of heated voices gave her pause. Were they arguing?

She took a few hesitant steps forward. Alcohol or not, she could be light on her feet when she needed to, and she’d memorized the halls of 35 Portland Row well enough at this point to know which floorboards creaked.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” George hissed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lockwood countered.

“Well,” Holly drew, “you do look like you want to murder him.”

George just scoffed, seemingly ignoring her. “Christ, you’re so full of yourself! It’s not my fault you won’t say anything to her! God forbid she has a friend.”

Lucy froze, and the warmth from the alcohol leeched out of her as her blood turned cold.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and frankly I don’t care,” Kipps said. “But you lot might want to shut it if you don’t want her to hear you.”

The library fell uncomfortably silent, and Lucy could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She knew she had to walk back into the room sooner or later, but the thought of entering a room where everyone had just been talking about her had her head spinning from more than just the alcohol. They were talking about her, weren’t they?

And what did they even mean? Lockwood had been short with her when she had returned to Portland Row months ago, but she thought she’d done at least a half-decent job of repairing things. Was Lockwood still so angry at her that he couldn’t stand that George wasn’t? That she and George had actually grown closer since then?

Lucy looked at the floor and intentionally took half a step forward, placing her foot directly on one of the loose floorboards. The sound echoed down to the library, and she followed it, making sure her steps were heavier than normal on the old wooden stairs.

“Hey,” she said, walking back into the room. She flopped down onto the couch, pulling the blanket back over herself. “This room is freezing.” She leaned back against George, savoring his warmth once again. “George, have I ever told you that you’re like a personal space heater? It’s glorious.”

“I’ll be sure to add that to my resume,” he laughed.

Lucy looked up at Lockwood, who was coldly staring at George. He look a sip of his wine and directed his attention to the fireplace instead.

Kipps cleared his throat. “Right, well, seems the snow has started to let up. I should probably be heading home,” He stood, grabbing his coat. “Gonna catch a taxi.”

With a breath, Holly looked between the four of them before settling on Kipps. “You know what, I should probably get home too. Fancy sharing a taxi?” Her smile was tight as she stood, and Lucy suddenly felt like there was more to the conversation that she had missed. What, she goes to the bathroom for two minutes and everyone who doesn’t have a reason to be here suddenly leaves?

George kindly showed them out, at which point Lucy did her best to ignore the fact that she could feel Lockwood’s heavy gaze on her. She instead took another few sips of her drink and pretended to be overly-invested in reading its label.

Notes of peach and honeycomb, it read.

Tosser.

———

Lucy couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this drunk. It must have been back at school, when she and Norrie had passed a flask back and forth for long enough that Lucy finally figured out what people meant about “learning their limits.” She’d spent all of the next morning throwing up and feigning food poisoning.

She had spent awhile talking to George about his new nephew. He showed her a few pictures his mother had mailed him and recounted a few funny mishaps that had occurred when he went to see him last weekend. She joined in with a similar story that had happened when her sisters were younger, and somehow another hour and more of her wine were gone.

Now, though, with the fire dying down, the library was washed with a soft, muted light, and she felt strangely at peace. George yawned heavily. The two of them were sitting on the floor with their backs to the couch, idly reading a new comic book he’d picked up from the shops.

With a sigh, he tossed it aside and stood.

“Well, I should be off to bed,” he said, suppressing another yawn. He looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m hoping to sleep off whatever god-awful hangover I get from this and make it to the Archives later.”

Lucy snorted. “There is zero chance you’re getting to the Archives later.”

“Well, now you’ve given me a challenge,” he grinned. “Anyhow, good night you two.” He shot Lockwood a look Lucy couldn’t quite make out, and then he left the room.

They’d gotten back around dawn, and while Lucy had no idea what time it was, she could see that the sun was high in the sky on the other side of the curtains. Sunlight was fighting to seep through them, but they’d long ago closed them to try to pretend they weren’t drinking the morning away. Though she found herself growing tired, she didn’t have the desire to go to sleep yet. She knew she should, especially since they had a case later that she had planned on spending the day preparing for, but she couldn’t find it in her to move.

“And then there were two,” Lockwood said.

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him. Really, she expected him to go to bed too, but he just stared at her.

“You alright?” he asked. There was amusement in his tone, but something in his eyes betrayed true concern.

“I’m lovely, actually,” Lucy sighed, determined not to let him ruin her mood. “I can’t remember the last time I felt so good.”

Lockwood snorted, walking over to pick up the wine bottle she’d been nursing all morning. It was as good as empty now. “I think that’s enough for you.”

Lucy had half a mind to fight him, but visions of her and Norrie laying on the floor in their bathroom resurfaced, and she figured he was probably right. The last thing Holly needed was to have to clean up Lucy’s vomit.

Before she had a chance to tell him off, Lockwood surprised her by taking George’s spot on the floor. He let out a sigh as he leaned against the edge of the couch.

She should leave now, really. What was left of her rational decision making told her as much. She told herself that Lockwood didn’t want to be around her anyways, but he had sat down next to her, hadn’t he? And it was so rare that she was ever alone with Lockwood anymore. Between Holly, George, and Kipps, there were always other people in the house. It wasn’t hard to feel like he did it on purpose, calling George into the kitchen the moment she walked in for breakfast, or deciding to go train in the basement the moment she entered the library to find him already in it. He’s just busy, she told herself. We all are.

But the conversation she’d overheard earlier wasn’t helping her train of thought, even if Lockwood wasn’t making any effort to leave now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Not much,” she said quickly, embarrassed to admit she’d been thinking about him. So she gave him a half truth. “Just thinking that the last time I drank this much was probably with Norrie.”

“You miss her.”

“Of course I do. You miss your sister.”

Lockwood’s gaze grew sad at that, but he nodded. It was so rare to see any true emotion from him that the look almost scared her. She was so used to him always being, well, perfect. All clean lines and crisp edges. He never settled for less than his best.

The Lockwood in front of her felt different somehow. More… real. He’d shed the suit jacket at some point, and his tie hung loosely around his neck. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and his sleeves were rolled up haphazardly. And as the hours passed, lines of stubble were beginning to show on his chin.

“What?” he asked, curious.

The question confused her. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

Lucy hoped the flush from the alcohol was enough to hide the color that heated her cheeks now. “Sorry,” she stuttered. “You just… look different.”

“What,” he chuckled, bumping his shoulder playfully against hers, “like a drunken sod?”

“I didn’t say bad. Just… different.”

Lockwood gave her a small smile, but he sighed, the ease dropping from his shoulders as he turned to look across the room. Lucy followed his gaze to the portrait of his sister, and she found herself absently toying with the necklace he’d given her.

“Do you ever…” he started, trailing off. He swallowed and looked down at his hands.

“Ever what?” Lucy pushed.

“Never mind.” He moved to stand, and a burst of panic rushed through Lucy. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt like she couldn’t let him leave. Not yet. She grabbed his arm, causing him to freeze.

“Please,” she whispered, meeting the blurry darkness in his gaze. “You can trust me.”

Lockwood searched her face for something, his eyes flickering back and forth between hers. And then he sat back down. It took Lucy a moment to realize she was still holding his arm, and while the logical part of her brain told her she should let go, the drunken half of it savored the heat of his skin beneath her fingers, knew that he never let her touch him, but he was letting her now.

Lockwood blew out a breath and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair.

“Is it hard?” he asked finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. He seemed determined to look anywhere but at her. “After Norrie?”

“Everything was hard,” Lucy said softly. She was somehow afraid, now, to speak any louder than he was. She didn’t know what he was asking, exactly, but did it really matter? The truth of it was the same. “Everything is hard.”

“Do you…” He stopped himself again and sighed. Lockwood was always so concise with his words, so sure of every sentence. Lucy couldn’t imagine what had him at such a loss. “Is it hard to… let yourself… care… for other people?”

There was a part of Lucy, perhaps, that almost wanted to laugh at the irony. It had been, she thought, until I met you.

But she didn’t say that.

“At first, I guess,” she started slowly. Her hand lifted back up to the chain around her neck, and she ran her fingers across the small stone. “Back then, there weren’t a whole lot of other people around to even care about. But I don’t think Norrie would’ve wanted me to just… let my life stop. She would have wanted me to make space for other people.”

Yet there was a part of her that still ached from the emptiness, a part that she knew no one else could ever fill. Norrie had taken a piece of her heart with her, and Lucy wasn’t ever going to get it back.

There was another ache, too. Another empty part of her heart… One that was always extremely apparent when she looked at Lockwood. One that had her pulse practically vibrating from him being so close.

But Lockwood just looked tired. His eyes were rimmed slightly red, and Lucy wasn’t sure if it was from the alcohol or something else, something that had her feeling like her heart was cracking in two. “Everyone I love leaves in the end,” he breathed. “People can’t leave if I never let them in in the first place.”

Lucy was sure Lockwood could hear the snap of her heart fracturing in her chest. Was he really so blind to see that so many people cared about him? Or did he know, and just pretend he didn’t so he could claim he had no one to lose? Was this why he was so insistent on ignoring her?

“That’s no way to live,” Lucy whispered fiercely, pulling at the edge of his shirt so he would look at her. She needed him to listen, needed him to stop being so thick and recognize that he had a family here that loved him. “And besides. You have George. You have Holly, and Kipps. You have me.”

Lockwood met her gaze, and the intensity of it sent a jolt through her. “And you left,” he whispered.

That one hurt more than it should have. “I came back,” she said stupidly, hardly daring to breathe.

Lockwood looked at her. Well and truly looked at her. Lucy felt both small and extraordinarily full beneath the weight of his gaze. He was quiet for so, so long, and Lucy held on for his next words. He could crush her so easily, rip her heart out with the truth. She had left him, and no matter her reasoning for it, she deserved the weight of his pain.

She had prepared herself for anger, but he surprised her when his words came out soft, instead.

“Why did you?” he finally breathed.

“Come back?”

Lockwood’s head moved in a small nod, still not breaking her gaze.

Lucy’s breath faltered. She didn’t know what kind of answer would satisfy him, what kind of answer would help ease the pain that seemed to consume him. She hated seeing him like this, hated not knowing how to help. And she hated that despite it all, she was acutely aware of how close he was. She could feel the heat radiating off of his skin, for Christ’s sake. And it wasn’t lost on her that wine was an aphrodisiac, wasn’t lost on her that she could feel herself buzzing with nervous energy and something more, something she refused to acknowledge. Especially not now, when it was so wholly inappropriate for her to be thinking these things. He looked like he ought to be crying, for God’s sake!

But her drunken mind didn’t know how to hide the truth. Why did she come back? There was only one answer, really.

“For you,” she whispered.

Lockwood took in a rough breath, and before Lucy could process it, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was so alarming, she almost gasped. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him, she’d just never thought — she didn’t think — it was just —

Her thoughts faded out and it was just Lockwood. Just Anthony Bloody Lockwood. Kissing her. And she was kissing him back.

He lifted his fingers gently to her chin like he was afraid to touch her, like she was something delicate that could fall apart if he pressed too hard. His fingers drifted up her cheek, sending shivers down Lucy’s back, before tangling themselves in her hair.

Lucy tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. All coherent thought seemed to be leaving her. It was just him. She’d spent so much time pointedly not thinking about kissing Lockwood, so much time ignoring the small scar on his lip, ignoring the mole right next to the dimple that came out when he smiled, ignoring how badly the sum of it all made her want to kiss him fiercely and never stop. She’d tried so hard to never let herself imagine what this might be like, tried so hard to keep it professional between them, to never let herself hope that it could ever be anything more than that.

But Lockwood had kissed her, and it took everything in her to not let that one action uncage the hunger that she’d buried deep inside her.

She pulled away slightly, praying that getting more oxygen to her brain would help keep her sane. “But you — you’re mad at me,” she said, struggling to make any of it make sense. “You were fighting with George over it, I-”

Lockwood’s cheeks colored. “You heard that?” he asked sheepishly.

“You’re not exactly quiet, Lockwood.”

But then Lockwood was quiet, like he was too embarrassed to admit the truth. He looked down. “I was jealous.”

“Of George?”

“Well, yes,” he whispered, leaning forwards until he was a breath away from her again. “He gets to touch you and I don’t.”

Gods, this man.

Lucy grabbed his tie and pulled him into her, crashing his mouth against hers. She couldn’t convince herself that she would ever get the chance to kiss him again. She knew him, and she wouldn’t put it pass him to write it all off as a mistake.

But he kissed her roughly now, all the gentleness of before seemingly evaporated. His hands tangled again in her hair, and his teeth tugged gently at her bottom lip, pulling a quiet moan out of the back of Lucy’s throat before she could stop it. She felt Lockwood smirk into the kiss.

Slowly, he placed a hand on her lower back and lowered her to the floor until he had her pinned between his arms. His mouth was hungry against hers, and Lucy took the opportunity to slide her hands across the exposed skin on his back where his shirt had come untucked. Fire flared beneath her palms where her skin touched his, and she savored the feel of the planes of his back, the indentation of his spine. Fuck, he’s so beautiful.

His mouth trailed off hers, and he began leaving kisses along the side of her jaw before making his way down her neck. She froze as his mouth brushed against the tender spot beneath her ear, and Lockwood didn’t miss her reaction. He sucked gently on the skin there, rolling his tongue in circles and eliciting a series of quiet gasps from her. Heat pooled in waves beneath her skin.

“Anthony,” she whispered, barely forcing his name out between her sharp intakes of air. Lockwood’s eyes blazed. He brought his lips back up to hers and kissed her in a way that made her toes curl.

“The sound of my name on your lips…” he moaned against her mouth. There was a dangerous fire in his eyes that lit Lucy to her core.

And a door opened down the hall.

Panic flared through Lucy so quickly she felt nauseous. Lockwood scrambled off of her, righting himself and sitting back on the floor. Lucy barely had time to push herself up on her elbows before George walked by the library, heading towards the kitchen. He paused in the archway, raising his eyebrows at them.

“You’re still up?” he asked them, glancing down at his watch.

“You’re up too,” Lockwood countered.

“Yeah, to get water. Go to sleep! We have a case tonight, people.” He shook his head as he walked towards the kitchen. “I swear I’m the only one who cares about this agency.”

Lucy swallowed, struggling to catch her breath and calm her body.

“He’s, uh. He’s probably right,” Lockwood said, standing and brushing off his pants. “We should-”

“Yeah.” Lucy said quickly.

Lockwood wouldn’t look at her, which was maybe for the best because she was afraid what she might do if he did. Jump him, maybe, or leave a hickey on his neck to match the one he’d left on hers.

“Right, well…” Lockwood paused. Aimlessly, he re-rolled one of his sleeves. “I… Well…” he coughed. “Good night.”

Lockwood left the room. A moment later, Lucy heard his bedroom door shut.

Lips swollen and uncomfortably turned on, she was still laying on the floor. She wanted to follow him to his room, or desperately wanted him to follow her to the loft. But she knew the moment was broken.

She just didn’t know what that meant for tomorrow.

#lockwood and co #lucy carlyle #lockyle #anthony lockwood #fanfic #fan fiction #lockwood and lucy #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link

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thewritingsandwich · 4 months

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The Chiming Lady - Part 1

A Lockwood & Co. Fan Fiction

Other Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Summary: The agents of Lockwood & Co. are invited to the Halloween-Party of a former client.

A/N: I originally wrote this for @ savelockwoodnco on instagram's filler episode theme. But I'm a month too late... anyways this takes place after 'The Empty Grave' but there are no major spoilers for it. Originally I wrote it in german, but I translated it for the internet with the help of DeepL.

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, brief mentions of su***de and mu**er

Even though letters are still commonplace in this day and age, we at Lockwood & Co rarely expected to receive letters that were not from DEPRAC or in any way related to a case. So you can imagine how surprised we were when George presented a letter from a former client at breakfast.

Mrs Aminah Pearson's case was several months ago and if she hadn't written us a letter, I would probably have forgotten about it. Okay, I had forgotten about it until she wrote us a letter. In my defence, we were only dealing with a simple lurker in her house, but for her it was "at least as bad as a poltergeist".

Before we opened the letter, I checked my memory for at least something about Mrs Pearson, but apart from the fact that she was incredibly fond of us, I couldn't think of anything else. I am very sure, however, that she had got us a cake at the time.

Over eggs and toast, Lockwood grabbed the letter and opened it before George could object. It was a single sheet of paper through which the ink had bled slightly. Lockwood skimmed the letter once before sitting up properly and reading it again, now more carefully. George and I exchanged glances expectantly, but neither he nor I could interpret anything from Lockwood's gaze.

Mrs Pearson is inviting us to her costume party," Lockwood finally said and placed the letter in the middle of the table. George was quicker than me and read the letter aloud.

"Dear agents of the Lockwood & Co agency, due to your impressive work last March, I would like to kindly invite you to my costume party at the end of October. I have enclosed an envelope in which you can send your acceptance (or cancellation). If you accept, a car will come to pick you up on the evening of the party and take you to Norridge Mansion outside London. There are a number of night taxis available to get you home safely later. Please come in costume. Yours sincerely, Aminah Pearson." George put the letter aside. "That sounds great. I've always wanted to go to a costume party."

"Mrs Pearson is very wealthy, if I remember correctly. A party like this is an easy way to socialise and get the Lockwood & Co name out to the other rich people of London," Lockwood replied, "but a costume?"

"We've been asked to dress up, Lockwood. It's daft if we don't come in costume," George replied, causing even more discomfort on Lockwood's face. Although it wasn't discomfort. I think 'disinterest' describes it better.

"What are we supposed to dress up as and still look serious? I would like to use this party to make the guests aware of us. We shouldn't turn up in tights and a cape." Lockwood knew George well. After all, the likelihood that he would have suggested costumes from his comic books was very high. Offended, George leaned back in his chair and shoved a piece of toast with jam into his mouth.

"Okay, then what?"

Personally, I wasn't against the idea of costumes, provided they were the right ones. I had to agree with Lockwood that characters from comics were off the table. I've seen the women in George's comics, or comics in general - the costume choices were 'way too much skin' and 'skintight jumpsuits'.

I gazed at the thinking cloth in thought. Between conversations, insults and several scribbles, something peeked out between the orange jam and peanut butter. I pushed almost everything on the table aside and cleared a drawn-on grid. Some time ago, we started playing Dungeons and Dragons - a fantasy role-playing game - on free evenings and the thinking cloth served as a map.

"What if we dress up as our Dungeons & Dragons characters?" I just threw the idea into the room. Personally, I would love to dress up as my character. I played a little halfling girl who hunted fairies as a ranger, and even though the game wasn't really for me at first, I took a liking to Eobyn Truewood.

George's eyes began to sparkle and believe me when I say I've never seen him like this before. He straightened up, braced his hands on the table and looked at the exposed, drawn grid.

"That's a brilliant idea, Luce. You go as Eobyn the Ranger, Holly as Brythyra the Bard, and Lockwood as Arris the Rogue." Arris was Lockwood's character - a charming half-devil who came from a rich family but gave up his wealth for adventure and arcane magic. Brythyra was Holly's bard, who supported Lockwood's character and my character with music and magic after protecting her own home village from orcs.

"And you?" George was the game master and therefore responsible for all the other characters, the world and the story. He was truly absorbed in the role - perhaps because he could finally boss us around.

He paused for a moment before replying: " That's a surprise. I already have the perfect idea."

"Hold on a second. Arris has bright red skin and horns. That's not serious enough for me," Lockwood intervened.

"Or your costume is so good and impressive that you'll definitely be remembered," I replied. If Lockwood was going to this party for work reasons, then he might as well make a lasting impression. Even if he didn't seem particularly convinced yet. "And in this form, we can easily take our rapiers with us. I'd hate to go into an old building without our weapons."

Any further objections from Lockwood were successfully met with his reasons for going to the party in the first place.

With nothing else on the agenda for the rest of the day, I turned to my sketchbook and drew up ideas of exactly what Eobyn's outfit could look like. The ideas flowed out of me, so I was glued to the table in the kitchen for several hours while George and Lockwood were busy elsewhere. After a while, Lockwood joined me and once again expressed his doubts.

"I think it'll be fun. We'll dress up, make a good impression and get free food. Nothing can really go wrong," I replied and leant forward a little. Lockwood was sitting at the head of the table as usual.

I gently placed my arms on the table so that my hands were only a few centimetres away from Lockwood's. For a moment, we both just stared at our hands, which came closer and closer together, until my pencil rolled off the table and startled us.

I felt the blood rush to my face as I bent down to grab the pencil. Back above the table, I saw Lockwood peering into my sketchbook. So I pushed it closer to him and told him I was thinking about Eobyn's clothes.

"That looks great, Luce. And I don't even know what Arris looks like," he replied and, as always when he complimented me, I felt a little warmer.

But he was right. The portrait on his character sheet was a smiley face with little horns. Mine, on the other hand, was a detailed drawing of my halfling. I was passionate about drawing her by now, but my sketchbook was still dominated by someone else.

"If you want, we can work on the look and clothes together," I suggested. He leant back in his chair.

"I don't have any more plans for today. George threw in the acceptance earlier. I don't think anyone could have stopped him. But as soon as a job comes in, it has priority, all right?" So he took off his suit jacket and hung it over the chair behind him.

Over tea and the remains of a lime pie I'd baked for yesterday's client, who had cancelled without notice, we tinkered on Arri's look together.

During the afternoon, Holly joined us and we explained our plan to her. Surprisingly, she loved the idea of dressing up as Brythyra and told us in detail what her costume would look like. Brythyra was a high elf and according to Holly's description, she would look even more elegant in the costume than she already did. She also offered to bring her sewing machine tomorrow and take on the task of tailoring our costumes.

It was already evening when George returned through the front door, laden with a few bags from department stores.

"Did you buy a whole shop empty? And where did you get all the money from?" Lockwood replied.

"I had saved up quite a bit myself and my piggy bank was waiting for just this moment," he replied proudly, "oh hello, Holly."

She waved to him before he disappeared from the kitchen and went to hide his bags.

"What's George wearing?" she asked as he audibly climbed the stairs.

"He won't tell us," I replied, looking at the designs for our costumes. It was hard to imagine Lockwood in Arris's costume, but it was harder to imagine me in Eobyn's. I rarely, if ever, experimented with my clothes, so it was difficult to imagine myself in something I would never actually wear.

Shortly after George disappeared, I quickly ran up to my attic to grab some coloured pens so the three of us could decide what colours our costumes should be.

As Eobyn has spent a lot of time in the forest and nature, I chose lots of natural colours like brown and green for her costume. Arris was very good at hiding in the shadows as a rogue, so he was given a suitable dark colour palette so that he would blend into the darkness through his clothes. Holly told me that she had pastel colours in mind for Brythyra's costume and I already knew that she would look amazing in it.

Holly and I went fabric shopping the next morning to get the costumes made as early as possible. We returned with several metres of fabric. Holly set up in the kitchen and put her sewing machine on the dining table. She also brought some sewing patterns with her, which we used to start sewing the costumes.

#original work #lockwood and co #locknation #locknationfillerepisode #anthony lockwood #george karim #lucy carlyle #holly munro #jonathan stroud #l&co #locklyle #l&co. netflix #lucy x lockwood #lockwood & co. fan fiction

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siriste · 1 year

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It’s been a week since the release and the Anthony Lockwood fan fictions are starting, and I just want to say I’m so grateful to everyone who took the time to write.

Y’all are angels!!!!!

#Anthony Lockwood #fan fiction #lockwood & co #lockwood and co

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patiencetakestyme · 1 year

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A Fair Price to Pay: Chapter 1 (A Continuation of "What She Deserves")

A/N: After completing my own version of what I have come to know as a “the walk” fic, and after Netflix's disastrous decision, I've been hard at work; I have decided to turn my first fic into a series. I want to explore some key moments in Book!Locklyle’s relationship. I was writing a fic in which they retire (the now third and final fic in this series) when a throwaway line inspired me to compose an entire additional fic: what would it look like if Lockwood met Lucy’s mother?

This fic is a sequel to “What She Deserves,” which can be found here, but you can definitely read this fic without reading that one first!

One last note: over the course of this fic, I did choose to integrate one key part of Show!Lucy’s character. I feel pretty confident you’ll recognize it readily.

I hope you enjoy reading this!

After defeating Marissa Fittes and theoretically reducing, if not solving, the Problem together, there had been three items of priority for Lockwood: giving Lucy his mother’s necklace, securing their status as committed to each other, and asking her to move in with him—to share the bedroom his parents had once shared.

To complete one was to complete them all. A bit of exposition was required, of course—a conversation to be had; he had it, and, a mere few weeks after defeating Marissa Fittes, he had secured their position: they were together, sharing not only the physical space of the room, but the mental and emotional space that came with truly being in a relationship.

Quickly, they settled into a new routine. The house would share a late breakfast; anyone staying overnight was invited, although that list varied from night to night: from Kipps, to Holly, to Flo, Portland Row had picked up its fair share of boarders over the last few weeks. They would then spend their afternoon and evening making progress on whatever their current case may be, whether that meant research, or recon, or an actual visit to a haunted house, or preparing for the task of helping Barnes and DEPRAC put the final nail in the coffin that was the Problem.

Cases were not what Lockwood would call drastically limited. While the number of reported ghosts was reducing every single day, the Problem was not entirely fixed—not yet. There was speculation that it would never be fixed—not fully. After all, even prior to Marissa Fittes’ efforts to intervene, some ghosts had returned from the dead; it had merely been a far more reasonable number.

In the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning—whenever their case wrapped up for the night—the whole lot of them would shuffle back to Portland Row. Anyone that wanted to stay over would; Lockwood had stopped verbally making the offer: it was now simply implied at the close of every night. Kipps would take the couch. Holly never stayed, but Lockwood had issued an open invitation for her to occupy the guest room.

Lucy would, of course, do her shuffling back to the master bedroom. She and Lockwood would complete the minimal amount needed to ready themselves for bed before simply collapsing between the covers; showering was left for the actual light of day in the morning.

What Lockwood was unsure of was whether the others knew. Did they know that she no longer occupied the bedroom in the attic? Did they know that they were openly in a relationship, albeit somewhat private about it? Did they know that they exchanged a kiss and a declaration of love every night before falling asleep? Did they know that they enjoyed nothing more than falling asleep in each other’s arms after a hard night on the job?

Okay, he was fairly certain they did not know the last two items, but he was equally as certain that they, at the very least, suspected the first two. No one ever watched them go upstairs; George liked to make a pitstop in the kitchen for a bedtime snack before heading up to his room, so they had never been spotted—as far as they knew—going into the master bedroom together. But George was smart; Lockwood knew better than to underestimate him.

They had never kissed in front of George. They had held hands in front of George, but quite frankly, given Lockwood’s proclivity for holding hands with Lucy that had originated from her time of joining the agency, this probably wasn’t enough to be deemed a red flag from George. Still, he had a feeling George knew.

It wouldn’t bother Lockwood: if and when George figured it out. In fact, it would’ve made him quite happy for George to know about it. But Lockwood was, for all of his charm and charisma, a private person by nature. If George figured it out on his own account, that was perfectly fine, but Lockwood wasn’t about to open up his heart and soul and describe how much his relationship with Lucy meant to him.

And it did mean a lot—more than he could probably convey to George, even if he had tried. Their relationship was simultaneously so fresh and so practiced; they had only been together formally for a few weeks, but, at the same time, it felt like they had been together oh-so long. It felt comfortingly familiar, and on this particular morning, that sense of comfort was enough to prompt him to pull her in just a little bit closer.

He should’ve perhaps not done that, given that she was still sleeping and that it did ultimately cause her to start to stir, but in his opinion, it was worth the price: a slightly grumpy, yet awake, Lucy, still afforded him extra time with Lucy.

He waited until she turned to face him, not wanting to wake her prematurely—well, more than he already had.

“Good morning,” he said, his smile already at full wattage.

Lucy groaned; she didn’t tend to be overly affectionate in the mornings, at least, not until she had some tea. Still, the fact that he already knew her well enough to know to expect this had been part of the driving force behind the radiance of his smile.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

He received another groan in response.

“What time is it?” she asked.

With a casual glance over her shoulder to the clock residing on her nightstand, he was able to answer. “Just shy of ten o’clock. George will be cooking already, undeniably.”

With another groan, Lucy shifted in bed.

“It’s okay,” he reassured while moving to sit up in bed; he usually took first shower, as, unsurprisingly, it took him far longer to get ready than her. “You know what that means: you’re likely to have your tea very soon.”

Lucy propped herself up, specifically with the purpose of casting a glare at him. She threw a pillow at him as he removed himself from bed and made his way to the shower, but she settled back in, intending to make the most of this time, in an attempt to acquire more rest.

On the way to the en-suite bathroom, he caught a glimpse at some of her possessions. Over the course of the last few days, Lucy had moved all of her things so that they now resided in the master bedroom. While they were still in the process of organizing her possessions, one thing had already been displayed prominently: pictures from Lucy’s time at Jacobs’s agency. There were several Polaroids displayed, most of which featured someone Lockwood knew to be very important to Lucy: Norrie.

While Lucy was probably already back asleep —and unsurprisingly, he had a habit of taking inordinately long showers, which, in turn, provided Lucy an inordinately long period of time to ascertain some supplemental sleep—Lockwood could admit that his thoughts were not quite so much at peace. The images of the people in her pictures had stirred something in him. It had given him an idea, but it was one he was, frankly, rather anxious to share with Lucy.

She did not like discussing her past. She had shared her history with George and Lockwood, of course, and while it had not taken her as long to open up as it had for Lockwood, it still had taken quite a long time, by what Lockwood assumed were ‘normal’ standards. He knew the edges of the story—just how wretched her childhood had been, just how horrible Jacobs had been to her—but he knew nothing of the details.

They were together now: fully and completely. In some regards, he suspected they shared more than some married couples. And while he would never pressure her to share before she was ready, he did find that he would like to know more about that time in her life.

By the end of his inordinately long shower, he was decided. He would not push her on the issue unnecessarily, but he would start to perhaps prod her on the matter.

He exited the bathroom and was unsurprised to see that Lucy had fallen back asleep. With an affectionate smile and scoff, he engaged in what had become their daily ritual. He snuck downstairs to the kitchen. When he found no sign of George, he did as he always did: he brewed a pot of tea, pouring a singular cup to Lucy’s exact preferences: a little tea to go with her sugar.

He returned to their room and found Lucy asleep and snoring. With a loving shake of the head, he approached the bed, placing the cup of tea on an already in-place coaster. Leaning in, he ran a soothing hand up and down the course of her back. The cotton of her top for her pajamas was soft and warm under his fingers, and it moved with every deep, snoring inhalation she drew.

“Luce,” he whispered gently. “I made you a cup of tea. It’s your turn for the shower.”

She stirred, slowly taking in the sight of him. He was not fully dressed; he left that matter, nearly equally as complicated as the process by which he washed his hair, for while she was in the shower. But he did have his pajama bottoms back in place, albeit with no shirt. Even with the quick detour to brew the cup of tea, his hair was still damp; he could feel the droplets of water running down his back and chest as a result of his hunched position over the bed.

He saw her eyes find their focus. She nodded and stumbled from the bed, clearly still very groggy. With a swipe, she scooped up the cup of tea, taking several hearty sips, even as she continued to walk and carry it with her in the direction of the bathroom. This was done, clearly, in anticipation of showering with the thing. As she continued to struggle, he laughed and used a singular hand to lower the cup of tea, clearing her line of vision. Next, he moved to place a hand on each shoulder as a method of guiding her towards the bathroom.

Lucy was also known for taking long showers—with her tea to keep her company, naturally—but hers were lengthy for a very different reason. While Lockwood had a complicated and fairly high-maintenance routine to engage in with his hair, Lucy had a habit of falling back asleep in the shower.

He had yet to gather the courage to break in there and see to waking her with a poke or a prod—nor had the situation required it thus far—but, several times, he had been forced to wake her with a call from beyond the protection of the door. Still, he feared the day was coming when that would be insufficient: already, there had been a number of occasions during which she had required more than one reissued wake up call.

Regardless, he used his time well; he settled into his routine: picking out his crisp, pressed shirt and pants for the day, choosing his tie, choosing his socks, and, last but, of course, not least, polishing it all off with his new coat. Thinking through the possibilities of the conversation he wished to engage in with Lucy once she exited the shower, he thought he just might benefit from being armed with his coat. Beyond that, his continued slight resistance to the coat made him feel compelled to place himself in a position where he could start to break it in from the comfort of Portland Row.

As high maintenance as his routine was, it was fairly monotonous; he used this time well mentally, too, internally plotting out how he could manipulate their post-shower conversation to meet the ends he desired.

Lucy emerged from the bathroom after two promptings from Lockwood. She still looked a bit weary, but, armed with her now tapped teacup, she was definitely in the process of coming back to life. Her shower typically did wonders for her morning mood.

This was, admittedly, one of Lockwood’s favorite moments of the day: Lucy, emerging from the shower, smelling strongly of her shampoo and conditioner, her hair wild and untamed and, holistically, not all that different from the way it looked the rest of the day. It was when he realized just how much he inherently loved Lucy—just as she was. She, unlike him, was not one for a high-maintenance morning routine. She exited the shower, and she was his Lucy, and there was something intrinsic that he loved about that—about her.

“Feel better?” he asked, his smile leaning towards a smirk.

“Getting there,” she conceded, as she tossed her pajamas on a nearby chair. Lockwood checked his grumble; this was one thing they were currently working through about living together: she was far less tidy than he was. Fortunately, he was fairly accommodating; he understood that that was simply Lucy, and he’d admit that he loved her all the more for it. “A second cup of tea wouldn’t hurt.”

“Fair point,” he started, before pausing briefly to listen to the reports of the groaning of Portland Row’s floorboards. “It doesn’t sound like George is up yet. Must be having a bit of a lie in,” he pondered. “Want to go grab a coffee from Arif’s while we wait?”

This move was out of the norm for them, a fact Lucy’s questioning glance confirmed instantly. Typically, if they were up before George, they would merely make their way to the kitchen and brew a secondary pot of tea there. To go out was a special treat, and the move immediately got flagged as such in Lucy’s mind.

“Go out?” she asked, with a furrowing of her brow.

He nodded. “Why not?” He considered elaborating, but he thought better of it at the last moment; when it came to a suspicious Lucy, less information was always for the best.

“Fine,” she conceded, as she grabbed her coat. “But you’re buying, since it was your suggestion.”

He smiled, released a humorless laugh, and gave a silly shake of his head. “Fair,” he offered again, as he followed her out the bedroom door and down the stairs.

“Are we buying breakfast too?” Lucy asked, holding the front door open so that he could follow her.

“And risk insulting George by implying that Arif’s donuts are tastier than anything he can craft?” he scoffed.

“Or,” Lucy started, pointedly, “we risk insulting him by going to Arif’s and not bringing donuts back for him.”

“Hmm,” Lockwood hummed. “Good counterpoint. Yes, we should buy him some donuts.”

Arif’s was but a short walk away, so Lockwood knew that he had no time to waste; he settled in, and moved to strike. “Did you ever do this back home?” he asked, with a nod down the street in the direction of Arif’s. At her confused expression, he sought to elaborate. “Did you have a shop where you could go get some donuts and coffee?”

She nodded, but the squinting of her eyes hinted at her suspicions. “Yeah, but it wasn’t nearly as good as Arif’s. I didn’t run off to the shop very often.”

“Why? Just because it wasn’t very good?” he asked, already suspecting there was more to it than that.

“Wasn’t a lot of time for it, I guess,” she started, with a shrug and a sigh. “I was never home: spent practically all my time at Jacobs’s, trying to pass my grades one through four as quickly as possible.”

“Because you needed to get out,” he supplied.

She nodded but said nothing more.

“What was it like: growing up with your mother?”

She stalled, both in the conversation and in their walk. Her eyes came to his as her feet stopped moving, and she opened her mouth, but no words came out for a series of several seconds.

“I’ve told you—” she started.

He shook his head. “You’ve told me the end of the story: forcing you to seek employment with Jacobs, depositing your wages into her own account, and, eventually, refusing to believe you about the Wythburn Mill incident.”

She hesitated, and Lockwood could admit that he found himself curious as to what, specifically, had caused her hesitation. “You remember the name of it?”

“The name of what?” he asked.

“The mill?”

“Of course,” he responded, easily, with a scoff. “It was a formative moment for you, was it not?”

She managed nothing but a nod.

“Then, of course I remember it. I make it my business to remember the struggles of my employees, Luce. Cotton Street for Holly, Rupert Gale’s assault against George, the Chelsea Outbreak and the loss of Ned Shaw for Kipps, the chapel for Flo: these were important moments for the people who are important in my life, so they are, naturally, important to me too.

“But it’s different for you, I’ll admit,” he continued, looking to the ground, as he admittedly suddenly felt uncharacteristically bashful. He resumed their walk and hoped she would continue walking with him; he needed something proactive to do. “You are the most important person in my life, so, therefore, unsurprisingly, your most formative moment is of the highest importance.”

He chanced a glance at her, and he was unsurprised to find that she would not meet his eyes. She got like this—when she was trying her best to check her emotions. The situation with her mother was, undeniably, a traumatic experience for her, but it was of the past; Lucy tended to firmly live in the now, and confronting the past, particularly such a painful part of the past, was not on her list of endorsed activities.

But that wasn’t true for Lockwood, and they both knew it. Yes, Lockwood publicly avoided digging into his past. He wasn’t one to talk about it. Hell, he still hadn’t told Kipps and Flo everything, and what he had shared with George had been spotty at best.

But he wore it on his sleeves every single day. He didn’t talk about it, but there wasn’t a day he didn’t replay the horrific mistake he made with Jessica that had cost her her life. He didn’t talk about it, but there wasn’t a day he didn’t think of how much it meant to him that she had taken up the burden of serving as his guardian after their uncle had died. He didn’t talk about it, but there wasn’t a day he wasn’t haunted by the image of the ghosts of his parents lingering in the garden. He didn’t talk about it, but there wasn’t a day he didn’t think fondly of his parents, of the affection they had shown him as a boy.

He refused to talk about his past, but he could acknowledge, privately or with just the right person, how haunted he was by it. Lucy had discussed her past, albeit briefly, and while Lockwood was confident she was haunted by her past, he wasn’t certain to what degree she was consciously aware of it. Her past—the situation with Jacobs, her relationship with Norrie, her disagreements with her mother—impacted nearly every single decision she had made and relationship she had formed in the time since, but Lockwood was fairly certain she was completely unaware of just how much these events impacted her; it was completely and utterly subconscious.

Lockwood knew he needed to proceed with caution. He didn’t wish to destroy her, torture her; realizing just how much these events had impacted her as a person had the power to do just that. What he was embarking on was a dangerous task. He needed to find a delicate balance: help her realize her subconscious baggage without placing her in a position where it set her on a downward spiral.

But his goal—it was worth the risk. She deserved to have an opportunity to broaden her understanding of her own character, her own traumas—to start working on healing from those traumas. She owed it to herself, and Lockwood knew he was the perfect person to get the job done. She guided him through processing the trauma that had resulted from his experiences with his parents and his sister. It was only fair that he do the same for her when she needed it.

“Growing up with my mother…” she trailed off, as she attempted to resume the conversation where they had paused it, but he could see that she was visibly struggling. “She was mean, and she was cold. After Wythburn Mill…” she trailed off once more, and Lockwood could see her struggling again. “She didn’t believe me. No one believed me. I didn’t like that she was taking my salary, but I got it: I still lived at home, so,” she paused, with a shrug. “It was fine.

“But when she didn’t believe me—when she legitimately thought I had it in me to put those other agents at risk—especially Norrie,” she continued, only to pause again, this time to resolutely shake her head. “That was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak. I had to leave. I had to be done.”

“I think we should go for a visit.”

Once again, this shocking turn of events in the conversation brought her feet to a stop. While he had expected this shock, he didn’t want it to come off as if he had expected it too much; he slowed his pace and turned to face her equally as slowly. He squared his shoulders and brought his hands to meet behind his back as he pulled himself up to stand as straight as possible; a fight was coming, and he knew he needed to be prepared.

“Why?” she asked. Lockwood wasn’t overly thrilled at this particular question. It was actually a legitimate question, and it implied that his element of surprise had been lost, if he had ever really had it to begin with. Taking Lucy by surprise in a conversation had been extremely beneficial for him previously, but it appeared she might just be learning his usual tricks.

He shrugged and decided to play it safe. “I want to see where you grew up.” It was true; this was one of his goals, but his underlying goal was quite different from what he was suggesting here. “We’re together now, aren’t we, Luce?” he asked, and although he tried his hardest to merely state it as a fact, he felt the spike in his heart rate and knew it was, at its core, a question.

Her eyes snapped to his, and he noticed that she seemed to recognize his anxiety. Slowly, she nodded, almost as if she were taken by surprise at his lack of certainty in the matter.

“Lovely, then,” he answered, his tone resuming its calm and cool nature. “Then, I think it’s perfectly reasonable that I get to see where you grew up: see your childhood home, see where you trained, see the memorial for your family from Jacobs’s agency so that we may grieve the loss of them together.”

“Why?” she spat, her voice definitely having a biting edge to it. To her credit, she winced at the sound of it, moments later. With a shake of her head, she seemed to reset. “I mean, why would you want to see that? It’s nothing but…” she trailed off, her eyes drifting out of focus as she did so. “Bad energy hanging about.”

“I understand. I know this is going to be hard for you to face,” he conceded. As he continued, his volume decreased, and he took several steps to draw in closer to her. “But you will have me by your side,” he suggested, his smile small but inviting. “I will help you through it, will I not?”

“Lockwood,” she started, with a small scoff and a roll of her eyes. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she prefaced, and he found himself bearing down, preparing, knowing, even as he did, that it was not likely to work: it was very likely that whatever she had to say would leave him feeling indignant. “I don’t think anything could make this tolerable, not even you.”

He nodded, understanding, and doing his best not to show that it hurt a bit that she thought that. Still, already, his mind was at work, preparing the next phase of his argument.

“This will be hard for you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Painful?”

She nodded.

“You will have to face things that have plagued you for many years?”

She nodded.

“Things that have been hard at work creating your worst insecurities for many years?”

She nodded.

“Perhaps not so dissimilar to how I felt standing on the landing, my hand poised on Jessica’s bedroom door, then,” he suggested, his tone nothing but mildly curious. There was no accusation to be had there, but he didn’t need it to be in his tone: his words carried the argument for him.

Lucy’s entire demeanor changed instantly. She scoffed. She rolled her eyes, and they did not return to look at him for several seconds. She crossed her arms over her chest. She tisked. She winced. She shook her head.

He had won, and she knew it.

“And, of course, when I took you to visit the gravesite for my parents. And, of course, when we discovered—together—that, not only was Marissa Fittes alive, but that she had actually been the one to kill my parents. And, of course, when I told you what it felt like to see the ghosts of my parents from outside my bedroom window—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she started, with a heavy sigh. “You’ve made your point. No need to dig it in, is there?” she asked, her eyes finally coming back to meet his.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he acknowledged, his voice barely above a whisper. As if on a reflex, his hand came up to cup her neck and weave his fingers through the hair at the base of her neck. “I’m not trying to vindictively reopen old wounds by taking you back there. But I do hope that maybe—just maybe—by going back there and confronting it—confronting her—you can actually start to allow these old wounds to truly heal.”

“They’re healed,” she spat, indignantly.

He did not say a word. With a quirk of an eyebrow and an accusatory tilt of his head, he allowed his expression to carry the weight of his argument.

“Well, I’m better off than I was,” Lucy conceded.

“But not as healed as you could be,” he suggested, with a nod. “And as we are living together now, I feel it is my personal responsibility to help you in this task.”

Lucy was silent for what felt like an eternity. Lockwood did his best to be patient—to wait her out, to give her the time she needed to process this incredibly large request. But with every second, he could admit—privately, if not publicly—that it became harder and harder to wait.

Finally, when he felt as though he was about to jump out of his skin, she muttered a very small and displeased, “fine.” In the blink of an eye, she extracted herself from his hold, turning to resume their pace towards Arif’s. Before he could even think to start moving to follow her, she had already thrown a biting comment at him over her shoulder: “but you better buy me tea and donuts on that day too.”

With a smirk and a scoff, he readily agreed. It was a fair price to pay, in his opinion.

#locklyle #locklyle fanfic #locklyle fan fic #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockwood and lucy #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #lockwood and co fan fiction #lockwood and co fanfiction #locklyle fanfiction #locklyle fan fiction #lockwood & co fan fic #lockwood & co fan fiction #lockwood & co fanfiction #lockwood & co fanfic

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novelizt · 8 months

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PEERING EYES OVER WROUGHT-IRON FENCES ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

GENRE ➺ childhood friends (to estranged friends) to lovers. angst w/ a happy ending.

WC ➺ 12.2k

SYNOPSIS ➺ to uncover the mystery of iris griffith's murder, it's time to face the music, cross the fence, and talk to a friend you never expected to become a stranger to.

WARNINGS ➺ mentions of the lockwood family tragedies, strained family dynamics, discussions and descriptions of murder

DISCLAIMER ➺ fem! reader. lockwood & co. are aged up to about 18-years-old, I try to shoe-horn forensic science into psychical investigations (I am not a professional so... it's unrealistic, sorry.), and Lockwood calls reader cherry/cherry cheeks

NOTE ➺ I can't remember if Portland Row has wrought-iron fences. In case it doesn't, it does now — this is fan fiction. Also, this is the first time I've finished a story this lengthy and I feel really proud of myself. I hope you enjoy!

The first time Lockwood had laid eyes on you, you were a set of peering eyes over a wrought-iron fence. He could barely see over it, but he could remember how round and shiny your eyes were. All doll-like and unrealistic. Honestly, it scared him. You couldn't blame little Lockwood for scuttling back to his sister.

That same day, your parents had brought you over and formally introduced themselves. Between your parents's statuesque figures, stood you.

Contrary to your encyclopaedic eyes, your mannerisms were timid. You looked miniscule in your Sunday dress. You looked like a breeze could knock you over. Anthony couldn't help but feel bad for running from you earlier.

Following introductions, a terse dinner ensued. Your parents were doctors, the kind who would scamper about in hospitals in scrubs and white coats — people who believed in science. His were researchers who dabbled in spiritual devices of different cultures — people who preferred to find the emotional aspect in the supernatural. Suffice it to say, the conversation was very one-sided.

Even then, Anthony was determined to be your friend. He thought having pretentious parents, like yours, would spoil the fun in things like spinning tops or fencing or enjoying pie with ice cream after supper. (Your parents had insisted the sugar would make it difficult for you to sleep.)

Anthony had made up his mind before you even uttered a word to him.

The instant the adults had dismissed you to the living room with Anthony and Jessica, he had snuck you a pie with extra ice cream on top. He and Jessica had their backs to the door so in the unlikely event that your parents came in, they wouldn't see you breaking their rules.

You weren't much younger than Anthony back then, but with cherry smeared across your cheek and ice cream clinging to your lip, he thought you were as cute as a button. He wasn't aware that he had been smiling at you so widely.

He missed the knowing glint in Jessica's eyes.

Across the peaceful months you'd spent as friends, Anthony and Jessica would tell you about their parents' most recent findings and you'd tell them the most bizarre concepts you learned at the academy.

At night, Anthony would sit by the window in his attic room, flagging out written messages on a sketch pad. Across the way, you would poke your head out to read it.

lots of apples are falling these days. want some?

my parents won't let me

that's because an apple a day keeps the doctors away. i think they're scared

no way... papa says he cuts people open. how could he be scared of apples?

ew... and I dunno, cherry. do you want apples or not?

stop calling me that

apples?

sure...

come down

ARE YOU MENTAL??

He was, indeed, crazy. He had tiptoed all the way downstairs and grabbed his mother and father's favorite jackets on the way out.

In the bite of night and the glow of ghost-lamps, he looked up at your house to see your head poking out of of a different window, a crazed expression on your face. 'What are you doing?' you mouthed.

"Hurry!" He yelled back. He chuckled when you'd flinched and checked behind you. He held up the jackets and took a breath, watching in amazement as fog formed from it.

All while you tapped the window sill in thought. You took one more contemplative glance behind you, then shut the window.

You were vaulting over the fence in no time. He caught you, cushioning your fall with the jackets he'd taken and greeted you with an incandescent smile. Even in greenlight, your little heart skipped a beat.

"Here. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold. We'd both be in trouble if you did."

He threw his mother's coat over your head. It was so big, it enveloped you like a gown. You tried to slip your arms through the sleeves but you only got halfway before you wiggled the limp fabric in his face. He swatted you away but folded them up enough so your palms could come through.

His father's jacket was huge on him, too, but he had the kind of air that made him look natural in it.

In his efforts to help you, his own hands had turned red from the cold. You seized them and stuffed them in your pockets, since your—his mother's—jacket had the lined pockets.

After huddling for warmth, you two grew warm enough to walk further into the backyard and pick up handfuls of apples. You found that you could only fit three apples in each pocket, so you held more by tucking your shirt into your pants and shooting them into your shirt. Anthony had done the same. You didn't realize how ridiculous your actions were until you saw how puffed his figure looked with that many apples stuffed down his shirt.

You snorted so loud it hurt, slapping your hand over your mouth to kill any more laughs that could alert the sleeping adults.

He turned his head to you, like an owl. It made more apples fall from your shirt as your shoulders shook. He shushed you, frantically glancing at the house. "What's wrong with you?"

You shook your head, riding the wave of maturity before it crashed. Little laughs and apples spilled from you. "You look like a pufferfish!"

He looked down and examined himself then, indignantly, he pointed at you. "You're literally spewing apples, you're just as bad!"

Restraint crumbled. Your hand came away and your laughs filled the silent night air. Anthony's laughs began to dance with yours until the pair of you were reduced to shaking stumps surrounded by fallen apples.

"Don't look at me! You're making me laugh!"

"Your face is funnier!"

"Stop it!"

"Cherry— You're only making me laugh more!"

It was no surprise that his parents had woken up and scolded you two accordingly. While they tutted at you, you two sat under the same blanket. Elbowing each other when they began to question who'd initated it.

You weren't a snitch. You did not tell, and they never found out who caused the trouble.

Jessica later rewarded you both with a cookie under their noses. You cracked your cookie in half to share with her. Anthony did the same to his, giving his other half to you.

—

Those memories were a far cry from the present. On some days, they felt like dreams. Now, all you are to him is a pair of peering eyes over wrought-iron fences.

Lockwood would catch glimpses of you on the way back from a case. He would nod, you would nod. Then both of you would continue on with your lives like the era of cherry pies and fallen apples had never happened.

Some days, he would turn the newspapers, checking to see if student doctor you had earned any new accolades in your scholastic journey to saving lives, but he never had it in him to say hello to you.

That morning's issue had you on the front page. You with your resplendent eyes and smile finally sporting a white coat at the ripe of eighteen, the first one of your age to earn 'Doctor' as a suffix to your name. Apparently, you'd applied your studies on forensic science to aid psychical investigations involving mummified body parts.

Seems you were doing well.

He placed the paper face down on the thinking cloth, ignoring Lucy's questioning gaze as he took a sip of tea.

"What's happened now?" Lucy asked, stretching her neck to see what made him so upset. She settled back into her seat after she set her eyes on the crossword puzzle, unable to glimpse the front page. "Kipps's crew?" she guessed.

"No, he would have his brow furrowed like this–" George turned to show his brows knitted together so hard they looked like they were drawn on with marker. "–if it was Kipps. It's got to be something else."

"Oh, right," Lucy said with bite, smacking her head like that made sense. "How could I forget?"

George shrugged, grinning like he had a secret on the tip of his tongue. "I don't know, Luce. Maybe it's the letters you've been receiving from one; Norrie White."

Lucy's chair scraped as she stood, gaping at George with anger tightening her mouth. "You went through my mail!"

"She wrote her name in marker. Red. Marker. I would have to be blind to miss it."

Lockwood kicked back and watched the drama ensue, a smile easing itself back on his face. Lucy and George's petty squabble was always a shot of espresso on a rather depressing morning. They made an excellent stopper to all his wonderings about the past.

"That was none of your business!" Lucy shrieked. In her fury, her hands itched to do something... to throw something.

Lockwood realized too late. He vaulted forward to pry the newspaper from her fingers, but Lucy's rage made her a savage. She chucked the newspaper at George with the velocity of a racing car.

The headlines collided with George's face with a resounding thud.

His glasses fell and landed with a unceremonious noise. Thankfully, unscathed from the impact.

The same could not be said for his nose.

George's face pulsed like he had been stung by the world's largest be. He splayed his hand over his nose to check for bleeding and groaned.

"That hurt..."

"Of course it did. I intended it to," Lucy huffed. She scooped up George's glasses and the paper. "That ought to teach you about looking at my correspondence."

"Didn't have to thump me that hard though," George grumbled, snatching his glasses back.

He looked like a dartboard bullseye wearing glasses. Lockwood couldn't focus on it though. His eyes were honed in on the newspaper Lucy was currently unraveling.

He bit his cheek and decided to finish his tea in one gulp. "Well," Lockwood started, fixing his collar as he stood. "I'd better see what we're taking on tonight. I'll be—"

"Hey, this is that girl next door." Lucy pushed her face closer to the paper to reassure herself that she wasn't seeing wrong. She'd seen that blouse and trouser combo on you a few days ago. "Yeah! That's her!"

George showed a rare kind of expression. A raised brow aimed at Lockwood. "She's a doctor now. How could that be upsetting?"

"Don't tell me you have a rivalry with her because she poked you in the bum when you were little," Lucy joked.

Lockwood's face flushed. He looked at the kitchen door, contemplating escape, then back to his friends. He leaned on the doorframe, attempting to look lax but coming off as stiff as a board. "Who said I was upset?"

"You were quiet over tea," George said.

"What of it?" Lockwood pushed.

George gave him an are you kidding me kind of look. "You never shut up when you can help it."

"And you did this." Lucy copied his pondering face, and Lockwood grimaced—reminding himself to school his expressions better.

"Please. For all things good, never do that again, and I am not upset at her—"

"Defensive now? You so are," George chuckled.

Lockwood's jaw ticked. "I am not—"

Saved by the bell. All three heads turned to the door with interest. It was still early in the day, so a new client was unexpected.

"I'll get it," Lockwood said. He left a prattling Lucy and George in the winds of his coat.

The doorbell rang again before he got to it. "Keep your shirt on—"

George and Lucy idled at the foot of the stairs as the door swung open. George let out a gasp, Lucy elbowed him to keep quiet.

Speak of the devil and he will appear. Though, you were more seraphic in that white dress, innocently festooned with embroidered cherries. Your smile was as disarming as ever. It was even brighter than the light haloing your hair.

"Hello."

Lucy tripped over air at the sweetness of your voice, now understanding how the word 'mellifluous' came to be.

Lockwood was indifferent.

Just staring at the back of his head, Lucy knew he was sporting an expression reserved just for Kipps and his crew. It made her want to kick his shin and tell him to get himself together.

"Hi," Lockwood finally greeted, tone bleak. "What are you doing here?"

"Lockwood," George finally intervened. Seems he was taken by how you carried yourself, too.

Both your and Lockwood's heads turned to him.

"Oh, you must be George Karim." Your smile widened, outshining the light above the door. "And Lucy Carlyle. Pleasure to finally meet you."

Lucy and George rarely agreed on things, but they spoke like they were on the same wavelength then. "Pleasure is ours."

A little laugh escaped you, just as graceful as the swish of your skirt. You introduced yourself, discounting your new title. "My parents asked me to invite friends to my celebratory dinner tonight but I don't have people I'd really consider friends." Your honeyed eyes drifted back to Lockwood, trying not to wilt under his blasé gaze. "I was thinking you three could drop by. No need to bring anything but yourselves. We have pie and ice cream for dessert."

Hope was alight in your eyes. The insider statement flew over George and Lucy's heads, and apparently, Lockwood's too. Your expression dampened as it struck you.

"That sounds nice," George said pleasantly.

Lucy nodded in agreement. "And it's not every day we get invited to a free meal."

"With pie." George was already dreaming about it.

Lockwood let out a breath. "Sorry. We have a case tonight."

"No, that's for Friday night," George interrupted. "Isn't that right, Lucy?"

"That's right," Lucy doubled down.

Both of Lockwood & Co.'s best simply blinked and grinned at Lockwood's taut form.

"Great," you quipped. Your eyes lingered on Lockwood but moved to George and Lucy when he showed no interest in being civil. "I'll see you tonight, then. Have a nice day!"

"You too!"

Lockwood gave you a sufficient nod and lipped smile as he closed the door. The moment you were out of sight, the room turned sepia.

Silence for a moment, then George.

"There is definitely something going on here."

—

Despite Lucy and George's joint efforts to pry answers from him, Lockwood did not bend. When the light began to die outside, they retired to their own rooms to prepare. Finally leaving him in silence.

Lockwood chose to wear his usual get-up. The only difference was his waistcoat. It sported a thin, stylish red stripe down it's right side; George had worn an unstained shirt for once, so he did put a bit more effort into his looks that evening; and Lucy wore her best skirt and sweater to put her best foot forward.

"Now," Lockwood said as they all spiraled down the steps. "You have to remember a few things about our neighbors."

"And that would be?" George rolled his eyes.

"They're doctors," Lockwood answered like it was a sin.

"All of them?" Lucy asked with interest.

"Yes, the entire family," Lockwood confirmed. "You have to remember that when they start getting weird about our work."

"Why?" Lucy flicked a crumb left on George's shoulder once they reached the last step. "We get help from hospitals when we need to examine post-mortem documents. It's not like our professions are worlds apart."

"You mean I get help," George corrected firmly. "Not like either of you do the grisly work when it comes to research."

"Well, you're the best at it," Lucy said placatingly.

"'Course I am," George nipped.

Lockwood shushed them. "Regardless of what they say, do not loose your cool. They think getting you worked up means they win.

"They can't be that bad. Your girl was nice enough," Lucy said.

Lockwood's brows furrowed then unfurrowed. "She's not my girl," he said, opening the door with zeal.

"Sure," Lucy grinned as she slipped past.

—

34 Portland Row looked the same as 35 from the outside. The interior decor made it clear that the home was made up of doctors. Successful ones, by the looks of it.

You greeted them at the door with the same radiatant smile from the papers. Your dress was marvelous but Lucy and George could not help but look over your shoulder, into the opulence of 34 Portland Row.

Like always, Lockwood greeted you with a nod and addressed you by name. It wasn't much but you accepted it with cheeks strained from practicing your smile.

As you lead them to the dining room, their eyes wandered at their own volition. Lockwood couldn't help but do the same.

The crystal chandelier in the living room was as decadent as ever; the doorknobs had been changed to be made of glass and silver; the bookshelves were packed with newer books—likely yours; the wall next to the stairs still held your height measurements from years ago. He caught your eye as he did so, trying not to flinch at the waves of melancholy that crashed over him. He chose to look at the back of your head as the light of the dining room enveloped them.

Like every room in this house, a chandelier sat in the middle. Everything was gleaming. Not a speck was out of place, except maybe him. Perfect, just like the family that lived here.

The table was already set with steaming meals of steak, veggies, and mashed potatoes. There was a pitcher of juice in the middle but Lockwood noticed that he, Lucy, and George's glasses were already filled with water. Your mother had just finished filling the last one when she offered her most deceitful smile.

"Anthony Lockwood and friends..." your mother greeted. Her tone was eloquent but the drawl in it sent an unwelcomed pang of anxiety through Lockwood, he tensed then forced himself to relax. "Haven't seen you around lately, Tony."

"Running a business does eat time, unfortunately." He spared her a terse smile and sat at the chair you directed him to — just across from you. Lucy sat beside you, and George had the misfortune of sitting next to your father. Lockwood cleared his throat to break the silence. "You haven't aged a day, Mrs.—"

"Doctor, actually. We've had this conversation before," she chortled with a furled smile you would only expect from the devil's mistresses.

Lucy and George found sudden interest in their food. Your shoulders sunk, but like times before, you didn't say anything. Lockwood tried not to look surprised.

"Right... Doctor. My apologies." He straightened himself in his seat. "You two look swell. How has the winter been treating you?"

"Oh, it's absolutely tiring," your father said. He had the kind of tone that suggested that he was always pouting. At least he wasn't spitting venom while he was talking about himself. "Patients coming in but rarely being able to make it out. Terrible thing, really."

"Sorrows to those who have passed because of the upstart," your mother chipped in. "Our little darling saved some lives in lieu of her recent graduation, and she's only been a doctor for a few days!"

Your mother smiled at you. You refused to look up from your dinner. "All I did was administer CPR. The hospital was understaffed that day. I work in a different department, mama."

Her smile faded before her eyes snapped to Lockwood, her grin sharpening.

"Can you imagine that? Not even a day as a doctor and she's already on the papers. Real talent gets recognized straight away, everyone knows."

Your father did not finish chewing his steak before he joined in. "Kids these days run around wasting their time on things other than their academics. What do they expect to do after their talents fade, huh? Our girl has no worries in that department."

George pushed his plate away after a blob of spit landed on his potatoes. He thought it was best to put down his utensils as well. His grip was turning his knuckles white. Lucy had resorted to pushing her asparagus to calm the anger beginning to stoke in her mind. They were beginning to see why Lockwood did not want to come. The aforementioned remained with a practiced smile on his face.

Your eyes conveyed your apologies yet Lockwood refused to look at you. You were as meek as the girl Lockwood first saw over the fence. Your voice was weaker when you used it in this house. "Mama, papa. Those kids risk their lives to make living easier for everyone. Bravery like that can't be learned from textbooks."

"No, but keeping your nose out of that business altogether will keep you alive." Your mother's expression changed, a beguiling woman turning into medusa before their very eyes.

You sunk under the weight of her stare. You might as well have turned to stone.

"Knowledge keeps you alive," your father added. "Perusing supernatural business will only end with dead kids or orphans who have to resort to psychical work to get by. Some of them work up the nerve to call it a real profession."

A resounding ring resounded from Lockwood's side of the table. He had dropped his knife. His smile had gone. His lips twitched, like he wasn't sure what to do or say. Ultimately saying nothing.

Your eyes glossed over, anger and sadness swirling together in your belly. You were ready to let loose, to set your parents straight. Yet, one look at your father's face was enough to have you curling in on yourself.

The temperature dropped like the conversation had. No one said a thing when smoke began to choke the room.

"Well," your mother cheered. "Seems like the pie is ruined. I'm afraid we'll have to end supper here."

—

Lucy rushed the door open, just itching to unload the tangle of colorful words she'd thought up in that stuffy house of yours.

"They were horrendous," George said, throwing his flannel aside. "I thought that junior doctor was nice but now I know she's Medusa's spawn."

"She is. And have you seen her dad?" Lucy doubled down. She considered going downstairs to release her pent-up emotions but thought better of it. "Terrible, the lot of them."

Lockwood had thought the same cruel thoughts but hearing it from them made him defensive. You weren't bad. You were just a bystander. Your lack of responses hurt as bad as your parents's passive-aggressive jabs, but you weren't even close to being half the evil your parents were. He felt his stomach churning as they began to drag your name through the dirt.

"We are never going back there," George declared. "You were right, Lockwood."

"I need 24 hours of sleep to recover from it. I've never felt so murderous before." That was Lucy's way of saying goodnight. She started for the steps right after.

"I think we should go back. So you can finish the job," George said, following Lucy up the stairs.

Lockwood stumbled ahead, throwing his coat on the newel and collapsing at the foot of the steps. From where he lazed, he continued to hear Lucy and George bicker.

"Maybe you could call up that Norrie White to help you get away with murder," George said encouragingly.

"Don't even start on that, George," Lucy warned.

Her door closed.

"Fine," George said despondenty. "It was just a suggestion, geez."

His door closed, too.

Lockwood let out a breath. It felt like his soul had left his body for a moment of reprieve. He didn't have even five minutes of silence before he heard urgent taps reverberating through his ears. He sat up, alarmed, trying to assess where the noise could have come from.

After a quick sweep, he swung the kitchen door open and discovered you on the other side of the garden door, knuckles raping against the glass with a pained look on your face.

He contemplated leaving you out in the cold but decided that he wasn't that kind of person. He opened the door and wasn't all that surprised that your habit of forgetting a jacket stayed true. You were shivering.

"Anthony—"

"Give me a moment," he interrupted. He turned, walked back to the steps to retrieve his coat, then returned to drape it over your shoulders. "Come in. Sit. You never remember to bring a coat at night, stubborn girl."

You smile despite the frost on your face. Your face turns pink as the warmth of 35 Portland Row thaws you. He sits you on his usual seat and takes George's cushioned seat instead.

"Old habits die hard," you chuckle, holding his coat tighter. If you bent your head enough, you would get a whiff of him on it. You could have tried to do it inconspicuously but he was sitting right there, he would know. "I'm sorry... for everything. I thought they wouldn't– I really should have known they would say things like that. I apologize for them. I really do feel bad. If Mr. Karim and Ms. Carlyle are still up, I'd like to tell them as well."

"They've retired for the night," he reports. He redacts the part that they were discussing the demise of your family. "but thank you for coming to say that."

"And I'm sorry I didn't say anything," you add.

Lockwood doesn't say anything to that. In his mind, you would have stopped them if you were really sorry. "Why did you come here? And please don't say you're inviting us to another dinner."

"Goodness, no." You snort. "I... have a case. I don't know who else to surrender the evidence to."

His brows jump. "You're asking for psychical service? From me? Us, I mean."

You nod. "I hear that Ms. Carlyle is particularly gifted. What I think we're facing is something special. Something no regular agent can feel out."

"Why hasn't Fittes or Rotwell been put up to this if it's that important?"

"Because it's a personal study of mine." You drop a manila folder on the thinking cloth. Lockwood didn't even notice you were holding it earlier. "It's a closed case. An unsolved one. The autopsy is gruesome and justice was never brought to the victim. I searched her property myself and found the source. I tried to communicate with her but I can't do it."

"And you think Lucy is the Listener for the job?"

"Yes. I don't just want to get rid of a ghost, Anthony, I want to lay her to rest. To give her peace."

He leans back in his chair, drinking in the information while he raked a hand through his hair. "You investigated the area of the haunting alone?"

"In daylight," you said in your defense. "My sense of touch is useful enough for me to know if something is a source. Problem is, I can't get any psychical resonance to find out who had killed her."

"Amazing..." he breathed. He didn't know you had that level of sensitivity. Still, he had to think of this as an official case. He righted his posture immediately. "I'll ask George and Lucy in the morning. Can you come by at nine?"

"Yeah. My parents are at work before then. No worries about them."

"Good."

You nod, not knowing what else to do. "Good."

You stared at each other. Possibly taking in how much time had changed you; The scars he'd earned through the years, the callouses on your hands from studying, blemishes, changed mannerisms—and then the unspoken reminder that you had drifted apart after the Lockwood family turned from four to one. You were completely different people to the children who used to laugh through these halls.

"I better get going," you said. You couldn't handle Lockwood and his expressive eyes. You don't know if he was doing it consciously, but it was like you could see his sadness bleeding into the world just by glancing at them.

He nodded like a puppet on a string, pulling himself up and leading you to the garden door once more.

"Goodnight," you said, mustering a friendly smile that was, thankfully, returned.

"Night... Cherry," he replied.

You smiled for a moment more before you snuck back home. Neither of you remembered that you had his coat until morning.

—

You were knocking at 35 Portland Row at 8:55. You stood stiffly, not knowing how to conduct yourself after last night's catastrophe. Lockwood's coat was folded over your arm when George answered the door.

Opposite of the day before, his face was flat. If you turned around and left, you'd be doing him a favor. Unfortunately for him, you were there with intention.

"I need the help of Lockwood & Co."

George opened his mouth, probably thinking of some creative way to say 'shove off'. Lockwood's voice from the kitchen bellowed over his train of thought. "It that her? Let her in, Georgie."

George was mumbling something but he stepped aside and didn't stab you with a nearby rapier. You believed that meant there was a chance to redeem yourself.

You were lead to the receiving room where you were shortly joined by Lockwood and an either groggy or bloodthirsty Lucy. George had retired to the kitchen to bring in biscuits. You hadn't earned the respect to have cake in the vicinity.

Lockwood lead the conversation, eyes trained on you. It made you conscious enough to shuffle and pick at the frayed seams of his coat.

"You only gave us a few details about this case. Evidently it was murder but it was closed and unsolved for two decades."

"I have the rest here," you said, revealing another manila folder. This one was thicker, packed with all you knew about it. It was the real deal. As you passed it across the table, the three of them ogled at the vivid red 'confidential' stamp slanted across the front. "Her name was Iris Griffiths. She was a forensic scientist who cracked several unsolved cases in her time. She had sensitive hearing, from what her colleagues said. She wasn't working on any new cases before her housemate reported her dead on a random night."

"Was it during winter? She could have been ghost-touched." Lucy suggested with a clipped tone. She just wanted to close the case and never see you again.

You shook your head, reaching across and guiding Lockwood's hand to another page in the folder. "Her autopsy shows several lacerations and bruises but no remnants of ghost touch. Her body was already decomposing when she was found."

"And her flatmate? They could be a suspect." George pitched.

You shook your head again. "Celia Rodney was out of town with her fiancé. Several colleagues were interviewed and confirmed it."

Lockwood looked up. "Then we have to assume that it's someone from Griffith's personal life. Did she have a lover?"

"This is like the Annie Ward case all over again," Lucy groaned.

You continued nonetheless. "She did have a lover, actually. Howard Gasley was her co-worker and boyfriend. They had a good relationship, according to the interviews, so I don't suspect any foul play between them."

George leaned against the right side of his chair. There was a creak from the old thing but he ignored it. "What if their relationship was rocky behind the scenes?"

You looked down at the evidence file and sighed. "I guess we will find out when Ms. Carlyle's able to speak with her. All our suspects have solid alibis. To obtain justice for Iris Griffith, we'll have to be her witnesses."

George turns stiff. "We? Lockwood."

Lucy does the same. "You're asking me to communicate with a ghost?"

Lockwood tries to settle them down with a relaxed smile. "It's high time I stop scolding you for being good at what you do, Luce. Our client is explicitly asking you to exploit your talent and find us a killer. The client is always right. Isn't that right, George?"

George grumbles a reply you don't hear, and Lucy nods limply, like she can't comprehend the fact that Lockwood was being so lax about this. What happened to the dangers of communicating with ghosts?

Regardless, they realize that arguing with him was going to be a losing battle. He has that look in his eye—one akin to an adrenaline junkie who's about about to jump from a cliff, and his eyes are set on you.

Lucy and George watched as you returned his coat before they shot each other looks.

What happened to hating you and your white-coat family? Lockwood marched to the beat of his own drum, apparently.

They had their kits ready before dark and met you on the street you'd told them about. Lockwood saw your peering eyes over the run-down house's picket fence and quickened his pace.

"Lovely place," Lucy drawled, eyeing the chipping paint with faint curiosity. Two decades could do so much to a nice house.

"Very lively," George seconded with bite, side-stepping the corpse of a rat.

"I have the source inside, under a chain net," you inform them. You push open the door, wincing as the hinges break and send the wood slamming to the floor. "I hope the house holds long enough to finish this investigation."

"Finally," cheered Lucy. "something we can agree on."

Lockwood was contemplating over how to behave himself. One second, he was keeping pace with you, then walking ahead the next, then falling behind you. He cycled between all three, ignoring George's rolling eyes and Lucy's sighs until all four of you reach the second-floor's lavatory. Luckily, no one had fallen through the floor.

"Do tell me we're not dealing with supernatural turd," George begged.

Lucy wrinkled her nose. "I'll be the one doing the Listening so you can take your complaints outside, George."

"This might be worse," you answer them when you pull off the chain net from an odd looking thing. It looked like a starfish wrapped in ripped and yellowed tissue paper. Lucy gagged when she took a second look.

"Mummified hand," Lockwood said aloud, trying to keep a placid smile on his face. "I always tell you to never mess with mummified body parts but we'll have to make an exception."

"Mummified parts bridge the forensic and psychical field, unfortunately." You cover the source back up as a mercy to Lucy. "They couldn't find her hand before they autopsied her body. Found this under a plank in her bedroom."

"Handy," George said dryly.

Lucy glared at him. "Not the time."

"I'm not sorry," he replied.

"You could have mentioned this sooner," Lockwood interjected, turning his head to you.

You gave a smile in response. "I think it's just another piece of evidence that proves someone had been very angry with her."

"Did the academy teach you to smile so morbidly?" George questioned.

"No, that's just her face." Lockwood said gravely.

George spared you a look that resembled concern. "Pity."

You dropped your smile and walked passed a chuckling Lockwood.

—

Lucy couldn't hear a thing while there was light out. Even with the chain net off, all she could hear was George's heavy breathing.

Lockwood had everyone sat in the disparaging kitchen to have tea and some biscuits before night fell. All the courtresy of Lockwood & Co., of course. Papers spread across the table, rehashing the details in hopes that it would help Lucy discern which questions to prioritize once she made contact with Griffith.

George squinted his eyes at the court transcripts. "There's an awful lot of witnesses."

"It was a big case. Griffith did wonders to connect the world of science and the psychic." You dipped a biscuit into your overly sweetened tea; it was not so coincidentally your favorite brand, and took a bite. "She inspired me to study. It's been a dream of mine to solve her case."

George nodded with the most plastic smile on his face. "Wonderful. We're fulfilling childhood wishes while Lucy experiences rediscovered trauma."

You sighed and sunk into the rotting seat. There was no salvaging an acquaintanceship with George at this rate. You lulled your head to look at Lockwood. He spared you a smile but looked away just as quick.

"Don't interrupt me, that's all I ask," Lucy said as the clock struck six.

Papers were put away, circles were drawn, several more candles were lit, and Lucy hunkered down in the lavatory. The door was closed to give her room to work, leaving you to stand between Lockwood and George. You hobbled from heel to heel as you eyed their rapiers and their weary wandering.

The silence reminded you too much of home. Words poured out of you to chase away your parents's images in your mind. "How strong are Ms. Carlyle's talents? I've only heard heresay about her abilities."

"None of your business—"

"She's the best Listener in the field," Lockwood answered. Even in the dim light, you could see his smile pull higher. It made your heart do funny things while your stomach dropped. "I ought to think she'd be on parr with Marissa Fittes, given enough time. Maybe even better."

George nodded in agreement, turning his head as the ghost-lamps outside flickered to life. The green hue bled into the room, dimming the atmosphere even more.

You leaned against the wall as a chill crept out from under the lavatory door. "I have no doubt that we'll be able to get our answer then."

"Oh! Ow!" George exclaimed.

You didn't have a rapier or any form of weapon but you turned to him like you could help, just to find he was simply hugging himself.

"Got really cold all of a sudden. Felt like something passed through me," he said. He looked down at his thermometer. "Temp's dropped significantly. This visitor is a force."

"That's why she got the best of the best to do it," Lockwood boasted, winking your way and changing his stance as a spectral glow began to flicker under the door.

"Do we have a guess on what we could be facing?" you asked, backing away.

Lockwood didn't miss the tremoring in your hands. "No, but where where is a lack of knowledge, there is faith. We'll make it out this alive."

"Oh," you laughed unhumorously. "how reassuring."

"He's good at that," George added flatly.

Lockwood held out an arm, guiding you to stand between him and George. Their backs turned to you, their rapiers raised and at the ready.

"Here," Lockwood didn't look away from the dark as he unclasped a salt-bomb and a flask of lavender water. He held them out and you took them with shaking hands.

Malaise stalked in on you three, making the hairs on your arm stand. You gripped the salt-bomb and lavender water for dear life. Pressure squeezed down on your chest and your heart raced for a danger unseen.

"This much activity before ten? Griffith must have had qualms about dying." George said.

Lockwood chuckled, nodding along. "Wonder how nobody reported this much activity if the source was hidden all this time."

"Nobody wanted to visit this place when the killer was still at large," you answered, struggling to keep your tone even. "Some kids started some rumors during the court proceedings. They said someone just wanted the house badly enough to kill for it."

"That would be unfortunate," George said. "Imagine all that commotion over a killer who simply wanted real estate."

You tried to stiffle a laugh but failed. "It does sound ridiculous."

Lockwood chanced a glance at you, catching your faulty smile before a scream shook the Earth.

"Lucy?"

"Lucy!"

"Ms. Carlyle?"

She came bursting out of the lavatory, two fingers pinching the mummified hand, and looking quite disgruntled before she stood in the boy's protective circle.

"We might need Little Miss Doctor to stand in the iron circle," Lucy said, fumbling for her rapier and holding the source a ways from her body. Frost was gripping at her gloves.

The plan was scraped with one glance to the circle. It had been thrashed by Griffith from the time Lucy came tumbling out of the lavatory.

"Type two," all three of them agreed.

"What happened?" asked George. His eyes darted down the hallway with more apprehension than before.

"She got angrier and angrier the more names I mentioned," she answered. "I felt like she was about to drown me."

You took the mummified hand from her grasp. The sigh she let out was laughable. "Did she say who killed her?"

Lucy shook her head as she readied herself. Miasma was building. Fear gripped you like nothing you'd experienced before. When you touched the hand, that feeling multiplied. You heard murmurs but nothing substantial.

Shell...

Kill me...

Secret...

You couldn't stitch those words together to come to any conclusion. You were crossing your fingers that Lucy could. The possibilities kept you up at night. If you weren't thinking about your estranged friendship with Lockwood, you were thinking of getting justice for this woman you didn't even know. The cold pinching your skin from the source was a reminder that it wasn't over.

Like a light in the dark, Lucy looked at you and said, "She kept nodding her head whenever I asked if some person killed her; She said yes to Rodney. She said yes to Gasley—"

"So even she doesn't know who killed her?" George laughed emptily. "Brilliant."

"We might have to investigate more on our own to find more details." Lockwood nudged your side. You thought it was to shield you from the cold but that would be too presumptuous. He had bumped into you to swipe away the apparition of Iris Griffith.

She came and went like a zap of electricity. Frantic and unpredictable. Every time you caught sight of her mauled face, your heart picked up. How these three hadn't double over from heart failure was a mystery. Your knees gave up when she'd appeared beside you.

Your eyes watched her in slow motion. The rippling gashes in her plasma, her sneering face, her slashed dress... She was a hairsbreadth away from you before your instincts kicked in.

Your blood fell to your feet but your hand reached into your pocket in a panic, saving yourself as you pulled out a silver button. You threw it at her face and, fortunately, it was enough to disperse her ghost.

Lockwood let out a loud breath of relief but jumped back into the rhythm when her apparition reappeared. "Was that my mother's button? Nevermind. Time to make our exit! Luce, where's the chain net?"

She clicked her tongue. "Dropped it. Her manifestation appeared right in front of me."

"Go get it then!" George rushed, swiping at the air and setting off the first salt-bomb of the night.

"I would if I could," Lucy replied with a bite in her tone. She grimaced at the hand in your vice. "It's in the toilet."

"Pick it up! You've held worse." George backed into Lucy. They switched places.

"It's best if you don't," you advised. "This place has been deserted for years. Who knows what kind of bacteria's been growing in the bowl."

"Oh, you have to know everything, don't you?" George hissed.

Lucy didn't snap at you this time. "Listen to the doctor, George! Did we bring any more chain nets?"

Lockwood reached for your shirt, tugging you towards him as Griffith bit the air where your head would have been. He held you between his arms as blood rushed to your ears and cheeks. Lockwood's breath tickled your ear. The warmth of your face was a juxtaposition to the cold encasing your hands. "My bag! It's a bit away. We'll have to split up."

"Try not to die," George said with false sweetness. He and Lucy ran the opposite way you and Lockwood had.

Griffith chased them. The farther she got, the more you remembered how to breath.

"Calm down, cherry cheeks, ghosts can feed off of your fear," he tried to pacify you. The rasp of his voice evened your heart rate enough for you to get your brain turning again.

"Right. You're right..." You looked ahead, through the darkness and could barely make out the lumps on the ground. "Chain, we have to get the chain net."

"I've got you," he assured.

Even if your pivotal functions had returned to normal, your legs hadn't gotten the memo. Getting up made your knees buckle and legs feel like cooked pasta. As if the cold eating your fingers weren't bad enough.

Lockwood caught you around the waist, holding your weight while he held his rapier at the ready. "Hold on to the source and remember the salt-bomb."

You nodded firmly, clutching both to your chest as you two made a joint effort to get to the bags.

You were almost there, just passed the iron circle that Griffith had broken through, when she appeared above you like an unwanted mistletoe.

You screamed, Lockwood said something to console you, you threw the salt-bomb without taking off the clip, and Lockwood quickly sliced off the top to set it off. Salt sprayed over you two. His body folded over yours as it showered down.

Griffith's yells faded for a moment, a moment long enough for you to slide forward and grab the chain net that clung onto the side pocket of Lockwood's kit. Your hand wrapped around it, Iris's spectral glow kissed your skin, you felt the chill of it — she was colder than her source.

Suddenly, Lockwood had tugged you back towards him. His pull was strong enough to knock you onto your side. It would bruise but at least you weren't ghost-touched.

You wrapped the mummified hand in the net and sighed as the glow faded away and the screaming ceased. The frostbite on your fingers were worth the pain. You were alive.

Silence and heavy breathing ensued.

You rolled the rest of the way on your back, heaving for breath you won't get back. Not while Lockwood remained hovering over you.

The candles had been blown out in the earlier attack. The only light came from the ghost-lamps that sifted through the broken windows. Everything was in that ugly shade of bottle green... but that didn't make him any less magnificent.

Sweat collected on his brow, his mouth was agape—chasing for breath, and his lips were curled in that kind of smirk you could only dream about. Holding your breath did little for your racing heart.

"You okay, cherry cheeks?" His lips moved like their one purpose was to enrapture you.

You nodded dumbly, unable to find your words.

—

Portland Row was cloaked by the night when you four made your escape.

The three of them headed for the 35th while you bound up the steps to your parents' place. George and Lucy gained enough respect for you to wish you a good night before heading in, successfully tuckered out. Lockwood remained, staring at you with his hands in his trouser pockets.

He raised his brows at you then motioned to your front door. "Head on in. It would weigh on my conscience if I don't see you home safe. Your parents would have my head."

"You..." you paused at the fog before you. It was colder out than you thought. "You called me cherry cheeks earlier."

His stance turned tense. He rocked on his heels before he mustered a smile. "Old habits die hard... Sorry if it made you uncomfortable."

"It's okay," you reassured, returning the smile. "I missed it."

"You don't mind then?"

You shook your head. "Never did."

His smile broadened, teasing a glimpse of his pearly whites before he looked at his shoes to hide it. "See you tomorrow then, cherry."

You bit the inside of your cheek as you stared at him. These days, both of you were tall enough to see each other clearly over the wrought-iron fencing. You missed the days you had to tiptoe to show him a smile.

You had no problems shooting him a smile from over the fence. You had no problems coming home to your perfectionist parents. You had no problems imagining your world without Lockwood in it... but you missed him.

Now that the events kept replaying in your head, all you could think while you looked at him was I miss you, I'm sorry. I miss you, I'm sorry. I miss you, I'm sorry.

Lockwood had the talent of knowing when you wanted to say something but couldn't bring yourself to. He forgot how when you had grown apart. Now, in the quiet of the night and the privacy of the stars, it came back to him like the memories he tamped down by closing his window.

"What's wrong?" He asked, setting his hands on the freezing iron fence.

You feel the knot in your throat and the tears in your eyes. It hurts to hold back. Your lungs are lined with spikes as you take a breath. It feels like you're cracking your ribs open as you cave and admit to him, "I don't want to go home to them."

It may have been a trick of the light, but you swear there were tears in his eyes, too. His smile had changed. It was the same one you were accustomed to—the one he used to welcome you into his parents's house all those years ago. Like no time had passed at all, he beckons you. "Come on in then. 35 Portland Row is always open for you. It's your home, too."

—

One night's sleep on 35 Portland Row's most uncomfortable couch was worlds better than the comfy bed in your own cold home. You stretch like a cat to work out all the kinks in your joints, smiling at the air for no reason other than the happiness that filled you the moment you realized you were at the Lockwoods'. Your frosted hands had been wrapped up over a very sleepy catch-up the night before.

Ambient music was playing in your head as you took in your surroundings. The browned books and the disarray of trinkets left all around you were more home than anything you were used to.

It felt like you were wading through the most pleasant dream.

It all screeched to a halt the moment you swung your foot down and stepped on something squishy and loud—it groaned like a beast.

Terror clawed out of your throat in the form of a scream. Juttery legs hopped onto the back of the couch to gain height, and weary eyes looked down at the monster under the bed— er, sofa.

The lump inflated, made of patchwork quilt... until that fell away to reveal a very disheveled and very grumpy Anthony Lockwood.

"Ow," he simply said.

Your soul returned to your body. You offered a little laugh as you eased back down on the couch. "Sorry, Anthony."

"Don't worry yourself," he assured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I was the one who snuck down here."

You were a kid when you admitted to being afraid of being alone. It was thoughtful of him to come down here to keep you company when he had a perfectly good bed upstairs.

With a fluttering belly and a sheepish smile, you reached out and patted his sleepy head. "You've always been good to me. I should be more grateful."

He opened one eye to look at you while he rubbed the sleep out of the other. A corner of his lip tipped up into a lazy smile. "You can start with a 'thank you', darling."

"Thank you," you said all too quickly. The deeper octave and the rasp in his voice had finally hit home. It made your cheeks warm.

Judging by the growing smile on his face, he had accomplished what he was intending to.

Your shoulders jumped. A knock broke through the calmness of the air. You turned and saw George in an apron and kitchen mitts. "Are you two going to give each other goo-goo eyes all morning or are you joining us for breakfast?"

—

The investigation resumed as soon as the breakfast plates had been cleaned.

You split into two groups. George and Lucy were off to the archives to work out all of Griffith's social connections, and you and Lockwood were off to the hospital to look for documents that contained the same M.O. or similar timeline to Griffith's case.

"I thought police were the only ones allowed to hold information like this," Lockwood admitted as you two shuffled through files upon files in the hospital archives.

"Most of it, they do. I just hope there's something here relevant to our case," you reply. "If we have to hand this off to detectives, DEPRAC will get involved. They'll just close the case and leave it be."

He nudges up to you after a good three hours of finding absolutely nothing. "Let's look at the last few cases she solved. Could have a clue."

"All of those are solved though," you respond. You were biting your nails at this point. You had to find something before questioning Griffith's ghost again—for Lucy's sanity and for the group's safety.

Lockwood took you by the shoulders just as you began to imagine the worst. "Cherry," he said to snap your attention to him. "If we can't find anything, I don't want you joining us on this one."

"What?" You back away from him in your incredulity. "I helped last night, didn't I? This is my investigation as much as it is yours, Anthony."

"This visitor is a type two, cher. It's not as simple as solving a case. This means lives are in the balance—"

"I'm aware." You put your foot down. You slapped his hands away and shimmy a thick stack from under the desk. "I'm aware of the risks and I consent to them." You pick up the one at the top of the stack and shove it into his chest. He had always liked the curiosity in your eyes, so he was taken aback by the void in them as you looked at him. "I have enough people treating me like I belong at home or behind the safety of iron fences—I do not need you to coddle me like that. My parents do it enough."

He watched your back as you look through the second file in the stack. "You know I don't mean to coddle you..."

"You're doing it right now." Your tone carries a point. "You're telling me to sit this one out because it's too dangerous."

"It's risk assessment—"

"You're underestimating me—"

He slams his hand down on the paper you're idly reading. Bringing your attention to him. "I do this because I don't want to lose you."

Your anger falls away.

The reminder of how how much he'd lost occurs to you. It makes your arms grow limp and your heart to shrink. You can only stare at him with those same eyes he can't unsee even when his are closed. He hates the way he's made sadness swim in them. "Anthony..."

He said your name with the same caution. "You want to know why I became distant?"

"People grow apart when they grow up, Anthony. It's not your fault—"

He knelt beside you, laying his heart out right then and there. "I couldn't stand watching you with your perfect family. They always said any field tampering with the supernatural was a death sentence. I hated how they were right. I hated how they made you so small. I couldn't watch you like that. I hated that you turned into a doctor, just like them. I hated how they were so bad and so cruel, but they were always right."

You were quelled into silence. Biting your lip to keep the tears in. He held your hands delicately, careful of your injury. His touch was light but you knew you would feel it for hours. You held his hands with as much strength as you could muster, even as your skin burned and screeched for reprieve, you did not let go. "They are wrong about you..." you whisper to him.

He went on, plastering on a smile you knew was fake. It sheared your heart to know that. "I knew they were right when they said you would do great things... But they said so many other things that hurt. I couldn't stand being around. It just made me remember that no one was around to defend me anymore. I'm sorry that I had to leave you out, too. Seeing you reminded me of everything they said and I... I couldn't shake it."

Your eyes hurt so much. You gave up somewhere along the way and let the tears fall. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to fight them. I wanted to say so many things but they've always been so- so..."

"Scary?" he supplied with a pathetic laugh. "I know. Don't blame yourself."

You bobbed your head, sniffing as tears went. "You don't have to apologize for all that, Anthony. I'm so sorry, I didn't stand by you when you needed me. But I am going to see this case through to the end, I've dedicated my life to it."

Even when you were hiccuping and heaving for air, you wiped away the tear that tracked down his cheek. His heart surrendered to you then.

"Okay... And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have ignored you like I did," he said again, just because he felt like you needed to hear it.

"No. I'm sorry," you reply. Vehemently wiping his eyes. "Anthony, come on. Don't cry. I'm not worth crying for."

"Oh, don't say that," he said lightly. "You're worth everything, cher."

Both of you manage a smile but neither of you are well enough to hold it. You laugh at each other's attempts.

You came clean to him too: How your parents had made you the sun of their solar system; How they poured their knowledge into you like you were a cup meant to hold their images in vivid color; How they moulded you into being the projection of a golden girl—their magnum opus. You carried the weight of their world. Most days, they acted more like teachers than parents. It got worse the older you got. Trophies and medals took the places of photographs until all you became was your achievements.

"They were so hard on you..." he said slowly. It was just sinking I just how trapped you were. You were cornered in a place that was supposed to covet you.

"Still, I should have defended you. I hate that I didn't," you said, wiping your nose with the back of your sleeve. It was the most ungraceful thing he'd seen you do but it brought him back to the cherry pie incident, and he found that he couldn't even think of you in a bad light.

"It's water under the bridge. I hate your parents, but there is one thing we can agree on," Lockwood said, cracking a semblance of a smile.

You cocked your brow at him. Teary eyes and all, he still found you as cute as a button.

"I would make you the sun of my solar system, too. They got that right."

With a snort, you said, "You're good at buttering people up, you know that?" You shoved his shoulder to shut him up but he caught the red on your ears and the smile you hid with a tilt of your head.

—

When you rendezvoused with George and Lucy, it was around 5:40 in the afternoon. The sun was dipping and the ghoulish were about to walk the earth. If George or Lucy noticed the redness in your eyes, they said nothing of it. You hurried along inside the stranded house and relayed newfound information.

"The last case Griffith reviewed involved a woman named Shelly Carson. She immigrated from America and died at 17 while she was interning for Hayes Inc." You flipped the file open on the kitchen table over tea. "They profiled the case to be a suicide but I don't think Griffith agreed." Your finger pointed to the lower left corner where Griffith would put her stamp of approval. The line was void of it. "She wrote 'Garrote not rope??' on the unofficial report. Carson's case could have been a murder."

The information set off a spark in George. He was rubbing invisible dirt from his glasses and finished doing so as you concluded your assessment. "We found a Shelly Carson in our search too," he said. Everyone lent their ears. "She was friends with Griffith in childhood. Alongside Rodney and Gasley. The four of them were close friends from well-off families."

"Ah, they're rich. Explains a lot," Lucy snorted. George ignored her quip.

"Turns out Rodney and Carson were both interested in Gasley. Rodney moved on with some bloke named Jerome Holt, but she suspected him of having an affair with Carson. Holt proposed to prove her wrong."

Lockwood tilted his head. "Sounds like gossip, Georgie."

George brandished an old leather diary. "We tracked down Howard Gasley. He gave us this."

Lockwood lit up. Sitting up with renewed energy. "How did you manage that?"

Lucy grinned. "The death of his girlfriend weighed on his conscience. All I had to do was tell him that her ghost can't be put to rest. Spilled like a waterfall after that."

"So, he did kill her?" You asked.

"Well, that's the difficult bit... The rest of the pages were ripped out and he didn't explicitly say he did. Maybe he did do it, he likes ripping things." George revealed, pointing the diary at the mummified hand in the net. "I think he's involved, one way or another."

Lockwood looked at it, then looked at Lucy. "What do you think, Luce?"

She looked at all three of you with a gleam in her eye. "I think we're about to find our killer."

—

The set-up was same as last night, except the iron circle had been extra fortified to fit all four of you in case things get out of hand. Lockwood stuffed lavenders into your pockets as Lucy lit the the candles.

"If you die tonight, I will not forgive you," Lockwood said as he put a salt-bomb in your hand.

"Same goes for you," you retort with a smile.

He returns your grin, tapping your sides and making your heart flutter before he sets off to help George with inventory.

You cross the chains to help Lucy in the lucky room chosen to host the seance in. With all the furniture pushed to the walls, the sitting room was the epitome of morbid. The carpet was patterned in a way that made it perfect for summoning and the cobwebs embellishing the place contributed to the unsettling ambiance. Lucy herself was lighting candles around the source. You took a pack of matches and helped light the rest of them.

"How are you feeling?" you asked as you lit the last candle and killed the match.

"Confident," she replied. She even spared you a smile. "And you?"

"Scared. Excited, mostly."

She bobs her head. She had a far-away look in her eye before she asked, "Your room is an attic room, correct?"

The nature of the question surprised you. "Yes. Why?"

A smile teased her lips. "I knew it." She looked at you like she saw right through you. "Lockwood was loitering near the window this morning. Just thought it was odd."

You hear him in your mind then — cherry cheeks. Warmth crawled up your neck as Lockwood and George entered the room.

"What are you two blabbering about?" George questioned, off-put by Lucy's smile and your flushed face.

"Nothing," you said together, one more pitched than the other.

George didn't look convinced.

Lockwood spoke up. " You ladies ready? Let's catch ourselves a killer."

The door was left open with an heavy stopper, giving you ample room to run to the iron circle in case things took a turn for the worst. Though, you doubted it would. The other three shared the sentiment. Some kind of energy buzzed between you four and livened the room, something that wasn't there the night before.

Lucy looked between you and Lockwood with a knowing expression you only ever saw from Jessica Lockwood. It was gone as quick as it came but the brief blast from the past made you dizzy. The resemblance must have been what made Lockwood so comfortable with her.

Lockwood had crossed the room and stood by you. Close enough to catch you if you stumbled forward in your daze.

He glanced at his wrist to check the time. "7:30's a good time. Ready, Lucy?"

"Ready," she confirmed. With a tug, the iron net came off of Griffith's mummified hand.

George and Lockwood reconsidered their stances with their rapiers as warmth was immediately sapped from the room. It was akin to jumping into a lake without testing the waters. Blood rushed to your ears. The whispering began again.

"We're here to help you," Lucy said calmly.

Wind began to pick up despite the windows being closed. Lucy persevered. "Iris Griffith, I know that you're experiencing a great injustice. Let me help you. Talk to me."

Lucy closed her eyes. You trust that she was establishing a connection with Griffith. The chill subsided by a fraction, her eyes were moving rapidly like you do when you're in the middle of a dream.

"There's a spectral glow behind you, George." Lockwood caught that faster than you. He was glaring down at the opposite corner of the room.

George's face remained impassive. "You'll tell me if she gets too close."

"Shush!" Lucy threw a hand up in the air. "Shell... Shelly? Yes, what about Shelly Carson? She died before you. You saw her case. They got the autopsy wrong, didn't they?"

A faraway scream interrupted the silence. You fumbled forward. Lockwood caught your arm. "Careful there, cherry cheeks." You lived up to your nickname.

"They all kept... Secret...?" Lucy murmured. "They all killed you to keep a secret?"

If this were a cartoon, you imagine everyone to have exclamation marks above their heads. Finally, some of the mystery began to come into focus. Who are 'they' and what secret were they so desperate to keep?

"Secret... Shelly Carson?" Lucy's expression lightened and the room grew slightly warmer. "Yes! Their secret is Shelly Carson. No? Oh, then what— They killed her to keep the secret... then paid people to say they were innocent."

"Rich people," George tutted.

The anticipation was killing you. All those nights of research, pouring over case files and autopsies were boiling down to this. You gripped Lockwood's sleeve to ground yourself. He glanced at your hand, worried you were seeing something he wasn't, but felt a smile twitching on his lips when he noticed the elation on yours.

Lucy'a voice pierced the air. "They killed her to keep what secret?"

The silence, the anticipation, and the chill in the room melded.

"Rodney pregnant? With Gasley's—" Lucy shut herself up. It was like a bad episode of a telenovela, but this was real, and someone had died because of it. "And when you were about to uncover the truth about Shelly... Rodney and Gasley they got you, too? I'm sorry to hear that. Gasley must have regrets. He had left a diary and... your, ah, hand so we could uncover your story."

It wasn't the most peaceful way to end a talk with a ghost. As soon as Lucy finished the conversation, the apparition of Iris Griffith had appeared once more. Contrary to your hypothesis, finding out the motive and her killers did not put her to rest at all.

She wailed louder than the previous night and zipped about even faster than before. Nothing Lockwood & Co. couldn't handle though. You showered the room with lavender and salt as Lockwood & Co. danced with a ghost.

—

You all appreciated a bit of silence after getting your ears blown off by a visitor. The world clearly didn't like you enough to grant the request, judging by the hunched and fuming figures of your parents blocking the door to 35 Portland Row. They sported crossed arms and crossed expressions. Your mother, specifically, was blowing steam from her ears.

Seeing your sweaty and worn form only confirmed their suspicions: You'd been running around with ghost hunters.

"You ungrateful brat..." your mother muttered.

Lucy stepped forward, blocking her way to you. She was hardened by her own experiences and least expected the horrid woman to turn on her own daughter for simply doing something outside of white-tiled establishments. You were grateful for it.

That only stirred the pot for your parents.

"We sheltered you, spoiled you, and educated you to be the lady you are today. You are our legacy." Your father harumphs forward. "We made you what you are and you would throw that all away by risking your stupid little life for some miniscule ghost adventure!"

George is the next to block their way. He wasn't that protective type, but he did look the part when he wanted to. "It was her childhood dream. Let her live." Leave it to George to be forward.

Your mother stamped her feet. The display was so awfully childish you had to look away. "You are children who don't know a single thing about building a foundation for a good life! You are going to run my daughter to ruin!"

Because of her display, Lockwood & Co. weren't so intimidated by her anymore.

Lockwood had stepped ahead, completing the wall that prevented your iron-fisted parents from getting to you ever again. "We're the best psychical agents in London. We expect a little more respect, doctor."

You could hear the smile in his voice. You couldn't help but smile, too.

With a last burst of anger, your father yelled to you. "You either come home or you find your own way. I'd rather live without a daughter than live with a disappointing one."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it did, but you had given your whole life to live up to the version of you they were dreaming of. Even if you had achieved all that, all it took was having a moment of autonomy for them to turn against you and disregard your sacrifices.

Lockwood had turned to you with a face so full of hope, it brought you back to the other night at the horrid dinner party and the night you snuck out to pick apples. After all that's happened, you found it in yourself to steel your resolve and face your father with bravery that felt unnatural but oh-so addicting.

"I'm going home," you told them.

You walked passed a stunned George and a speechless Lucy. Lockwood was far bluer than the two, but you shot him a smile that put all his worries to rest.

When you were kids, he was the one to take you by the hand and drag you off on a new adventure. This time, it was you so took his hand and pulled him passed your parents's skyscraping figures and into the comforts of 35 Portland Row.

Home, at last.

The first thing you saw as you pulled Lockwood through the threshold was his smile, radiant as ever. He didn't give you much time to admire it. He swooped down and stole your first kiss before you could even blink.

You could hear Lucy and George laugh over your parents plights. You were tired, sweaty, and covered in salt but all you could think of was; you should have done this sooner.

The next morning, you submitted the evidence and psychical report to the relevant authorities, convicting Celia Rodney and Howard Gasley for their crimes. Griffith's source was relinquished from your possession and burned at the Fittes Furnaces, marking the end of Griffith's case. It was the best thing you could do to bring her peace.

Shortly after, Lockwood and Co. welcomed you as the company's official forensic consultant, and in 35 Portland Row, you were finally comfortable in your own skin.

You and Lockwood now stand on the same side of the fence. There is no need shyly avoid your peering eyes when he could have the satisfaction of seeing them flutter close as he kisses you.

Thought, it is nice to remember that all this started with those peering eyes over wrought-iron fences. You and Lockwood reminisce those days over a cherry pie with extra ice cream or an afternoon picking apples from the backyard.

Every now and again, Lockwood would toss an apple over to your parents's side of the fence to scare them.

⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

LOVELOCKED (PEOWIF BONUS CHAPTER)

NOTE ➺ Thank you to everyone who made it through to the end! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it. It's the first time I completed a project this big so I hope it brings you some joy. To everyone mourning the seasons we'll never get, I'm with you. To my fellow writers, I'd appreciate a tip or two to improve my stories. To everyone in general, may you continue finding fics that comfort you 💙

#— ❨ 🌺 ❩ 𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐙𝐈𝐄'𝐒 𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐏𝐈𝐀 ₊˚.༄#anthony lockwood x you #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #lockwood x reader #lockwood and co fanfiction #anthony lockwood angst

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yellowraincoat · 1 year

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Me pre the show coming out: honestly I want to watch the show but I’m most excited by the prospect that Lockwood and Co could end up with a bigger following/more active fandom. that could be really cool.

Me now, constantly mad at fans calling him Anthony [even tho he’s literally fictional and I should prolly get over that], wading through edits comparing him to Kaz Brekker (my nemesis), and having to figure out how to effectively spoiler tag all my old posts: it is possible I am not as fun and accepting of change as I thought I was

It’s like, I want this series that brings me so much joy to bring others joy, but at the same time the fandom just feels a little different now. And it’s very strange knowing that a lot of fans’ only understanding of the characters is from the show— meaning they have fundamentally experienced different characters than those of us who read the books first

#I very much feel like an old man telling kids to get off his lawn #but like Lockwood is not Kaz coded istg #Lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood & co

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mysolar · 1 year

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Thanks for the tag @saintsnlancs , it was really cool you know how much I love these and now I can tag you hehehe

Tea, coffee or soda? ALL of them in a same day, I drink too much of all of them tho... Wonder why my sleep pattern is fucked up

Dogs or cats? Cats but MY dog will be perfect when I will have one

Can you play any instruments? used to play guitar

What's your sun sign? Scorpio and it shows

First song lyrics that pop into your head? "I can't believe the news today..."

Do you have any tattoos? Only 2 and projects in mind I only wanted 3 but I think more will follow

Favorite place you've traveled? Copenhagen and Brighton always

What's the last movie you watched? Alien (1979) , don't ask it was on my watchlist for ages because I'm a horror fan

Do you have any hobbies? fencing/drawing/coffee training/editing/watching rugby and movies

What languages do you speak? A1-A2: Dutch and Italian bilingual: French and English and learning: Japanese

You can hang out with one fictional character for an hour, who do you choose? Anthony Lockwood for a fencing lesson or Dan Humphrey for a coffee date

Compliment yourself! :¯\ (ツ)/¯ I can't do that

I'll tag : @koloha12 @thechaoticrugbyfangirl

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lejay-the-impossible · 3 years

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Decided to draw this little illustration just for you to know that the first chapter of my Lockwood and Co fan fiction called «The Stone of the Dead» IS OUT!

«Before I had time to recover from one case, the next one immediately fell on the employees of "Lockwood and Co" agency. This time we are going to visit the museum of the great British explorer Amanda Clarkson, where her own grandson suffers from the riots at night. A house full of ancient relics, in which a real nightmare awakens at night ... Sounds exciting, but at the moment I am much more worried about the mystery of the Stone of the Dead and how exactly it is connected with the Lockwoods».

Warning: The story's written in Russian.

Lucy design by @doodlingraka

#johnathan stroud #lockwood and co #george cubbins #lucy carlyle #holly munro #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co fan fiction #book illustration #the screaming staircase #the whispering skull #the hollow boy #the creeping shadow #the empty grave

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jesslockwood · 3 days

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Detecting the Haunted Masterlist

Chapter Three

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairing(s): Anthony Lockwood x Detective!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

A/n: hello friends! I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever!!! its going to be a busy summer for me as its my last year in my acting program, and I have professional Shakespeare shows coming up (auditions and rehearsals) soon. I really hope to be active but im not sure how active I will be but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Add yourself to the Taglist

In all of Anthony’s life, he wanted people to love him. He wasn’t sure why but the praise of others and the showering of adoration towards him just gave him the feeling of being loved. Maybe it was because that’s what his life was missing, love.

The current problem with wanting to be even just admired, was that you wouldn’t speak to him, unless absolutely necessary or with someone else in the room. He couldn’t pin point what had changed, but it put him in a grouchy mood.

He had even snapped at George and Lucy at one point, because of it, which he felt bad about.

He just couldn’t understand why you would all of a sudden you just seem to loathe the mere presence of him.

That was until he saw you having a conversation with none other than Quill Kipps in the library. That made Lockwood want to explode. He did his best to keep his composure, but how could he? Especially when someone he cared for was talking to his rival.

You had laughed at something he said, before Anthony made his way over.

“Tony! I see you have a new agent in training on your hands.” Kipps seemingly tries to antagonize him, “I thought you had enough troubles trying to keep your agency afloat, Being such a small and insignificant one.”

Lockwood grits his teeth, and his fist goes into a ball, clenching it so tightly.

“Anyway, my offer still stands.” He says directed towards Y/n in a overly confident tone before making his leave.

Anthony tightens his jaw even more if that was even possible to do so.

You shake your head while smiling, as Kipps leaves and Anthony notices.

“When’d you get so chummy with Kipps?” He asks with an intensity that you can only describe as uncomfortable.

You ignore his prompted stare down, and shift over a book, and open it to start your next reading.

He keeps staring waiting for you answer.

“When did you get so controlling with who I talk to? Last time I checked you were my boss, not my boyfriend.” You say not even meeting his gaze, ignoring the way saying boyfriend made your body tingle.

He looks genuinely shocked, and hurt, when you spew the words with venom at him, wth a fiery anger, but you had to hate him, or else you’d hate everyone else around you. The problem was that hating everyone wasn't an option you wanted to explore, so your anger had to be directed towards Anthony Lockwood. That was or else it would consume you.

George walks towards the two, carefully, as if he could be the detonator to explode one of the two colleges of his on each other.

“I uh, found the paper in the archives we were looking for, Y/n.” He says before carefully setting it down on the table the two of you were working at.

George had noticed the tension in the house between Lockwood and Y/n, he knew Lucy could feel it too, as she kept trying to get Lockwood and Y/n to avoid each other as much as possible as she tried to figure out what triggered all this, for lack of a better term, teenage angst in the house.

Well it felt like more than just teenage angst. It felt like a rage radiating off of the two directed towards each other, as if they were two old miserable manifestations bickering like an old couple while trying to murder everyone in the way that ticked them off.

Yeah that was more of the level of tension that was going on, especially when Lucy or himself got caught in the crossfire of the two. He actually didn’t hate Y/n, he had gotten to tolerate her during their times in the archives, but he couldn’t get a good reading of why she acted the way she did towards them, but mostly Lockwood. He was so curious of what was making her tick, or ticked off, pun intended.

Even Lockwood was making things feel off. He had been pissed almost every single day these past couple of weeks, and had even bursted with anger towards himself and Lucy.

George started to think of all the ways he could figure out what was wrong, and deiced to let Lucy in on his plot when he got home, to figure out what the hell these two had tasted to be so bitter to everyone.

George had come out of dreamland to find Y/n and Lockwood bickering.

“At least I talked to someone who wasn’t a stuck up prick for once!” Y/n almost yells.

“I think you’ve got it all wrong, love, you did talk to the stuck up prick, he just left with what’s left of his dignity, from the last time he was here!” Lockwood raises her one.

“Guys, Guys!” Lucy comes rushing In to break it up, “Maybe let’s try to not get kicked out of the archives? Y/n let’s uh, go get lunch, there’s this place I've been meaning to take you to.”

Y/n gives Anthony one last glare before, picking up her jacket and heading out with Lucy.

“Well, that was awkward…” George mumbles faintly, before giving Lockwood a disappointed look before getting back to work.

“Urgh! He such a pompous ass!” You rant to Lucy, in between shoving pizza in your mouth.

“Lockwood can be… selfish. But it’s really more because he wants the us and the whole agency to benefit… trust me I know it all too well.” She tries to console you, and you can see the genuine hurt in her eyes from it.

If he could hurt Lucy, and get others hurt, even killed… who knows what the guy could do to you. Maybe the Job Kipps offered you wasn’t such a bad idea.

It especially felt good to know it would make Lockwood infuriated. Maybe this was a chance to get a back at Lockwood a bit. Not to the degree you wanted, but it was something.

You make small talk with Lucy while eating, coming up with a plan in your head of how to piss him off the most.

To say Lockwood was pissed was a total understatement. He was enraged.

George and Lucy even seemed to tiptoed around Lockwood as of recently, and Lockwood felt nothing but isolated, and that led him to be able to sit and stew in his anger even longer.

The both of you seemed to avoid each other physically, which made Lockwood all the more furious. The only time you’d see each other was for training, which George and Lucy had taken over most of that, and cases.

Today you had to train with your rapier again, and that was the main thing Lockwood oversaw.

“C’mon again!” He yells, as you missed one of the practice targets.

You glare daggers into his direction, as he seemly does the same.

“I would be a lot better if I didn’t have the constant screaming in my ear.” You mumble sarcastically.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that? Maybe you could actually try this time?” He says before smirking and leaning back to where he was sitting seeming satisfied with ticking you off.

“I’d like to see you do better.” You taunt stalking towards him, “The best I’ve seen in action was the Fittes team at a case I was working.”

He clenches his jaw, looking at you with an intense fire behind his eyes.

“You’re more show than skill.” You smirk as his face turns even more sour. He gets up and moves right into your personal space.

“Really? If you think I’m all show, then lets put it to the test, Love.” He pulls his rapier out and backs you into the wall.

You visibly gulp, not because of his challenge, but the sheer proximity of how close his face was to yours.

He stares into your eyes, with his full of an emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. He had a anger but there was something else behind it.

He shakes his head and scoffs, turning around walking away.

That made your whole body burn with fury. You knew he was one of the best from stories you had heard, but boy did that make you want to try harder to be better.

“Like I said, all show.” You mumble loud enough for him to hear.

He stops on the spot, turning around about to say something, and before he can Lucy is running down the stairs with a small stack of letters in her hand.

“Hey, Y/n You’ve got mail.”

You give Lockwood a victory smirk, and he gives you a glare saying ‘this isn’t over’.

“Thanks, Lucy.” You take the mail form her, before looking it over, until stopping on one letter in particular.

“Crap…” you mumble to yourself, opening it quickly.

Lockwood and Lucy seem intrigued to know what had gotten the rise out of you.

You skim over the letter, or well, the invitation. Your grandparents wanted to see you, and you knew that they rarely did unless it had to do with their agenda.

You started to feel ill, hoping it was you actually getting sick to get out of it, instead of the idea of visiting them.

“What is it?” Lockwood asks slightly worried as you lean to grab the wall.

You want to throw the letter out, but you hand it to Lucy, “You can read it amongst yourselves, if you wish, Especially since I think I’m going to need you to accompany me.”

They give each other a look, as you head upstairs and They both follow you up quickly, if not seconds later.

George seems intrigued to what is going on, and comes out of the sitting room area, with his usual cleaning gear on, and duster in his hand.

Lucy starts reading aloud, “Y/n Y/l/n and Lockwood & co, You are formally invited to The Saunders Ball, this Friday. Please wear formal wear and please arrive early to meet and dine with The Saunders.”

“How in the bloody hell do you know the Saunders?!” Lockwood almost yells.

George pipes up, “And why would one of the oldest of richest families in London want dinner with with us?”

“Blood Relation, to me, unfortunately.” You say, wishing this wasn’t their reaction.

Lucy and Lockwood sit there with their mouths ajar, while George looks like he’s going through every probability in his mind.

“Look, there’s no need to come. I can face my grandparents myself-“

“There’s no way were passing this up. It’s an opportunity for the company to find more clients.” Lockwood pipes up.

Your jaw clenches as try you to smile to pretend to be pleased that he wants to come.

“Great. does everyone have formal wear? Or do we have to go shopping?”

Lucy shakes her head no, and you give a light smile, before grabbing her hand.

“Let’s go then, my treat.” You say before running out the door with Lucy.

Lockwood gives one last glance at the door, before standing up.

“C’mon George, Lets go find out all we can about the Saunders.”

Lockwood wouldn’t try to dive into your history if he could help it, but he needed to know anything he could about who’s doors he was about to step into and how to best be prepared to gain new clients.

Lucy had told you a bit about her past life, how she didn’t come from much, and her old employer, and briefly what happened to her best friend Norrie.

“Hey Lu?” You grab her attention with the nickname you called her in your nightly talks, “Im sorry.”

“What do you mean?” She asks, looking directly at you as you walked down the street of the shops.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all this. It’s something my Mum left in the past when she left home from my grandparents. I’ve never really lived rich my mother just came from money.” You sigh as you continue to explain, “We really lived off of my Dad’s pay, and my mother worked part time in a flower shop. It- it’s not really important what they did. But my grandparents- well they only ever summon me if they want something.”

Lucy gives a sympathetic look, with almost an understanding.

“My grandparents hated my dad, because the took their only daughter away, to live a ‘life of poverty’ and my dad, ‘he couldn’t provide’. Ah, it’s so messed up! Then my parents had me, and all they ever wanted was me to become their ‘Perfect grandchild of the Saunders’ but I never was that, or could be that.” You ramble it all out.

“I’m sorry y/n” she replies, “For all that family rubbish. I- I know the struggle of family too well.” She mentions with an understanding you’ve never felt.

You felt so heard. You felt so seen even though your pasts couldn’t have been more different. It was so touching.

“Thank you. For being my friend.” You blurt out, as she gives you a genuine smile.

“C’mon let's check out this shop!” You say while dragging her in and you both giggle.

Lockwood was tapping his fingers against the table. He was getting George to pull article after article about your grandparents. After Fairfax, Lockwood couldn’t just walk into this blindly, especially at the reaction that Y/n had at the mere invitation of dinner with them.

The archives seemed to have little to no information so far, other than that they were old money for being a huge lavender supply over the years and that they had a similar social circle to Fairfax; rich and socialites. Their only link to each other was Marissa Fittes and Penelope Fittes.

Lockwood sighed, as he hoped this wouldn’t turn into another Fairfax situation. At this point in time, he didn’t think he could really trust y/n anymore.

But maybe that was the problem between himself and y/n, that she couldn’t trust him. He never had thought about it that way. He had told Lucy and George about his past, but not y/n, so maybe that’s why she didn’t share much about herself.

Maybe it was time Lockwood let himself go of this rampant disease of the feeling of resentment. At least to a small degree, just so they all could survive dinner and the ball with one of London's most powerful and influential families.

It was finally the day to head to dinner and the ball with your grandparents, and you were just pretending to have it all together, but underneath you were an earthquake of nerves waiting to start to rumble.

You were curling Lucy’s hair with an curling iron, trying to distract yourself from the whole situation.

“That’s a beautiful necklace you have on.” You mention breaking the almost silence as the record player played a soft tune in the back of the room.

She grabs it, fiddling with it, “Thanks, Lockwood gave it to me, for the Fittes ball.” You freeze for a second, trying to hold your face still in the same way it was.

You were partly shocked she even mentioned it, because that was the night your father had died at the hands of him. You were Devastated but wasn’t the only emotion you were feeling, you couldn’t help but feel a pang in your chest when she said Lockwood gave it to her. You hated yourself even more for falling into this trap of his charms.

You were trying to hold a small smile, ads you finished Lucy’s hair. Your eyes started to water slightly, and as you tried to hold your tears in, there was a knock at the door.

“Luce, Y/n, are you two ready yet?” Lockwood asks from the other side.

“You’re done Lu.” You say before turning around before the tears started to come out and started to go get your dress on.

“I’m coming out, Y/n just has to put her dress on.” Lucy explains.

“Okay.” He repsonds.

Lucy slips out, and you here her shoes click against the stairs as she walks down.

You wipe away your tears and start to pull your dress on before hearing your name being called.

“Y/n?”

“Yes Lockwood?” You reply.

You start to struggled with he zipper on your dress, as Lockwood starts to speak, “I just wanted to say that I’m- Y/n/n are you okay?” He asks as you made a loud sound as you crashed into the vanity.

“Uh yeah I just can’t- I can’t get this stupid zipper.” You sigh in defeat, “Can you come in and help me?”

“Yeah, of course.” He says as he opens the door. His breath is taken away as If his lungs were ghost touched. You were leaning against the vanity, with a beautiful red dress on.

“I know it’s pathetic but that the last case we had this week hurt my shoulder, so you don’t have to say it.” You mention looking away, before meeting his gaze.

Was he… admiring you? You couldn’t tell for the few seconds he looked at you, before his expression changed as he moved towards you.

“It was my fault, on that case. I should have prepared you more so don’t worry about it. I’m just glad the dresser that hit you in the shoulder didn’t hurt you more.” He said, “That was quick moving, your getting out of the way before it squashed you.“

That was almost a compliment and an admittance of fault. What was going on with him? He motions for you to turn around and you do. As he moves your hair out of the way, a shiver runs down your spine, and goose bumps arise on your skin.

You try to distract yourself at the feeling of his close proximity to you by cracking a joke, “Yeah well, now I can’t zip myself up, or get out of this stupid gown. Thank you Grandma and Grandpa for this choice of attire I truly adore feeling trapped.”

He laughs a small almost silent laugh, as he grabs the zipper and slowly zips it up. It was agonizingly slow. You couldn’t tell if he was doing this to spite you, or because he was feeling the same weird feelings that you were.

You shook off the second thought, it had to be to make you uncomfortable. You couldn’t have second thoughts on this no matter how warm it made your body feel.

You swear you heard him take a shaky breath in before he finished and you turned to face him. You were really close to his face, and you could see the way his eyes looked almost puppy dog like. His eyes trailed your whole face for a few seconds before he took a small step back.

“Shall we?” He extended his arm, before you both descended the stairs, heading out to the car to take you to the infamous Saunders ball. You only hoped that your grandparents didn’t pull some bullshit like they usually did with you.

You had no idea what was in store for you and your team, and that’s what was killing you. The not knowing.

Taglist: @waitingforthesunrise @rinisfruity14 @uku-lelevillain

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mumblings-of-a-fangirl · 5 years

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So everyone in the Lockwood & Co. fandom,

Since I have just finished my fifth time (yes, you read correctly, my FIFTH TIME) rereading the wonderful Lockwood & Co. series, I have been inspired by my desperation for that wonderful story to continue. I want to attempt to write a full length fan fiction series of at least four to five novels.

I don’t just want a continuance of Lockyle, but I want a glimpse into the future after the Problem, or the future of something even BIGGER than London’s portion of it. There is so much potential in this series and world that begs for a continuance. It have driven me mad.

So here’s what I’m calling “a Call of Intent” where I announce my plans of plotting, outlining, and WRITING a full length “Fanbook” series on Lockwood & Co. This is going to be a HUGE project for me, and I want to do it right and be a pleasure for fellow fandomers.

I’m coming to YOU with a job/contribution to this hopeful project.

I’d like to see/or ask for volunteers...

1.) Interest/Engagement to keep me motivated to write it.

2.) Any ideas that you may want to see in the fan fiction. Of course, not all of your ideas will work or be used, but it may spark some inspiration for my final product.

And for 3.) any editor/proofreader volunteers? Lol it’s hard to edit your own writing without a fresh pair of eyes, ya know? And plus, this person would get a first look at chapters! *wiggle eyebrows* BUT you MUST be really good at grammar and punctuation for this job! And I may ask you to provide an example. Yes, this project is THAT important to me.

The first book will be titled: Lockwood & Co. International: the Ghoulish City. I’ll provide a blurb later on.

Here’s a little snippet to wet your appetites:

Want to hear a ghost story? I used to be unable to provide that. Not as a personal experience anyway, mostly, I was only able to tell the heart racing adventures of my parents. Stories from me? Well, at one time, you would have heard the dreary tales of the annoying ghost who followed me around like a lost puppy. Nah, back in the day, say like a month or so ago, I had no heart pounding ghost experiences, none that was dangerous or anything.

Not until the Dakota Apartments in New York City, where a very famous ghost began remaking a name for himself. That Visitor’s name was John Lennon. Yes, you heard me right, John Lennon, the Beetle singer. He was once known for his music in life, well, in death, he was known for his haunting melodies luring his victims to their demise.

Spooky, am I right?

Also, who wouldn’t want to meet a Beetle, alive or dead? Yes, he was a murderous Visitor and was most likely to kill me, rather than sign an autograph. But hey, something was better than nothing!

“Okay,” said the male youth at my side. “We’ve been here for like three hours? And I have yet to see this Bug fella you keep yammerin’ on about.”

My brow throbbed in annoyance at my partner. He didn’t know how to keep his trap shut so that I could Listen. “If you kept your mouth shut, then I might. And he was a Beetle, not a Bug. Get it straight, Hughes.” I growled.

“Beetle, Bug, whatever, both are insects, and why would a group of Brits name themselves after a nasty bug?” Hughes scowled. “And their music wasn’t all that great…”

“Don’t finish that sentence, or I’ll skewer you through.” I threatened with a hand at my rapier hilt. “The Beetles were legends. You keep your mouth shut.” and then I added under my breath. “Newbies...”

“What’s that? I’m a newbie?” Hughes asked incredulously. “Who’s been prowling New York streets, while you’ve been all cozy in London? Oh yeah, that was me. Don’t call me a newbie, Lot; not before you’ve seen your first real ghost.”

“Hey!” a voice echoed from behind us, one that snarled from the darkness. “I resent that! I am a real ghost!”

“Maybe the word tame would be best then?” Hughes added.

Skull flew in front of us, floated there with his arms crossed and an angry look. “Tame? Just so you know, Hughie, I can very easily show you how untame I am!”

“You won’t.” Hughe smirked. “Because that you tick this brat off.” He hooked a thumb over in my direction. “Wouldn’t want that, now would we, Ghosty?”

“Actually,” I tilted my head in Hughes’ direction. “I wouldn’t mind Skull roughen you up a bit. It might be entertaining.”

Hughes actually paled at that, especially when Skull began popping knuckles in anticipation.

Yeah, I don’t know if you’d consider this bit part of the ghost story, but I promise, it finally became one.

Dad had sent us on this case because it seemed “easy enough”, something to get our toes wet with, but I don’t think any amount of research could have prepared us for what happened next.

To find all updates and such on this project, follow me or the tag #l&cotheGhoulishCity !!

#lockwood&co.#anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #jonathan stroud #fan fiction #fan books #WIP #writing #full length novels #george cubbins #holly munro #quill kipps #the Problem #ghosts #visitors #small fandom #l&co.TheGhoulishCity

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silver-scripts · 7 months

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Lockyle: Only One Bed Preview

When confronted with the ~only two rooms~ debacle at Albury Castle in The Creeping Shadow, I'm sure I'm not the only one who immediately imagined a "only one bed" fic.

It's one of the projects I'm working on for nano and probably won't be edited until December, so here's a sneak peek :)

This isn't edited so sorry about any typos

The group of them stared at the two sets of keys in front of them.

Two.

“Well, personally I’m too tall to fit in a twin bed or on the couch, so I’ll be taking the room with the big bed,” Kipps said. He reached out to snag the key, and Lockwood lunged forwards as well. Evidently their old rivalry still went deep enough that neither of them was willing to concede to the other.

But there were two keys, and they each pulled away with one. The game changed.

Holly eyed George and then Kipps, calculating the odds. “Well I’m not sharing a bed, so I will be taking the cot,” she said quickly, taking a step towards Kipps. She slung her bag over her shoulder and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, smiling tightly. Kipps grabbed his kit bag and the two of them headed upstairs. A moment later, a door closed.

And then there were three.

George, Lockwood, and Lucy stood staring at each other. A breath passed, and George took his glasses off to clean them on the bottom of his shirt. Carefully, he replaced his glasses and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He teetered on his heals as if he was waiting for someone to say something.

“Well,” Lucy started. She wished, suddenly, that she hadn’t bitten her tongue and had asked Holly to split the twin. It would have made the most sense. And yet here she was now, resigned to taking the couch. She could already imagine how much her back was going to hurt in the morning. “I suppose it makes the most sense for me to-”

“I’m more than happy to take the couch,” George said simply. “Personally, I like my personal space. And I can’t imagine either of you would be rather fond of spending the night with me.” He smiled at them delightedly and grabbed his bags, heading off to plop down on the couch by the fire. “Have a good night!”

“Wait,” Lucy called. “You-”

But George had already disappeared, and she was alone with Lockwood.

If he was phased by the idea of having to spend the night with Lucy, he didn’t show it. Instead, his eyes sparkled the way they always did, and he sent her one of his signature grins. He grabbed both of their kit bags.

“Onwards,” he said, swinging the key merrily around his fingers. He headed for the stairs.

Lucy felt jittery in her skin, but she took a heavy breath and forced herself to follow him. Might as well get this over with.

Upstairs, Lockwood meticulously put the key in the lock. He turned it, and the door popped open with a resounding click. He nudged it open with his foot and dropped their kit bags just inside the door.

“Charming,” he said.

Lucy followed him inside. The room was smaller than she’d imagined — even smaller than her tiny room in the attic. There was just barely enough room to walk around the twin bed, which was fitted with a faded, brown, hand-made quilt. Matching nightstands adorned either side of the bed, and each was outfitted with a reading lamp and small bowls of lavender.

A fireplace stood at the foot of the bed, and its dusty mantle was lined with old, black and white photos of the town. An ancient, tarnished mirror hung above it, and Lucy stared at herself in the reflection.

Lockwood walked to the window and gave a curious peek outside. The night glittered back at him, and his eyes shone as he looked out at the town.

“Well Danny’s right about one thing,” he said simply. “There are quite a few ghosts out tonight. No sign of the so-called ‘Creeping Shadow’ though.”

“That’s not altogether surprising,” Lucy said.

Lockwood shrugged. “Maybe. But you never know. We can do all kinds of research tomorrow — I suspect the townsfolk will have quite a bit to say. In the meantime, we should probably get some sleep.” He stepped back from the window and ruffled through his bag on the floor, withdrawing a toothbrush and a set of pajamas. “Shall we?”

Lucy’s heart fluttered in her chest. “Of course,” she said quickly.

Lockwood stepped past her and into the hall, where he disappeared into the bathroom. She closed the door to their room behind him and locked it, that nervous feeling in her chest growing stronger. She pulled the over-sized t-shirt she always slept in out of her bag, suddenly aware of how ratty it was and how badly it probably needed a wash. Her pajama pants weren’t in much better shape. She changed quickly, feeling overly self-conscious about her choice of sleepwear.

Why should she care, anyways? She never cared when Lockwood saw her in the mornings — hair disheveled, teeth unbrushed, imprints from her pillow still on her cheek as she stumbled into the kitchen for tea and toast. This shouldn’t be any different.

There was a knock at the door, and Lucy opened the door to be greeted, unsurprisingly, by Lockwood. He held his suit folded neatly in his arms and had changed into a pair of neat white pajamas. “Bathroom is free,” he said, heading into the room. “You might want to get in there before George does. Or Kipps, god knows how long his nightly routine probably is. I imagine it takes a good amount of upkeep to prevent him from looking like a ghost himself every day.”

Lucy snorted. She gladly followed his advice and headed to brush her teeth — partially to get away from him, but also because she’d made the mistake of using the bathroom after George once, and it was safe to say it was not a mistake she was ever going to make again. Even the skull had wrinkled his nose at the odor, and he didn’t even have a sense of smell.

Teeth brushed, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail and headed back into the bedroom. Lockwood had started a small fire while she was gone, and had turned off the main lights in the room. His reading lamp was on, and he was tucked beneath the bed covers already and had his nose buried in a local newspaper. When he had acquired it, Lucy had no idea.

“Erm,” she started awkwardly. “Would you prefer it if I took the floor?”

Lockwood looked up at her from the newspaper and blinked. “What?”

“Would you prefer it if I took the floor?” she repeated, motioning to it stupidly. “I’m sure I could drag down a pillow and blanket or something.”

“What are you talking about?” Lockwood asked. “Why on earth would you sleep on the floor?”

“Well…” she trailed off, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re comfortable, is all.”

“Why should I ever feel uncomfortable in your presence?” Lockwood asked. “Anyways, I hope you don’t mind, but I started a fire. It was feeling a bit brisk in here.” He folded the newspaper over and tossed it onto the nightstand. “No offense to Aldbury Castle, but its news is incredibly dull. They haven’t even reported on any of the hauntings. Their front page news story is about how some farmer’s sheep went missing.” He huffed. “What’s the point of even having a newspaper if you’re not going to talk about anything important?”

Lucy snorted, thankful for his change of topic. “So getting into it isn’t one of your goals, then?”

He grinned. “I never said that.”

Shaking her head, Lucy closed the bedroom door behind her and stiffly slipped into bed. She pulled the covers high up over herself and turned to face away from Lockwood. It was a twin, so there wasn’t exactly much room to spare, but all the same she put as much space between the two of them as possible.

She felt Lockwood move, and a moment later his light switched off. “Good night, Lucy,” he said softly.

“Good night, Lockwood.”

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #lockyle #the creeping shadow #only one bed #my fanfic #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #save lockwood and co #fan fiction

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thewritingsandwich · 4 months

Text

The Chiming Lady - Part 4

A Lockwood & Co. Fan Fiction

Other Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

Summary: The agents of Lockwood & Co. are invited to the Halloween-Party of a former client.

Tag List: @ahead-fullofdreams

Warnings: Mentions of injuries, brief mentions of su***de and mu**er

"Would it be terribly inappropriate to think that this is a perfect situation to show the guests our talents?" Lockwood whispered to Holly, George and me. All the guests had gathered in the ballroom. We stood in the front row in front of a man dressed as a sad clown.

"Please, explain to us what happened," Holly replied, suddenly holding a pen and paper in her hand. The clown took a deep breath.

"I went outside for a smoke. I saw a person by the lake. He was one of the caterers and he was moving towards the lake. I tried to speak to him and stop him, but he was in a trance. I couldn't stop him and then he was in the lake. He sank like a stone. I wanted to go back to the house, but I suddenly had the feeling that I urgently needed to get into the lake too. I only came out of my trance because the ash from my cigarette got on my hand." His shoes and trousers were definitely wet.

"Do you really want to fight a possible stray and who knows what else when we only have our rapiers with us?" George whispered to Lockwood. But he was already grinning. It was unavoidable. Anthony Lockwood had made up his mind that we would solve this ghost problem, so we would. However, I had to agree with George. This situation was not ideal.

Unfortunately, the sad clown couldn't give us any more information either, so we made our way outside while the rest of the guests took flight.

A light mist shrouded the small lake on the grounds. A few reeds grew here and there and some water lilies floated on the surface of the water. A single, sad willow stretched across the lake and a lonely little boat could be found under its branches.

Without any equipment, our approach was slightly different. Without stepping too close to the lake, I listened into the darkness. The bell rang again. But there was also a female voice.

"You wretched brat," she whispered and a child's cry rang out. Sounds of fighting followed, as well as the wild splashing in the water. At first it was loud and uncontrolled, but it became less and less until the water finally stopped.

"Oh no, what have I done?" the female voice murmured and I felt her remorse. It hit me like a big wave and I was in danger of drowning in the feeling. I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have done that. Why did I do that? He was only supposed to be quiet for a moment. Now I'm losing everything - absolutely everything.

The bell rang again and I opened my eyes. I had just been a few metres away from the lake and now I was ankle-deep in water. I quickly scurried back ashore and looked around. Where were the others?

I turned round searching. It was almost impossible to recognise anything in the fog and darkness. I could only vaguely recognise the lights of the building. Then a child's laughter. The boy was playing with us.

There was a hiss, followed by a bright, reddish flash from the north-east. I ran to the light and caught sight of Lockwood, rapier drawn and flare fending off the shrivelled manifestation of a small boy. Neither Lockwood nor the ghost had recognised me. So I took the opportunity to run my rapier through the ghost from top to bottom.

"Where are the others?" he asked me. But I just shook my head.

"But I know what happened - or at least I think I do." He nodded at me and prompted me to continue. "I think the nanny drowned Mr Pearson's twin brother in the lake. I heard everything." The bell rang again, this time even louder and almost deafening for me. I covered my ears, but the ringing didn't stop, it just got louder.

Lockwood looked at me and said, "What do you hear?"

"Bells," I got out, probably shouting, whereupon Lockwood turned to the tower in the grounds. The ringing stopped abruptly.

"There's another ghost in the tower."

"Are you sure?" He turned back to me.

"Yes... 90% and I've already made decisions I was more unsure about."

"But what are we going to do about the stray? I'm pretty sure its source is at the bottom of the lake, and let me remind you that the lake doesn't count as running water."

He glanced at the lake and paused for a moment. The harsh light from the torch made his sharp face look even more sharp. The red colour of the light made him look almost normal again.

Before he could reply, Holly and George arrived - both panting mightily. George's make-up was all runny from his sweat.

"What's the plan, boss?" he asked Lockwood immediately. It would certainly have been smarter to find out more about the estate and come back later with more equipment. But you can imagine that if that were the case, I wouldn't be telling you this.

I saw Lockwood start to speak, but once again the bells rang - this time so loudly that they completely drowned out Lockwood's plan. The dull thuds grew louder and louder, so I desperately covered my ears, but the ringing continued. I fell to my knees and screamed because the pain was unbearable. A draft of air made me feel someone walk past me.

Then someone grabbed my hands and I slowly opened my eyes again. The ringing continued. Holly was crouching in front of me, saying something, but I couldn't understand a word she was saying. She looked at someone else and out of nowhere a silver net fell over my head. The ringing ended abruptly. Through the fine mesh I could still make out Holly helping me up, as well as Lockwood and George.

"What's wrong, Lucy?" George and Holly asked in confusion.

"I keep hearing the bell ringing." I pointed to the bell tower, where another person could be seen. The others followed the direction of my finger.

"Then it's settled. We'll deal with the ghost of the bell tower first. I think this is the one tormenting Lucy. Whatever it is, it's cunning and clever," Lockwood said. Something warm ran down my neck and I carefully touched the strange liquid. The fading light from the torch made the little part on my finger look jet black. What the hell was that?

We returned to the estate and Mrs Pearson was waiting anxiously in the entrance hall. When we asked her why she was still here, she replied that she didn't want to leave us alone. Even if that was meant kindly, it was extremely stupid. We would see a ghost coming - she wouldn't. But we definitely didn't have the time or the energy to argue with her. She was a grown woman who knew the Problem, so she had to know the dangers.

In the foyer, I put the silver mesh back down and looked at my finger again. It was blood. I briefly bled from my ears.

"Where did you get the net anyway?", I asked before the others noticed the blood.

"I took a small selection of our equipment. The likelihood of us dealing with a ghost was pretty high and I wanted to have equipment with us to showcase our talents properly," Lockwood replied. That's probably the reason for the rucksack.

Mrs Pearson explained to us the way to the bell tower. We walked through the house, past lots of furniture covered in white lacquer and many old paintings. I kept hearing the sounds of children playing or a nanny scolding. Lockwood handed out a few bombs along the way. I ran behind, trying to contain my panic at the blood in my ears.

"Don't act like I haven't already seen the blood coming out of your ears," Lockwood replied, dropping back and now walking beside me.

"I'm fine." He raised an eyebrow and I didn't believe myself.

"One word, Luce. One word from you and then we're out of here." I probably should have said something, but at that moment my curiosity about what kind of ghost was hanging around up there on the tower got the better of me.

"I'm all right. Let's keep going."

#original work #lockwood and co #l&co #l&co. netflix #locknation #locknationfillerepisode #anthony lockwood #george karim #holly munro #jonathan stroud #locklyle #lucy carlyle #lockwood & co. fan fiction #lockwood x lucy

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shortstackcp · 5 years

Text

“Ugh, no one said there would be this much mud...” Lockwood mused to himself, staring down at his usually pristine boots.

Normally Lucy would have just laughed at him, but being the clumsy one, she had mud all the way up to her tight covered knees, and almost brushing the hem of her skirt.

“Where exactly is this haunting supposed to be?” She asked, pulling her rapier from the bush it was caught in.

“according to our client, he was out on a hike and got this horrible chill. He said to follow the foot path and head into the trees on the right of the fork.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, “that’s quite helpful, isn’t it?”

“This has to be the wrong spot. I know its early, but I don’t see any death glows, no spiderwebs, or even feel a sense of dread.”

“Lockwood”

He ran a hand through his hair, “Did he maybe say to go left instead of right?”

“Lockwood!”

“I think we should trudge a little further up this hill; how about you grab the chains we laid out and we’ll cautiously...”

“Anthony!”

Lockwood looked up in surprise. “What is it, Luce?”

“They’re everywhere! My gosh look at the ground!”

Lockwood heard the faint tremor in her voice and looked to the ground. Spiders...hundreds of spiders crawled over the ground and around his feet, a few daring to scurry over the tops of his shoes on the way to their unknown destination.

“Oh my...Luce!”

As if a flip had been switched, a thick fog started to seep from the ground, a mist that Lockwood knew would soon engulf them, he threw his shades on to protect his eyes from the death glows that spring up and surrounded him.

“Luce...how many sets of chains did we bring?” He asked uncertainly.

Lucy looked up to see Lockwood running at her in a full sprint, next thing she knew he was beside her, spinning her round, grabbing her hand....”circle, get to the circle!” He screamed, dragging her along as figures slowly began to appear.

It was going to be a long night

(I wrote this while watching my twin brother fly fish. We walked through some fields to get to the river and every where I looked there were spiders....eeeek!)

#lockwood & co #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #locklyle #lucy carlyle #fan fiction

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patiencetakestyme · 1 year

Text

The Betrothal in the Brothel, Chapter 4

At the top of the stairs, they stopped, building in yet another line of retreat: another circle of iron, another line of iron chains; they now had a clear track down the stairs to the safety of yet another iron circle of chains.

They finished this task quickly and silently before turning to take in the look of the remainder of the room. From what Lockwood could see, it had served as a combination of a bedroom and an office, not so dissimilar, he could not help thinking, with a barely repressed scoff, as the rest of the building: a brothel was, after all, a place of work featuring almost solely nothing but beds. In the far right-hand corner of the room, there was a four-poster bed, situated at an angle.

Off to the left, pushed against the wall, was a vanity featuring an obscenely large mirror and a drastic number of spider-webs. Instantly, Lockwood knew the Source was most likely hidden somewhere in the depths of that vanity.

Across from it was what appeared to be Ms. Campbell’s desk; there were still papers littering the wooden surface, albeit crinkled and decaying, as they were. At the center of the room was a high-backed, Victorian-era chair; it looked like its purpose was to be attractive, not comfortable. It, too, featured spider-webs, but not nearly as many as the armoire.

The temperature here was noticeably colder than anywhere else in the house. As soon as they claimed the landing, he felt the chill hit his skin in a way it hadn’t previously. His eyes dried out, watering from the onslaught of the cold.

Sharply, he recalled that he still had not put his goggles back in place after their interlude on the stairs. Putting them back on, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, but something knew they were there: he couldn’t feel it with clarity, like he would’ve at one time, but he just knew it was only a matter of time until the ghost revealed itself.

He chanced a glance at Lucy. She, it seemed, was just as alert as he was. Acutely, something changed: something was coming, and he could feel it, in a more concrete way than he had been able to a moment prior. He and Lucy closed ranks; they settled into their circle of chains and waited. With a pulse he actually felt—albeit, not as strongly as he would’ve felt prior to losing his Talents—she appeared, sitting upon the chair as if it were her throne.

With the goggles, he could make out the shape of ghosts. He had become intimately familiar with the articles of clothing missing from the men on the floors to be found down below; he was certainly able to see at least that much. But the details: the eyes, the lips, the cheekbones, they could be quite difficult to differentiate. He knew that this ghost was a woman, and that she had been fairly tall, with her hair pulled in a tight bun at the top of her head, but that was about all the details he could discern.

Lockwood had never shared the Talent that Lucy had: he had never been able to perceive the minute motivations of a ghost. Quite frankly, he didn’t overly care. Their client for this particular case was interested in selling this property so that apartments could be built in its place, but building on previously haunted land was a risky endeavor; it needed to be fixed first. As far as he was concerned, he was here to secure the Source, and nothing else mattered.

Besides, given what they had seen thus far, he thought it was pretty easy to figure out the underlying motivations of this ghost: any men that did not treat her employees well were disposed of.

Feeling a bit reckless, he poked his foot outside the iron circle. Sensing him, the ghost immediately stirred, sitting up and at attention.

“Lockwood,” Lucy whispered, warningly. “Be careful. You might be rusty.”

“Me? Rusty?” he scoffed. “I take offense at that. I still practice daily with the cheaper rapiers we keep in the basement, a fact that you are keenly aware of.” She smiled but said nothing in return; he didn’t need her to: he had caught her watching him practice on more than one occasion.

As he moved to stand outside of the circle, the ghost took answering actions; she came to stand and took a floating step or two to approach him. He could feel it instantly: the ghost’s attempt at ghost-locking him. He couldn’t hear her—he had never really been able to hear ghosts, even prior to losing his Talents—but he could feel her; she was trying to wiggle around in his brain, much like Le Belle Dame had done so many years ago.

He suspected she was going through the motions she had exhibited while still living: she was most likely, in Lockwood’s opinion, attempting to persuade him to partake in some of the activities once afforded by this brothel. She approached him, and it was blurry—muddled around the edges—but he could’ve sworn he saw her quirk an inviting finger in his direction.

While there were not many benefits to the fact that he had lost his Talent, this was one of them. Yes, the average adult was more susceptible to ghost-lock: unable to see ghosts, they did not have any indication as to when to make efforts to combat the control the ghost attempted to exhibit when it tried to lock them. But armed with the goggles and his own experiences of fighting off ghost-lock, he found he was quite up to the task.

“No, thanks,” he responded, with a shake of his head, a quirk of his eyebrow, and a withdrawal of his rapier. “I think I’ll pass.” With a flourish, he pushed closer towards her, baiting her with his rapier; he didn’t mount an offensive attack—not yet—but he put her in a position where she would fear it.

His plan worked; she retreated, heading towards the vanity as she did so. Lockwood fought back, pushing her away from the vanity and back towards the center of the room.

Lucy slipped behind him to approach the vanity. If the ghost protected that area when pressed, it was highly likely that that was where the Source was concealed; this, combined with the immense number of spider-webs evident on the surface of the armoire, made for a convincing argument.

No words needed to be exchanged to establish the plan; they had done this dance together many times before. Lockwood went on the offensive, charging forward, his rapier positioned to slice through her ectoplasm. Ideally, she would dissolve for a few minutes, allowing him to help Lucy with finding the Source.

But Ms. Campbell proved to be a particularly tricky spirit. He kept trying to corner her—to slice through her with his rapier—but she always evaded him at the very last second. Alternatively, he now had no other choice but to chase her around the room, jabbing at her periodically and hoping for the best.

“How’s it going over there, Luce?”

“Perfectly fine,” she answered, the irony dripping from her tone. “But there’s an endless pile of shit packed in these drawers. No way to tell which one is the Source.”

“Why not just cast a wide net?” he suggested, as he leapt over the bed and jabbed his rapier forward; yet again, he narrowly missed her.

Lucy didn’t respond, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she had caught on to his meaning. She extracted a silver net from one of the pockets on her belt and threw it over the entire armoire.

Nothing happened. Actually, that was not true; the ghost not only failed to disappear: she charged. It was Lockwood’s turn to just narrowly miss her strike, as he dodged out of the way at the last second.

“Guess that’s not going to work, then,” he conceded, as he once again resumed his dance with Ms. Campbell around the room.

“Nope.” But Lucy had already cast off the silver net and settled back into the work at hand: picking up individual items within the drawers to see if any prompted a particularly contemptuous reaction from the ghost.

Lucy’s survey of the vanity was undeniably going to take several minutes. While some agents that had lost their Talents may dread the position they were currently in—under attack, with minimal context as to what the Source could be or how to contain it—it perfectly suited Lockwood’s needs.

He waited a few moments more, until he could be certain he had found and secured his rhythm in the conflict with Ms. Campbell. Once he felt assured he had reclaimed his confidence in the fight—and that, therefore, it was safe to divide his attention—he sought out pursuing his other goal: the goal that was far more important than defeating this ghost.

“Lucy, I’ve been thinking—”

“Oh, marvelous,” Lucy responded, her tone leaving her meaning ambiguous.

“You found the Source?” He hesitated, turning slightly to get a better view of what she was doing, but he was surprised to find her still rummaging through the contents of the armoire.

“No, I just know you well enough to be concerned when you start with ‘I’ve been thinking.’”

He released a humorless laugh; he couldn’t help it—she wasn’t wrong. “Would you like me to abstain from proceeding?” he asked, all the while sending another pointed jab Ms. Campbell’s way. Yet again, she evaded it.

“No, might as well,” she started, with a shrug Lockwood just caught out of the corner of his eyes. “Not like we’re busy or anything, is it?”

“Fair. This is a cakewalk compared to Winkman—”

“Or Hell,” Lucy added.

“Yes, again, fair. Anyway,” he paused, drawing in a breath to quell his excitement. “I think we should get married.”

There was a loud clatter. Lockwood was not fazed; he cast a singular glance over his shoulder and spotted that Lucy had merely dropped an entire drawer of contents from the armoire. Nothing overly unexpected there; he turned back, giving Ms. Campbell another jab or two as he awaited Lucy’s response.

“You think we should get…” she trailed off, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shaking her head, as if she were very confused. “What?”

“Married,” he repeated, not changing his tone or his disposition in the slightest: he was nothing but his usual picture of calm confidence.

“Why now?” she asked, and this, admittedly, did throw him for a loop.

“Do you mean why am I asking now,” he started, but paused as Ms. Campbell made another lunge for him. Once that matter was taken care of, he resumed his course in the conversation. “Or why do I think we should get married now?”

“Both—neither—I don’t—ugh,” she stopped, fisting her hair in both hands. “Lockwood, why are we having this conversation now?” she asked, with a nudge towards Ms. Campbell, just as she mounted another counterattack.

Lockwood deflected it with ease. “This is how we’ve lived our entire life together, isn’t it?” he asked, his smile stronger—more confident—than ever. He threw in another shrug for good measure. “There’s no better way to ask you to marry me, in my opinion.”

“And…why now?” she asked. Lockwood idly noticed that she had completely abandoned her search for the Source. He couldn’t blame her; his attention was also definitively divided. “We’ve been together…” she trailed off, and he was fairly certain she was attempting to do the math.

“Fourteen years,” he supplied, kindly. “We’ve been together for fourteen years.”

She nodded, signaling to him that, while she may have sought confirmation on that number, she had, at her core, remembered it.

Ms. Campbell launched another attack. Having had enough of the ghost—for the moment being, anyway—he stopped deflecting and sought to go on the offensive once more. With an aggressive swipe of the rapier and, of course, a little added flair thrown in, he pierced her ectoplasm and sent her dissolving—for now, at least.

Lucy had his full and undivided attention in a matter of moments; he turned to face her and started to approach her, his eyes trained on hers, his heart hammering in his chest in excitement. Lockwood walked right up to her, grabbed her hands in his own, and allowed his full and unfiltered excitement and anxiety to reflect upon his face. He didn’t often let people in, but when he did, it was often her, and it was often in moments such as this.

“Honestly?” he asked, with yet another accompanying shrug; perhaps her favored method of expression was rubbing off on him after spending fourteen years together. “I don’t know why I’m choosing to ask now. I guess I just figured…” he trailed off, his smile coming back, albeit still slightly nervous. “Why not now? I don’t know why I’ve waited so long. I suppose I always just sort of felt like we were already married, in standing if not in title,” he admitted, with a small laugh. “But I know I don’t want to wait any longer. I want the title too.”

“Lockwood, titles aren’t really…” she trailed off, with a small shake of her head.

“I know,” he started, with a nervous laugh. “Titles aren’t really your thing,” he finished for her, nodding in understanding. “Maybe that’s why I waited so long to ask. Maybe I didn’t want to put you in that position. I know what your childhood was like,” he conceded. “I know why you’re hesitant about marriage. But if you’ll let me,” he continued, taking another step to pull in close to her. “I’d love a shot at changing your mind about that particular title.”

Lockwood released an anxious breath; even he could hear how shaky it was upon release. He kept his eyes glued to hers, even as hers wandered the room in thought.

“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” she asked, her eyes coming back to his. He couldn’t believe what he saw there: was he mistaken, or were there tears gathering in the corners of her eyes?

He released another nervous laugh. “Lucy,” he started, managing to find a way to step in just ever-so-slightly closer to her in the process. “Did we not just establish that we’ve been together for fourteen years? We’ve fought countless ghosts together. We took down Marissa Fittes together. We ended—well, at least reduced—the Problem together. We’ve been to Hell together—twice.

“I’ve seen you at your best and I’ve seen you at your worst,” he continued, with a slow, confident nod. “It isn’t that you can’t do anything to surprise me at this point—you surprise me literally every single day—but certainly, there’s nothing you can do to scare me off at this point.

“You are it for me, Lucy,” he stated, echoing a statement he had issued to her many, many times before. But just like every time he had said it before, it was of utmost importance that he say it in this moment, and say it again; he wanted to leave no room for doubt in his words. “And if you say no—if you just want things to stay the way they are right now—I’ll gladly accept that. I’m extremely happy just living my life with you. I would be very satisfied living out the rest of our days, retired together.”

She scoffed, as her eyes ran to survey the room. “Retired?”

“Well, we gave it a shot,” he conceded, his own smirk returning at the familiar shift in tone. “It didn’t stick. And,” he emphasized, pushing forward before she had a chance to question it further. “If you want to give this a shot too, I’m ready,” he finished, with a resilient nod. His smirk had faded; his sincerity had returned, as his eyes remained locked with hers.

Suddenly, her eyes shifted, and he knew without one word exchanged that their company had returned. With a flourish, he withdrew his rapier and entered the fray with Ms. Campbell once more.

He could hear Lucy rummaging around in all the items she had dumped upon the floor. Lockwood held the line, engaging Ms. Campbell in combat and reading her for any shifts in demeanor. He just had to wait her out; something would eventually cause a reaction, and he would know, then, that they had found the Source.

“I still don’t understand why we have to get married,” Lucy complained, even as she tossed a few antiques over her shoulder. “What difference does it make?”

“None, I suppose,” Lockwood conceded.

“Then why do it?”

“I want to,” he answered, with a shrug, even as he brushed off another attack from Ms. Campbell. “Do you?” he asked, when he suddenly realized he had not actually thought to ask her that.

She was silent for a while. She maintained the pretense of shifting through shit from the armoire, but he knew it was more than just that. Every second that passed, he knew she was mulling over his question. He didn’t mind the delay; it meant that whatever answer he received would be well-considered and, more importantly, final.

That didn’t mean his nerves weren’t with him. The fight did not bother him; he had learned Ms. Campbell’s attack pattern by this point. What worried him was the crushing of his soul that would result if Lucy said no.

“I think I do, yeah,” she finally answered, and he nearly dropped his rapier; he only salvaged it at the very last second. “And, honestly, that might be the part that scares me the most.”

“Lucy,” he started, his tone straightforward and to the point. Seeking another short reprieve, he threw a salt bomb at Ms. Campbell. Her ectoplasm fizzled, but she did not fade; she merely struggled for a few seconds. He used every one of those seconds to his benefit. He swept over to Lucy in two long strides, scooping up her hands, complete with the ring that still lingered there as a result of her rummaging through the trash. “Do you trust me?”

She stared at him, but she didn’t hesitate for long. “With my life.”

“I trust you, too. I’d never willingly hurt you, and if you give me a shot at this, I promise to do everything in my power every single day to make sure it doesn’t turn out like your childhood did.”

Lucy did not speak—not at first. Several seconds of silence ensued, and Lockwood counted every single one of them: not only as a result of his anxiety, but as a method of ensuring he could guarantee that Ms. Campbell was still struggling with overcoming the salt bomb. Just when he thought he might be getting close to running out of time, finally—finally—she spoke.

“Ask me again,” she demanded.

He didn’t hesitate. “Lucy, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes locked on his.

His smile erupted; he was genuinely unable to repress it. “Let’s secure this Source and get the hell out of here.”

But glancing back at his old sparring partner, Ms. Campbell, he began to suspect they may have made more progress than they had given themselves credit for. She was still struggling through her foibles with the salt bomb, which seemed out of place, given how avidly she had fought previously. With a flourish, he turned, nabbing the ring from Lucy’s hand.

“Think this is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, sounding frustrated. “In the old days, I would’ve been able to feel it from across the room. But now…” she trailed off, with a groan.

“I know,” he conceded. “The goggles help, but they can’t do everything, can they?” He glanced back over his shoulder at the delightfully screeching Ms. Campbell. “Let’s give it a shot, shall we?”

As if she had read his mind, Lucy had already started shifting; the ring was encased in silver netting before he had even finished the suggestion. Sure enough, in a matter of seconds, Ms. Campbell had dissolved—this time with a finality that implied it was for good, or at least, for as long as the silver netting remained intact.

They turned to face each other, and Lockwood could tell that Lucy feared a lapse into an awkward silence. Nearly immediately, she asked, “what now?”

“What else?” he asked, holding his hand out for her to grasp; she accepted the invitation immediately. “We go home—together. And maybe,” he started, with a tisk of air released between his teeth as they started to disembark down the stairs. “You can start working on a way to install these lenses in my glasses, so I don’t have to wear these dreadful things,” he finished, with a delicate prod to the goggles in question.

Begrudgingly, though, he could privately admit that he was grateful for the goggles. Even now, their value was priceless; the first thing he noticed as they approached the landing for the third floor was that the men that had previously occupied this floor had now disappeared. Perhaps, without the presence of their murderer, they were now free to move on.

Lucy scoffed, bringing his attention back to the conversation. “You’re lucky I love you just as you are, Lockwood. You’re quite obsessed with your appearance, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, even as he removed his goggles and strapped them to his own work belt. “You love me for it, as you’ve just confirmed.” He paused his progress down the staircase, as a snarky idea occurred to him. “I suppose I could be like George instead, if you would prefer?”

“Ugh,” she scoffed, yet again. “You know my answer.”

“Yes,” he answered, unable to check his smile as he thought back on the answer she had already given him tonight. “Yes, I think I just might.”

A/N: And that’s it! I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this, and if you have enjoyed it, I’d very much appreciate it if you would consider checking out my series of young adult supernatural/fantasy novels! You can find it here! Thank you for any and all support!

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