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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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Pay For Your Liberty

For Lockwood & Co. Angst week, Alternative Prompt: There's No Way Out | hopelessness ; @lco-angst-week

Posted on AO3

TW: Panic Attack, Anxiety Attack, Suicidal Ideation

When Inspector Barnes shoved the paper over to him, Lockwood held his breath. 60, 000 pounds of damage repair was a lot of money his agency — he did not have. It felt as if the floor had fallen away beneath him and he was in freefall, rushing towards the hard ground with nauseating speed.

“Insurance will cover,” he told Barnes, voice strangled from the strain of rising panic inside of him. He needed to get out of here, get fresh air, take a breath and stop his hands from shaking under the inspector’s watchful gaze. Anything, to get out of here.

Lockwood knew the case was not covered by insurance. Before setting up Lockwood & Co., he had spent weeks painstakingly working through the files and documents, the entire bureaucratic nightmare that was the process of founding an agency. Of course, he had thought about insurance and turned the papers of a carton worth of files and binders to memorize all the conditions and offers provided by all insurances available to him.

None of them covered cases where the agents went against DEPRAC’s official recommendations and guidelines at a humane price, so he did not insure anything that deferred from the status quo.

Using a magnesium flare indoors was a fire hazard and strongly recommended against by DEPRAC and the Fittes manual, as well as anyone with common sense. Lucy had saved his life with it though, and had she chosen not to act, it would have been a hopeless situation for him.

It was abundantly clear however, that the insurance would not care for that.

Barnes knew this, and told him as much. “If you fail to pay your debt to Mrs. Hope in the next two weeks, I will shut you down.”

Lockwood felt dizzy. Barnes’ gaze was heavy on him, assessing him, judging him, waiting for him to fail, make a wrong move so he could snatch away the last thing keeping him alive—

He gave Barnes a sharp smile in return, hoping it was convincing enough. “I will settle my debts in time, Inspector,” he declared, rushing his words to distract from the shakiness with which they were delivered. Lockwood pushed himself into a standing position, bracing his hands on the table to keep himself steady. “Good day.”

And he was gone, rushing through the endless gray hallways in a haze. Where was the exit? He needed fresh air.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, when he was finally out on the streets, away from DEPRAC’s all-seeing eye. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, feeling a tide of blinding panic approaching him.

What was he to do? There was no way he could pay this immense fee in two weeks!

Breathe, he reminded himself, blinking away the shimmer of tears that had gathered in his eyes and taking a few shallow breaths. Not ideal, but it would do.

He could not afford to lose it now, he had to get home and figure out how to fix this mess. In a daze, he started walking through the streets, mind racing for options on how to make that absurd amount of money in practically no time.

The world around him was dulled to vague noises seemingly coming from miles away and Lockwood found himself mildly surprised when he stood on the doorstep of 35 Portland Row. His legs had carried him there on their own volition, he had been much too deep in thoughts to take notice of a single street, hearing Barnes’ ‘I will shut you down’ echoing through his mind over and over again.

When he entered the kitchen, Lucy and George sprang up and Lockwood was hit with a wall of noise. With difficulty he realized they were a string of questions directed at him.

“Are you hurt?” Lucy’s voice barely registered through the pounding of his heart and the rushing of blood in his ears. He felt faint.

“Later. Can we please do this later, I really need to sleep,” he said in answer, wishing to earn a few hours to himself and calm down, devise a plan on how to fix this, on how to save the agency and himself.

Retiring with a final nod, Lockwood went to his room and softly clicked the door shut behind him before leaning against it, loosening his tie.

He glanced to his desk, seeing the binders overflowing with legal documents of his agency and household expenses and contracts. They were taunting him, suffocating him with their mere presence. A painful reminder that he was on his own now, no supervisor, no parents — alone in every choice he made, alone to carry the consequences.

It was enough to make Lockwood finally break, sliding down his door until he sat on the ground, knees drawn tightly against his chest.

This was pathetic. He was fine, he just needed to find a way out of this mess.

And he was sure he would — Wouldn’t he? — he had faced worse already.

In the past twenty four hours, he had nearly lost his newest associate, been attacked by two separate Type Two’s (one of which he had been entirely unaware of), been nearly killed by said Type Two, set a building on fire, jumped out of a window and been given a fee that would most certainly cost him his agency—

A violent sob interrupted his train of thought, wracking his frame harshly. The overwhelming feeling that he was choking, unable to breathe, made Lockwood whimper quietly, trying to keep his heaving intakes of breath as silent as possible and curling further into himself.

They could not know, this was his burden to carry. His name on the door, his responsibility.

That did not mean he did not long for a pair of arms to encompass him in a tight hug, helping him calm down. Or soothing words whispered against his hair, gentle reassurances that everything would be alright, would turn out just fine.

He could not have that. His name on the door meant he was responsible now, for everything. He called the shots and he bore the consequences of his agency’s actions. Which left him to deal with their debt of 60,000 Pounds.

For an instant he wished Lucy had just let him die.

It would have been so much easier to be gone, not have to deal with this shit and the hell of a life lead to at least have something. The world they lived in was dangerous, but he could have at least gone for a job with a safety net instead of throwing himself head over heels into his own agency.

I’d be dead, then. Lockwood’s chuckle at his own thoughts sounded hollow to his own ears. Perhaps I will be by the end of the month.

If he lost his agency, there’d be no telling what he’d do. Exploring the bottom of the Thames seemed like a pretty great guess.

But it was not the end yet and after he regained control of his breathing, stopped shaking quite so noticeably and cleared the tear stains from his face, Lockwood left his room with one final glare at the binders stacked on his desk.

It was time to fix this. So how to go about it?

He could take another loan on his house, but the thought alone made his heart ache painfully. Taking the first loan to set up the agency had been difficult enough and left him awake at night sometimes, terrified of losing his house and the last thing he had left of his parents. He had made sure he could pay off the loan for at least six months without any income as a security net. Otherwise, he felt like he would go insane with fear.

But a second loan on the house would be a volatile investment and he did not think he could bear it. What was the alternative, though? Lose the agency and kill himself for lack of purpose afterwards?

Not quite there yet. Concentrate!

He could not borrow money, so he had to make it. They had to take a few prosperous cases and the money would flow in in no time. Right? Definitely.

So Lockwood entered the kitchen, filling George and Lucy in on his predicament and presenting his plan. “We’ll just take on a few big cases and it’ll be all settled,” he stated confidently, the bad press in the paper and the canceled cases pushed to the back of his mind because this had to work.

“Lockwood—” Lucy started, eyes big and filled with disbelief. The ringing of the phone cut her off and he darted out of the kitchen to escape the air of resignation surrounding his friends, well, colleagues, employees. This had to work.

“Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co. How may I help?” he said easily, the well practiced greeting rolling of his tongue without a hitch and making him sound more confident than he actually was.

“By firing Lucy Carlyle,” the inspector’s voice responded and just like that, Lockwood started shaking again. Lucy had enormous talent and she might very well be their best shot at landing a big case if the research into Anabel Ward’s ghost was anything to go by.

They could not do this without Lucy. And Inspector Barnes knew that. “I’m sure you have more important things to worry about,” Lockwood said, gambling for time to figure out how he could get DEPRAC off of his back. But the inspector would not budge.

“Your agency is a big problem,” Barnes said, making Lockwood flinch. DEPRAC was a powerful enemy to have and he had tried his best at staying below their radar. If they wanted Lockwood & Co. gone, it would be only a matter of time until they found something to shut them down: a fee too high for him to pay, a contract he’d missed, a box left unchecked in all the papers he’d signed. A mistake he made, big enough to cost him his life. “Get rid of her, Mr. Lockwood.”

He heard the line disconnect and closed his eyes tightly against the desperation clawing at his chest again. Lucy’s voice behind him sent a sharp pain through his heart, “Who was that?”

This was impossible. This was hopeless.

How could he possibly find 60,000 Pounds in two weeks and convince DEPRAC to leave Lucy alone.

Lockwood turned to face them — Lucy and George — and their soft gazes of concern and worry were enough to remind him that it was his responsibility to figure out how to keep them all afloat.

“Wrong number,” Lockwood lied easily, putting the phone back.

They did not need to know.

“I’ll fix this,” he telled George later, promising the same thing to Lucy, who just regarded him with a tight lipped smile and pity in her eyes.

He just hoped he could.

#omg this is so muchhh #lockwood my beloved 😭#i love this #lco angst week submission #day eight: there's no way out

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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the wound is the place where the light enters you

all my @lco-angst-week prompt fills on ao3 (currently restricted to users bc of ai shenanigans, sorry)

#fic recs!#lco angst week submission #amazing job - i loved reading your fics this week!!

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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the mercies of certain silences

I see the sun, and if I don’t see the sun, I know it’s there. And there’s a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

day seven: use your senses / silence rating: pg words: 900

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The weather’s been grey and rainy for going on three weeks straight. None of them have caught sick yet, which George at least partially attributes to his increasing the amounts of orange juice (Lockwood) and blackcurrant jam (Lucy) in the regular grocery order. Also, for once the fact that Lockwood and Lucy are mooning over each other works in his favor: they take more interest in the other’s health than in their own and on the whole it balances out. Meanwhile George puts more honey into his tea and sides with whichever of them is advocating getting out of the cold and wet.

It’s a rare night in. Lucy and Lockwood were out all day talking to people and picking up a check for last night’s completed job while George took over a table in the library and collected data. Now they’re all home, dinner has been eaten and cleaned away, and rain taps softly at the kitchen windows where George has once again spread out his books, notes, and a map of London.

Lockwood comes in after a while. On his way to the kettle, he nudges George’s chair in a silent question; George hums affirmation and Lockwood takes down two mugs and brings out two tea bags. Neither speak while the kettle heats up or after Lockwood brings over the mugs, gently shifting papers to make a clear space he can set down George’s.

Surprising George a bit, Lockwood sits instead of heading back to the library. He pulls a copy of an article closer and actually seems to read it rather than just skimming it. Once done he pushes it back where it was and picks another. After the third, he clears a bit of space in front of himself, crosses his arms on the table, and then rests his chin on them. The position can’t be comfortable. When George looks at Lockwood in a (probably vain) attempt to discern why, Lockwood looks back, eyes pensive. “Lucy’s fallen asleep in the library,” Lockwood says, instantly explaining why he didn’t go back.

“Oh.”

Lockwood sighs. It’s not a moony sigh. “What’s your system here?”

“The different colors are different kinds of visitors. The lines point to which ones came first. I don’t have enough data to say for sure, but it looks like there could be a pattern here.” Despite himself, his excitement comes through.

No corresponding light comes into Lockwood’s expression. “Mm.”

George sighs, trying to tell himself he isn’t disappointed or annoyed. “You don’t have to pretend to be interested.”

Lockwood’s brow knits. “What?”

“Go pick up one of your magazines. I’ll tell you when I’ve got something actionable.” Okay, maybe he can’t pretend not to be annoyed.

Lockwood frowns and sits up. “I wasn’t pretending.”

George rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it showed.”

Lockwood grimaces. “That’s not what I meant. I’m… trying. I know I haven’t been as grateful as I should be for your work, George. It’s saved us more times than I can count.”

George is struck dumb for several seconds. “You’re welcome,” he says finally. Then, attempting to cut the strange silence, he adds, “Does this mean I’m getting a raise?”

Lockwood laughs hollowly. George’s skin prickles. “Sure, George. I’ll go over the numbers tonight and let you know.”

George glances at the clock. “It’s almost midnight.”

“And?”

“Shouldn’t we be following Lucy’s example and going to bed?”

Lockwood grimaces again. “Not yet. I should’ve looked over the finances today.”

“I thought we were doing well.”

“We are.”

“So what’s wrong?”

Lockwood waves the question away. “Nothing. Never mind. Sleep well, George.”

“What’s wrong?” George repeats, standing as Lockwood does. “Something is.”

Lockwood looks at the doorway without moving or saying anything for several long seconds. “It just…” He sighs heavily. “Do you ever feel like… it just goes on and on?”

“What does?”

“Life.” When Lockwood faces him again, the dark circles under his eyes appear starker than usual. The yellow kitchen light shadows his whole face, making it look sharp and sickly like someone who’s been ill for a long time.

It occurs to George suddenly that the time that he spends reading, writing lists, marking maps, and mulling over information slowly is the same space of time that Lockwood spends chafing at inaction in a house full of memories of loved ones lost to the Problem. “Sometimes, but it’s usually a good thing. Did you know that iron has almost always been thought to ward off evil spirits and so forth?”

Lockwood blinks. “…No.”

“It’s common in cultures around the world. Pliny the Elder wrote that swinging an iron sword around yourself three times would keep you safe from witchcraft.”

Lockwood still looks blank, then cracks a faint smile. “Swinging a sword around yourself keeps you safe from quite a bit, I expect.”

“Salt is also lucky in lots of cultures. There’s a book in your library about it, called The Magic of the Horseshoe by Robert Means Lawrence. Could you get it?”

Lockwood nods. “Sure.”

George only looks up for a moment when Lockwood enters with the book. “Thanks. I know there are some passages in there about English superstitions to do with salt. I know it’s not your thing, but could you skim?”

Lockwood makes a face before nodding again. “Sure, but I’m rethinking the raise.”

When Lockwood gets absorbed by the book, George thinks he’ll take it.

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@lco-angst-week

AHAHAHAHA I DID IT *collapses*

george may not be the most emotionally savvy (i give that award to lockwood's second passes at connecting to people (his first passes usually suck)) but the boy ain't no idiot and while usually handing lockwood a nonfiction book about old superstitions would usually get 'uh no thanks' i imagine first of all that lockwood wants anything to distract himself rn and also the magic of the horseshoe is a real book that is a. interesting and b. hilarious

#aaaa i love their friendship so much #lco angst week submission #day seven: use your senses

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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Lockwood and Co Angst Week Alternate Prompts: There's No Way Out

Prompts: failure | hopelessness | endings

and it's our bonus day! or if you used these alternate prompts instead of another day!

#lockwood and co angst week #lockwood & co angst week #l&co angst week #lockwood and co #lockwood & co #l&co #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #george karim #george cubbins

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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Hello there! I am behind two days because this weekend was crazy! Can I still post sometime this week even after the bonus day!

of course! it's totally fine if you're behind or if you'd like to submit fics after the bonus day! we'll only be checking the tumblr for the next week or so, but the ao3 collection will stay open for another month!

#good questions everyone #lockwood & co angst week #lockwood and co angst week #l&co angst week #answered asks

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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Through Lonely Nights, I Think Of You

For (sadly) the last day of Lockwood & Co. Angst week, Day seven: Use Your Senses | darkness ; @lco-angst-week

Also posted on AO3

TW: Insomnia

Lockwood could not stand the darkness in his house — in his home, so he let the electricity bill run high with all the lights he left burning to assure he would never have to walk into a pitch black room.

Insomnia was an unwelcome side effect to being an agent. Then again, Lockwood had always had trouble sleeping. But now, after everything he had seen and all the things he’d been through, it became nearly impossible for him to fall asleep without something.

He referred to the aid of sleeping pills on most nights. They were reliable and worked better than the chamomile tea he had placed his bets on fruitlessly for some time. He’d had enough and needed more than a handful of hours of sleep to be of use to anyone during a case.

The only problem with his remedy was that it did not work when he took painkillers, which could not be avoided in his profession. So Lockwood always had to choose between being in pain or falling asleep, when he was injured.

Choosing the sleeping pills over the painkillers was a gamble though, because sometimes the agony he was in kept him awake regardless and he had thrown away his chance at relief by choosing the sleeping pills. Only once did he make that mistake and had to sit through the night, shaking and sweaty from the pain.

Nowadays, he always chose the painkillers. They left him sitting in the library at ungodly hours of the night, keeping himself occupied with tired eyes dancing across the pages of some history book he had found on the shelf or working late on a case.

Currently, it was the latter.

They had finished a case the night before and thanks to him sacrificing his sleep, the sharp pain in his ribs had dulled to a blunt ache, easily ignored as he stretched himself thin over the file for their next case.

The rest of the house was fast asleep, no doubt. They mostly were at two in the morning, when there was no job to be done.

He was decidedly awake, because even Lockwood had enough common sense not to mix painkillers with sleeping pills. And since his insomnia gave him no respite, he might as well put the surplus time he had at night to good use and get ahead on work.

But working through the night was less productive than he wished. Lockwood’s thoughts were sluggish and he struggled to stay concentrated on the pages in front of him. Thinking was an effort he had to strain himself to do.

After reading the same sentence seven times and still comprehending nothing, he put down the file, sighing deeply. This was not fair. Why did everyone get to rest and not him? Why could everybody catch a break but him?

He turned his gaze away from the papers, instead looking through the window into the pitch black night.

The darkness outside seemed oppressive, as if a thick mass of tar had flooded the whole of London. There were things lurking in it, he knew from experience. Well, maybe not ‘things,’ that was a rather disrespectful way of titling the deceased’s souls, but the term ‘Visitor’ never really rang true with him.

They did more than just visit. They hurt, they killed. He knew, had seen enough of the pain the country was in to last multiple lifetimes. Maybe it would have been enough to justify his sleepless nights — the fear and pain the world around him was in, the horrors that haunted their lives — but when he thought and when he dreamed it was rarely this abstract.

Nightmares were a constant companion, ever since he lost his family. It was rare for Lockwood not to wake up drenched in sweat and on the verge of screaming because his dreams were haunted by some past horror.

It came with the job description, he supposed. That did not make it easier to bear.

More than anything, he wished for someone to be with him on the nights he startled awake, shaky hands feeling frantically for the lightswitch of the lamp on his bedside table because the darkness was so oppressive.

They could lurk in the thickness that was devoid of light and what if they did? What if his Sight had left him and the darkness around him was only dark to him?

He was terrified of losing his vision and in the moments between a nightmare and turning on the light, he experienced fear so helplessly that he had taken to leaving the light burning all throughout the night.

This could not go on forever, though, and when the first one of a series of blackouts all over London hit his home — turning off all the lights so abruptly it left Lockwood paralyzed with terror — he fell into a spell of panic, only able to escape when his unsteady hands closed around the hilt of his flashlight and he could see again.

“You’re scared of the dark?” Lucy had asked him in the aftermath, confusion evident in her voice. How can you be scared of the dark when your job is literally haunting ghosts in quiet and dark buildings at night?

“No,” he had said truthfully, “just of the darkness in my house.” He had seen too much of it, too much lurking in it. Death: plotting, waiting, calling for him to pass to the other side and leave this world behind, in which he was so alone.

Except he was not anymore.

George was there. Lucy was there, specially treasured company during the long nights his insomnia made it impossible for him to fall asleep.

They talked for hours, philosophizing together and explaining the universe to each other over tea and biscuits. She had her own baggage to deal with and he never asked her to explain the tear stains on her cheeks when she turned up in the library in the middle of the night, where he sat quietly reading with the lights on.

It made Lockwood feel his heart crack every time he saw the evidence of Lucy’s sorrow on her face.

He offered her comfort — his eyes darting downwards to her lips, her leaning in — and she reminded Lockwood that he was not alone. The darkness always felt less oppressing with her. Lucy had a vibrancy guiding Lockwood through the troubled seas of life like a lighthouse.

“You mean the world to me, Luce,” he murmured quietly between kisses, words spoken into the dead of night. He allowed himself to be vulnerable under the thick covers of darkness encompassing them — the house, his family — and shielding them from the outside world.

He felt her lips draw upwards in a smile and when she broke away to rest her forehead against his. Lucy’s whispered words of ‘I love you’ made his chest fill with warmth.

#he's scared of the darkness of his house I CRY #lockwood and co angst week #day seven: use your senses #lockwood & co angst week

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lco-fan-weeks · 2 years ago

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and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound

Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one. A moment. In childhood. When it first occurred to you that you don't go on forever. It must have been shattering – stamped into one’s memory. And yet, I can’t remember it. Tom Stoppard

day six: oh, yes, the past can hurt / childhood | regrets | secrets rating: pg-13 for murder, violence, probably language? still don't know how british cursing works tbh words: 900

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They come inside without speaking and separate at the door: Lucy to the attic, George to the kitchen, and Lockwood to the basement. He leaves their kit bags for the moment, deciding to come back for them later.

Familicide. The word rolls around in his head as he lays out his chain for oiling and double-checks his flares. The police couldn’t conclude what had happened, but there were certain hints. The twins were poisoned first, which suggested the hand of Mrs. Baldwin; the older two were shot in their sleep with Mr. Baldwin’s gun, a more masculine action. “Mothers don’t shoot their children,” a policeman was quoted as saying in one of the articles about it.

Lucy heard a woman crying and saying, “I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it.” Couldn’t bear what, he wonders as he restocks his bag. A suggested motive was the loss of Mr. Baldwin’s job. She couldn’t bear to be seen as poor? To lose her pretty things? There were things they could’ve sold to make ends meet, like her jewelry and a silver set. They could’ve moved to a smaller house. But no, that wouldn’t do, he thinks in disgust. They couldn’t be seen as failures. Never mind that Baldwin lost his job because he wouldn’t stop drinking. God forbid they experience the consequences of their actions…

He realizes he’s been staring at the shelf for several minutes without moving, hands gripping the edge of his bag so tightly that his knuckles ache. He drops the bag and heads for the training area, drawing his rapier.

“A HORRIFYING SCENE”: PARENTS KILL CHILDREN, THEMSELVES screamed the headline of the main article. Four children, dead in their beds. The twins’ room was clear of furniture but the Beatrix Potter wallpaper was intact, little scenes of Peter Rabbit eating carrots, Benjamin Bunny in the tam o’shanter, Jemima Puddle-Duck in her bonnet and shawl. Two faint death glows along one wall.

Lockwood misjudges a swing and his rapier hits one of the pipes hard enough that he feels it jar up his neck. He stumbles sideways, shaking the vibration out of his arm. It won’t do to get sloppy. He ducks back in, dodging a blast of air.

The older two had bedrooms across the hall from each other. Both were found laying down with their eyes shut. Did they both sleep through it? Did their father close their eyes after? Their death glows were just as faint, though bigger. The eldest slept curled up on her side.

Running into her room after a nightmare, crying and tugging on the sheets, calling her name as her face scrunched up and her eyes flickered open. The fading scent of citrus and lilies surrounded her like an invisible halo. The comforting darkness of her raised blanket; a sigh and she was back to sleep. He’d lay awake waiting for his thundering heart to slow, which it always did. The peace. The relief. The quiet.

He misjudges again, this time his sleeve catching on a nozzle and tearing a hole in his coat. He sheds it impatiently and throws it to the side of the room, rolling up his shirt sleeves. As always he sees the minute scar on his right thumb that's the only physical reminder of the day Colin died.

Slight, small for eight, white-blond hair, milky blue eyes that made him look ghost locked. The shocking brightness of the blood around his mouth when the poltergeist had thrown everything from around the fireplace at them both. Lockwood got nicked by a corner of the ash shovel; Colin had been skewered by the poker. He’d given a single startled cough and then died. Lockwood hadn’t realized at first, expecting a change of expression, a rattling exhale, eyes fluttering shut. He didn’t even have time to shout for help: the death glow appeared while he stared.

Colin’s mum had him cremated. It was the only time Lockwood saw her. She was also slight, but tall, with flaxen hair and eyes the same odd shade of blue. She’d stared around without interest, looking through rather than at anybody.

“Lockwood?”

He turns and slams his cheek into one of the nozzles, sending a white-hot burst of pain across the entire right side of his face. He drops his rapier with a choked gasp as the world ceases to exist for a minute or so. All he can do is clutch his cheek and try to remember how to breathe.

Somewhere in the background noise underneath the siren of the pain, the machinery cuts off and then Lucy is trying to pry his hands back. “Let me see, let me see.”

He has to force himself to let her. The general glow of pain is settling into a pulsing hot line beneath his watering eye. At first he thinks a tear fell.

“Oh, shit.” She pushes his hand back. “Push pressure on it. I’ll get the first aid kit.” He’s found a stool to sit on by the time she returns. He allows her to direct things: hold this, open that, hold still. “What’s wrong?”

It takes him a moment to figure out that the question needs an answer, and a much longer moment to realize he doesn’t know. He tries shrugging.

“Bollocks. You were fighting something.”

“I don’t know.” She gives him a look. “Honestly, Luce. Do you think it’ll scar?”

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@lco-angst-week

squeaking in under the wire here... i'll add more thoughts in a sec

okay SO

i love lockwood. he's emotionally self-aware to a POINT, but he's gotta like, sit down and think about it, and this one runs deep. probably wouldn't wanna touch it with a ten-foot pole. it would be hard enough for him to express what he's feeling if he even knew what it was, and listen *slaps lockwood on the shoulder* this sad boy can fit SO many suppressed emotions in him

also lest anyone accuse me of libel, lucy and george are also affected and sad by this particular case, they're just expressing it in different ways and lockwood slamming his head into a steam nozzle kinda derailed lucy's "hey so. these are some Unfun Feelings Huh" talk

#😭😭😭#aaaaaaaaa #this is so sad!!!#lockwood & co angst week #lco angst week submission #day six: oh yes the past can hurt

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