#DEPRAC roll call

[jesslockwood]

Someone just said that Anthony Lockwood is not a people pleaser and I’d like to dive into why I personally think he is. 

Fair warning: this is just my opinion on my psych evaluations of his character as someone who is a chronic people pleaser and has gone to therapy for it. I’m also an actor so it’s literally my job to figure out why characters tick for the portrayal of them on stage or screen. this is a fictional character so don’t attack me lol.

you’re obviously entitled to your own opinion but I just wanted to give mine :)

!!!SOME BOOK SPOILERS!!!

the deep dive below the cut

Okay so he may seem to most people like a narcissistic character type (from people telling me that that’s what they think) but from what I see is more that he craves to be seen and heard and wants others to feel the same, and does anything even if it hurts others (like the tv public appearance) to satisfy it the craving of being loved and accepted and believed that he’s right whether he agrees with it himself or not. I do think there’s a lot more from the childhood trauma that affects him also to be a hero, and to have a saviour complex almost because he’d rather die a hero and let others live than the pain of himself losing more people. so yes that’s the main part of what his character’s made up of but he still is a people pleaser.

He has the urge to make sure people (like Lucy) feel heard and seen (because that’s all he’s ever wanted), and when for example she says she talked to the skull you can tell he has this internal battle because he wants her to feel pleased with his answer, and even though it’s an unbelievable phenomenon he chooses to hear her and make her feel seen the way he’s always wanted for himself. People pleasers stem when your needs are not met, (if it be from emotionally unavailable parents or like Lockwood, his parents physically weren’t there for him to have his needs met by them and I think he wants to make them proud due to their deaths and always craving more attention and love because he never got enough due to his situation) and you’re left to your own devices to figure out how to not rock the boat yourself when its metaphorically already in a storm. its almost like he cant say no to Lucy or disagree because she meets some of his needs when he’s agreeable. which I can relate to finding people who meet your needs because they're paying attention to you (like George says you “because you like the way she looks at you”) and that’s why he gives her 100% of his devotion, and acceptance and love, hoping she’ll at lest give 1%. (I’m not saying though that Lucy give 1% that’s just how people pleasers work)

I think though with Lockwood and George, George just doesn't have the capacity to give Lockwood what he so desperately wants, at least to the degree he wants, so he turns to Lucy when she’s in the picture. he even at the funeral was like ‘oh my god its Penelope Fittes!!!’ internally looking for validation of what he did. 

Lastly people pleasers can be selfish. I’ve seen it in myself a lot, and people I know and have been told as to why talking to my therapist. Like my ex best friend is a people pleaser, and she got a boyfriend and because he started giving her the validation and “love” she so desperately wanted, she forgot about me and the rest of her friends. she traded us because she found someone who can give her what's she’s craving more at the moment, and clinging onto it for dear life instead of dealing with why she wants that so badly. like I said with the tv interview with the Annabel case and with him calling Lucy an asset, because he wants to be one so bad and have the spotlight for that validation so badly. I will funnily say this is why a lot of people want to be actors, or in the entertainment industry, because there’s a higher chance someone will watch them and praise them for their work.

if you’ve made it this far thanks for listening :)))

[bookwyrm35]

June 16th:Cosplay

The urge to cosplay as a gender-bent Lockwood is so strong, y'all don't even know-

Is it mostly because I want a swishy coat and rapier? Yes. Am I unsatisfied with anything I could buy and thus now committed to making all the pieces by myself? Absolutely.

[givemea-dam-break]

May I request a fem reader x Anthony lockwood where reader is a super talented fittes agent who constantly trades barbs with lockwood but he soon realises that she fancies him so he ends up teasing her during missions by doing small stuff like pulling her close and calling here babe when no-one is around

a/n: ahhhhhh this is such a cute idea, yes of course!!! i hope you like it <3 buckle in because this is a long one - which could constitute for a part 2 if anyone wants one lol

warnings: language fem reader (few pronouns used)

part 2

"Don't you get tired of me saving your ass? This is the third time I've done it this week alone."

Anthony Lockwood leans against the partially splintered doorframe of the house he and his team were working on a case in, arms crossed over his chest and smiling proudly as if he wasn't on his back in ghost-lock mere minutes ago. His hair is slightly ruffled, cheeks flushed, but that cocky grin is there despite it all.

"Sometimes I just need reminding that there are scarier things than ghosts," he says.

Bristling a little, you raise an eyebrow at him. "Is that why I see you looking in mirrors so often? I'd chalked it up to narcissism, but, hey, if it's for a reality check instead, who am I to judge?"

His eyes roll, and he makes a sound that's half-scoff and half-laugh. "We would've been fine without your help, just so you know."

"Mm-hmm." You look around the salt-covered kitchen and the tiles that were pried off the wall - by you - that uncovered a hole in the wall containing the source. "So George was looking for the source in the bathroom just because? And Lucy was fighting the second ghost that she herself told me you guys didn't know about? Not to mention you being ghost-locked. To each their own, I suppose."

"At least I looked good doing it. Your uniform is the most boring thing I've ever seen."

"Oh, so you're a fashion expert now?" you ask, placing a hand on your hip. "No offence, Lockwood, but I'd stick to ghost-hunting. You're at least half-decent at that."

Kipps appears down the hallway, pointing to the front door before disappearing, followed by the rest of your team. He's slowly slid out of the role of being the one to provoke Anthony Lockwood, leaving the pleasure solely to you. Not that you're complaining. There's something so enjoyable about riling him up.

Plastering on a too-sweet smile, you say, "It was great seeing you, Lockwood. I'll have fun saving your life again soon."

You push past him through the doorway, stopping just past.

"And, before you comment on my 'boring' uniform, at least try to get your socks and tie to match. Those are two wildly different shades of blue."

--

You glare at the house towering before you, pissed that you've been sent off on messenger duty not by Fittes, but by DEPRAC. They've got vans and cars and dozens of employees to do their bidding, but old Inspector Barnes has sent you off instead. Maybe as some kind of torture.

Annoyed, you ring the doorbell and wait.

When the door swings open, you're at least grateful that it's Lucy Carlyle that opens it. While she can be quick to anger and is prone to making snide remarks - although you're no better - she's the preferable option. George has a hatred for all Fittes employees and Lockwood... You scowl at the thought of him.

"Oh, (name)," she says, frowning in confusion. "Why are you here?"

You hold the papers out. "DEPRAC lapdog, apparently. I've been sent to give all three of you these NDA letters. They need signing and sent back to DEPRAC."

Lucy takes them gingerly, eyes skirting over the writing. "This is about that case the three of us did in Greenwich?"

"The owner of the National Maritime Museum doesn't want potential customers finding out there were ghosts there, or something," you explain. "I don't know. Barnes caught me on a run earlier and asked me to deliver these."

"Deliver what?"

Scowling, you look over Lucy's shoulder where Lockwood's face has just appeared. Lucy shows him the papers, passing them over and crossing her arms as she explains what you've just said.

Lockwood frowns, looking at you as if it's your fault.

"Barnes has got you on a lead, huh?"

"You calling me a dog, Lockwood? I don't think you want to see how you'll end up after that."

He raises his hands in mock surrender. "I would never do that. You know me. Besides, you're not wearing your signature grey today, so you don't even look like a staffy."

It's at that moment that Lucy slips away, taking the papers with her.

"I'm in no mood for you today," you say. "I've not even been back to my place, so I'm all sweaty from my run and in need of a shower. Barnes has sent me here because he and his lackeys can't get off their arses. And, to top it off, my favourite café ran out of the coffee I like. So, I advise you to pack it in, or I'll be arrested for trespassing and assault."

"There will be no need for that," he promises. "Do you want to come in for that coffee you so desperately want? George is quite adept at making good coffee."

"Even if I wanted to step foot in your house, which I don't, George would probably poison my drink, so no, thanks."

For a moment, he's quiet, as if trying to think of some way to insult you. Then, he says, "I admit, I thought Barnes would've sent Kipps. Maybe even Kat. But not you."

You cross your arms, the cold air nipping your bare arms. You hadn't thought to bring a jumper with you. "Like I said to Lucy, Barnes caught me while I was on my run. I think he was going to head here himself, but decided he liked seeing your faces even less than I do and sent me on my way. Pig."

Lockwood breathes a laugh like he's hesitant to really laugh in front of you. He leans against the doorframe. "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a moment? You're shivering, and it's cold out."

"I'm more than sure." You peek past him, eyeing the clutter and the hint of a collapsed pile of clothes in one of the rooms with disdain. "I need to get back anyways. The sight of you is making me feel violently ill."

"All right, all right, there's no need for that. We were having a civil conversation for a moment. At least take this." He reaches behind the door, pulling out a large grey hoodie. "It's cold, and it's a long walk back to Fittes."

With a bit of hesitation, you take the hoodie from his hands. It's warm like it's been over a radiator. "Thanks. I'll get this back to you."

"Hey, at least it matches your uniform."

"Oh, shut up. You're just proving you've got no sense of style - it's not even the same shade. And, I'm just noticing, you're still not able to match your socks and tie. You need to do some homework."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Get gone. You're making the street look untidy."

You flip him off before turning and trudging down the steps, then make your way home.

--

"That's not your jumper."

You look up from your mug of coffee tiredly. The case you'd been on the night before has left you completely drained, and having a nine am start didn't make it any better. Even the coffee hasn't perked you up.

"What?"

Kat's icy gaze studies the hoodie you wear. "Did you not hear me? I said -"

"I know what you said. But why?"

"Whose is it?"

You rub your eyes. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

"It's Anthony Lockwood's, isn't it?" she says, practically spitting the name. "I thought you hated him."

"Like I said, none of your business."

You pull the grey jumper tighter around you. The whole morning, you've been so cold that you've resorted to wearing it. And, despite your - now, somewhat mixed - feeling for Lockwood, you find comfort in the scent of tea and toast it carries. You've not seen him in the last few days since he gave it to you, so you've not had the opportunity to return it. Might as well take advantage of it, seeing as all of your jumpers are dirty.

Kat scowls. "Give it back. Burn it. Just get rid of it."

"I'll do what I want with it," you say, shocking yourself with your defensiveness. "Just lay off. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I'm hungry. I'm not in the mood for this."

"You're never in the mood for anything," Kat says.

"I wonder why," you mutter quietly before taking a sip of your coffee.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing. Just saying how much I appreciate your constant input."

--

"Saving you again. Who'd have thought?"

Lockwood rolls his eyes, rapier held out in front of him. "I think you enjoy it. That, or you enjoy seeing me. I'd prefer the latter because I love the attention, but either way."

You scoff, throwing a salt bomb at the ghost that has cornered you both. "I most certainly do not like seeing you. It's the worst part of my week."

"Oh, sure, love."

The nickname causes you to choke, but you keep your guard up. This ghost is relentless, and you won't let some arrogant boy cause you to falter. You're one of the best agents Fittes has, a professional in your field. You know better than to let him distract you.

In front of you, the ghost makes a faint wailing sound, though your Listening isn't strong enough to make out what it's saying. Judging from the glowing blood that pours from its neck and spills over its dress, you judge that it's a Wraith, and not a very happy one at that.

"What's our plan, then?" you ask. "We're trapped in a hallway with nothing but a basement door behind us. Lucy and George are looking for the source, I take it?"

"Lucy and George didn't take this case with me. They're on a separate one."

Scowling, you say, "Oh, well, just as well that I happened to pass by when I did then, huh? You'd be dead right now if it weren't for me."

You're about to keep talking, but Lockwood shouts, "Duck!" before tackling you to the ground. Your head narrowly misses the wall but bangs against the floor instead, and you're overtaken by a horrible chill as the ghost darts over top of you both.

All of a sudden, you're acutely aware of Lockwood on top of you, shielding you from what could've been potential ghost touch. His breath is warm on your face, and you can feel his heart racing above your own, which feels like it's going a million miles an hour. Your cheeks, despite the chill, feel awfully hot. He looks down at you, grinning and about to say something.

"Watch out!" you interrupt, kicking him off of you and grabbing his rapier. You slash it through the air, temporarily dissolving the ghost.

You push yourself off the ground, throwing another salt bomb at the Wraith. Lockwood is on his feet shortly after, and you both hurry to his iron circle by the living room door, panting and gasping for breath. The lamp in the centre flickers slightly, and the floorboards creak.

"Hell of a house you've got here," you grumble. "Who is this miserable git anyways?"

Lockwood eyes the ghost before grinning at you once more. "Lady called Angela, was killed in a burglary back in, oh, what did George say? Nineteen-forty-nine, I think. As you can see, she's very unhappy."

The Wraith wails and a liquidy choking sound becomes more apparent, which makes you squirm. Your Sight is about as good as your Listening, but it's still hard to make out the glowing features of the woman besides all of the blood and her spotty dress.

"Your Touch is good, right?"

"Best of the best."

Lockwood scoffs. "All right, no need to get cocky."

"You're one to talk."

"I was just going to ask if you could search for the source with your Touch while I cover you! You make everything so difficult."

You brush hair out of your eyes. "Yeah, me. Okay, whatever. I'll go find this source then. Which room is my best bet?"

"Living room."

Glancing into the room just beside you, you nod, waiting for your cue to go. For a brief second, Lockwood touches your arm, telling you to stay safe, and then he's launched himself at the ghost. You don't stick around to see what kind of pretentious rapier moves he's doing.

The living room is pretty empty, compared to others you've seen. The walls are plain and beige, with very few photos hung up in boring old frames. There's a two-seater sofa with the ugliest floral pattern you've ever seen and an armchair that doesn't match in the slightest. The fireplace has no wood, no ash, no nothing as if it hasn't been used for years.

You're instantly drawn to the fireplace. Crouching down to the ground, you place your hand on the bricks that make it up, closing your eyes and falling into your senses.

The room has changed. It's brighter, more colourful, happier. Sunlight streams through the window, and a woman hums as she dusts the ornaments on the wall. She's pretty, wearing a spotty blue dress, and her voice is soothing. When she passes over to the fireplace, it's almost as if she is really there next to you, replacing the burnt wood with fresh. But her fingers graze a brick inlaid in the ground, lingering for a moment too long before she moves away to replace the flowers in a vase.

Colours blur as the vision fades away and the sounds of Lockwood's fight resume. Immediately, you begin clawing at the brick you saw in the vision, grateful to find it loose already. A horrible wail indicates that you're right.

A spider crawls out of the hollow gap beneath the brick, and you reach your hand into the gap, which is filled with cobwebs. Your fingers latch onto something, but you don't stop to look at what it is before you wrap it up in the silver net you always keep in a pouch on your belt.

Seconds later, Lockwood appears in the doorway, panting and smiling. "Thanks for the help, love. You're very handy. What's the source?"

You scowl. "Don't call me that."

"What? Love? Thought you'd like it. I mean, you've still got my jumper, and Lucy says that's got to mean something."

"Be quiet. I've not had the chance to give it back. Here's the source. Look for yourself. I'm heading home, as far away from you as I can get."

"Oh, come on. Let me walk you home at least."

For a moment, you consider it, and you hate yourself for it. But part of you, a treacherous little piece of your heart, yearns for it. When was the last time someone walked you home? When was the last time someone offered to bring you in for a coffee or gave you their jumper to keep you warm? Though you hate to admit it, Anthony Lockwood is not the worst out of all the people in London.

"Fine," you mutter. "Just this once."

--

"So, tell me about yourself, love. What makes you tick?"

You look at Lockwood incredulously. "This isn't the time, you twat! There's a pack of Phantasms following us."

Lockwood glances back at the ghosts trailing you. He waves a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, they're fine. We're covered in iron and silver protection."

"I can hear them calling for us, and they're getting closer."

"Well, good thing you've got me to walk you home. Who better to keep you safe?"

You curse under your breath, wondering why you'd ever agreed more than once to let him walk you home. The first time was bearable, the second time less so. Now, the eighth, you're at your wit's end. Having the company, especially when walking in the dark so late at night, made you feel a little better, but things would definitely be splendid if he'd shut his mouth for once.

"What did I say about you calling me 'love'?"

"If I remember correctly, you said, and I quote, If you call me that again, I'm going to tear out your tongue and feed it to Kipps for breakfast. Did I get that right?"

"Yes, you did."

"Well, if it annoys you, more the reason to say it, right, love?"

You shove him, and he stumbles, laughing, as you trudge along the park's path, glancing back at the phantasms following behind.

"So...?" Lockwood says, drawing near once more.

You raise your eyebrows. "So?"

"What makes you so prickly? Kat Godwin is bad, but she's quiet most of the time. You, on the other hand, spark a debate the minute you walk into a room. What is it? An incessant hatred for the world? Never had any friends growing up? Oh, I know, you had a pet that got run over when you were a child, and now you hate everyone in return?"

Glaring at him, you say, "No. To all of them."

"So what is it then?"

"I don't know." You shrug. You don't know why you feel the urge to tell him a real answer. "I've never seen anything different, I suppose. My parents didn't really... parent, when I was a kid, so now I don't know how to talk to people any other way than how I do. It's how they spoke to me, or so I've been told. Kipps put me in therapy for a while, but my therapist was a thick-skulled -"

Lockwood's laugh cuts you off, and you glance at him sidelong. There's something about the way the moonlight hits his skin; how the cold midnight air makes his cheeks rosy; how his smile seems to light up his face. It makes everything feel a little less bad.

"I don't know how to word things without sounding mean," you say, "because that's all anyone has ever been to me. Even at Fittes."

"So you don't mean to hurl verbal abuse at me every chance you get?"

"Oh, no, I absolutely do. You're the biggest idiot I've ever met, and you could really work on that narcissism of yours. It's a killer. Real no-go for a girl."

"So now you're saying you're interested in me, but my confidence is putting you off?"

The arrogance in his eyes makes you want to strangle him. "No, that's not what I'm saying at all."

But, is it? You're not sure. There's a funny feeling in your chest, but you're half convinced it's just heartburn and not something people tend to call 'crushing' or 'loving'. You're not entirely sure what either of those things feels like.

He makes to speak again, but he glances back at the group of phantasms following you and grins. "Fancy another ghost fight tonight?"

You sigh. "You really know how to get a girl excited."

--

"Love, pass me a salt bomb or five."

You glance into the hallway for any of the other agents scouting the mansion, scowling. "Don't call me that!"

"Whatever you say, love. Now, the salt bombs?"

Resisting the urge to throw them at his face, you pass Lockwood a few salt bombs begrudgingly.

Your Fittes team and Lockwood's agency have been teamed up on a case by DEPRAC, and Lockwood being the pompous ass he is paired you both together and has been teasing you incessantly. Nothing new there, except for the feeling it incites in your chest.

It can't really be described as heartburn, anymore, because it only ever happens whenever you see him or hear his name. You've found yourself growing bored and - you hate to say this - lonely without his company and quips, and find yourself to be your happiest when throwing insults at each other, though they feel a little more light-hearted now than they once did. Well, you feel as happy as you believe you can be, with as little experience of it as you've had.

You try to ignore the way your skin tingles and cheeks flush when his fingers brush yours and try even harder to pretend you don't see the shit-eating grin on his face from your reaction.

"You're insufferable, you know that right?" you ask as you pull iron chains from your bag.

"Only because you tell me every chance you get," Lockwood says. "I live to give you that privilege."

You roll your eyes. "I can stab you with my rapier, so you'd do well to remember that."

The weight of his arm rests on your shoulders, and he pulls you close to his side. You grow tense at the sudden movement and the close proximity, and hope he can't feel your racing heartbeat. It'll only give him one more thing to pick at you about. You're just unused to being held, you tell yourself.

"But you wouldn't do that, love. You've grown quite fond of me these past few months."

"Have not."

"Care to return my jumper, then? I'm in dire need of it."

Once more, your face flushes. "You told me to keep it a little longer while my morning runs are still cold."

"As a formality. You were meant to say something smart like, Like hell I will, asshat, take it back before I become infected by the bacteria you carry. Your insults are becoming boring."

"Is that so?" You narrow your eyes at him. "Well, you are an asshat, for one. For two, I'd advise you let go of me, or I fear my skin will burn off from the way your brain is overheating trying to keep a conversation with me. So, love, how about you take your arm back?"

He grins, drawing you closer until your cheeks are almost touching. "If I die from overheating, you're going down with me."

You shove him away, scowling once more, but part of you wants to laugh. This kind of banter with him has grown familiar, comforting. And, well, though you might protest it much of the time, being called 'love' gives your heart a little flutter, like it's glad it's finally getting some attention after a lifetime of being as hard and cold as stone.

Bit by bit, Lockwood has softened it up, but you'll never tell him that. He would only grow too smug.

"You know," Lockwood says, "I think you're bribing DEPRAC so that you can get put on cases with us. This is the second one in two weeks."

"Why on earth would I ever bribe DEPRAC for that? If anything, I'd bribe them to get me out of it." You lay the chains out in a neat circle and place all your things inside. "If anyone's doing it, it's you, because you're obsessed with me."

"And so what if I am, love? You're very fun to poke fun at."

Your hands falter, and you hope he hasn't noticed. "Whatever."

He grins, watching your every move. "You can admit you feel the same, you know? You're not going to face a horrible death for admitting you enjoy spending time with me."

You don't know what to say to that. Because, yes, you do enjoy spending time with him, in your little confusing way. Being around him has opened you up to new feelings you've never had the chance to really feel before, and you're grateful for it, but admitting it? It's like giving him the key to a locked door and granting him 24/7 access. It terrifies you and makes you feel vulnerable.

"Be quiet so we can get on with our surveys," you murmur. "I'd like to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Scared? Don't worry, I can hold your hand."

And he does. His hand wraps around yours, enveloping it in warmth, and you find yourself staring at it, unwilling to pull away from his touch. It seems to shock Lockwood, too, judging from his parted lips and slightly-too-wide eyes, but his hand squeezes yours gently and you feel a little piece of your heart soften.

There's a creak in the hallway, and you jerk your hand away, standing straight, face hot. But there's nothing, no one. Just you, Lockwood, and a barrage of feelings you're not sure what to do with.

[oblivious-idiot]

Could you do a Lockwood x reader where he does little stuff for the reader without thinking? Like he buys her something he’d think she’d without a second thought and he doesn’t notice till George or Lucy comments about it. Thank you :) ❤️

Subconscious actions

AN: This was such a cute prompt, thank you! I hope you like it <3

Warnings: fluff, George is done with Lockwood being oblivious, Lockwood is a hopeless romantic <3

Word count: 1.3k

Pairings: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Lockwood was one of those people who would do anything for others without even thinking about it. He was selfless to his core, almost to the point he would literally die for you and the rest of his team and wouldn’t think twice about the decision. But he was also selfless in aspects of doing things for others because of the fact he knew it would make them happy, and you were one of those people he loved to see smile.

Although Lockwood tended to be quite hard on himself and didn’t always let people in, he couldn’t help but soften up when you were around, he practically turned to butter when he saw you. The two of you had become pretty close over the last six months since you moved in to 35 Portland Road, but of course you could never say anything to one another about your feelings. George and Lucy knew of course, they weren’t that oblivious.

“I’ll make myself a cup of tea then” George grumbled as Lockwood left the kitchen with two cups of tea in hand - one for him and one for you. “Is he running around making teas again?” Lucy asked, no surprise in her voice at all “I swear that boy is so lovestruck it’s making me feel ill” she continued as she sat at the table, which made the two of them laugh. “Shall we tell him, that we know?” she asked “Lucy, do you think he even knows himself?” George said as he rolled his eyes “Lockwood’s so oblivious I think even the whole of Fittes and Deprac will know before he does”

"George! Come give me a hand with the shopping will you!" Lockwood called as he entered the house, arms ladened with carrier bags. George made his way down the stairs, cleaning his glasses as he went, before looking to Lockwood "please tell me you didn't blow the months budget again, or I'm going to have to stop you from going out by yourself." "Oh George, do you really have such low expectations of me? Besides, y/n gave me a list of all the things we were running out of" Lockwood flashed George one of his charming smiles before he heaved the bags down into the kitchen "That answers my question then" George grumbled as he followed Lockwood through the house.

The two boys slowly put away the groceries in a steady rhythm, being quite used to the job since living together for over a year. Whenever George came across something that they didn't usually buy he left it on the table, sure that Lockwood had a reason as to why he bought it. "So, are you going to tell me why you brought home half the stores chocolate selection, pastries, and some weird fancy tea" George asks, looking puzzled at the box of tea bags in his hand "What kind of tea has coconut in it anyways?" "Y/n said she was feeling homesick, I guess I thought they would make her feel better" Lockwood shrugged in response as if it was nothing to worry about.

This carried on for weeks, Lockwood never really thinking much more than how happy you always looked when he gave you something new, but you thought it was really sweet. You weren't sure if there was a reason why Lockwood was so keen on doing little stuff for you, you were sure that it wasn't because he liked you, so you never said anything incase it made things awkward. Surely he did this kind of thing for George and Lucy too right?

Walking home one morning from a case, dawn was breaking to reveal a soft blanket of mist lying over the park you were walking through. It was still early spring so there was a chill in the air "It's days like this where I wish I brought a coat on cases" you shuddered, your breath forming clouds in front of you "The sun will come over soon I imagine" George said as he checked his watch. Without even giving it a second thought, Lockwood shrugged off his coat and placed it over your shoulders "Lockwood, I-, you didn't have to" you gave him grateful smile, in which he flashed you one in return "I can't have one of my best agents shivering to death. Besides, I'm almost never cold, practically warm blooded" he said as he slid his hand into yours, his warm touch feeling like a furnace on your icy fingers. "You're human, Lockwood, of course you're warm blooded" George said as he rolled his eyes, but Lockwood simply batted away the comment with his spare hand.

When the team got back to the house, Lucy and George pulled Lockwood into the kitchen while you went upstairs to shower. "Jesus wept Lockwood, this is getting insufferable" George cried, in which Lockwood just gave him a confused look in return "I'm not sure I follow George..?" "We're talking about you and y/n, Lockwood. Have you even told her you like her yet?" Lucy said as she boiled the kettle. Lockwood gave an uneasy chuckle and his cheeks flushed red "I- no, I haven't. How did you even know?" "Oh Lockwood, you are one of the most oblivious people I know, for someone who's ego is so big" George said, shaking his head, "Oh come on, now that's not fair" Lockwood gave out a small laugh, but Lucy and George just gave him unimpressed looks in return.

With Lockwood now conscious of his actions, you noticed he was a little more distant. Less impromptu teas or purchases of your favourite snacks, you weren't sure if you had done something but you knew you needed answers. One evening when Lucy and George had gone to bed, you found Lockwood in his usual spot in the library reading his gossip magazines. You had brought in two cups of tea for the pair of you, which he thanked you without making eye contact. You sat in an armchair opposite him "Lockwood, what's the matter? Have I done something to upset you?" you questioned "No, no of course not! The very opposite I assure you y/n." "Then what's going on with you? You seem distant is all..." He took a long sip of tea, his ears turning a little pink "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be. I've just been dealing with some things is all" He finally answered and gave you a soft smile. You placed a hand on his knee and gave him a reassuring smile in return "You know you can tell me anything Lockwood, no judgement on my part." He couldn't meet your eyes - "I've really started to like you y/n... I guess I show that with all the things I do for you" he hesitantly answered. Even with the surprise confession, you couldn't help but laugh, which made Lockwood's eyes shoot up to meet yours "I'm sorry, I just never thought I'd see a flustered and shy Anthony Lockwood with my own eyes, you're always so confident" - you calmed your laughter and softly enclosed your fingers around his "I like you too Lockwood."

One you and Lockwood had gotten over the awkwardness, you finally went back to normal. Lockwood didn't stop doing little things for you, he actually started doing it more. He started subconsciously packing a jumper in your kit bag for cold nights or letting you borrow his coat without asking. Sometimes he'd bring you back books from the store or bunches or flowers he's see growing near the road - he was a hopeless romantic really, but he'd never been happier.

[artyandink]

Could I request a lockwood x fem reader where she gets really hurt during a solo mission and gets back home late where lockwood I waiting to give her a lecture but after realising, he helps her and they both end up kissing.

CAN'T STAY MAD AT YOU

I winced, shakily pressing my hand to my stomach, drawing it away and spotting lots of blood coating it. I'd barely escaped that Type 2 who was angry after a murder, and I'd only realised when I found a note that helped me piece two and two together.

Times like this I wished I brought someone along with me.

Finding purchase on the bedframe, I pulled myself up all at once to avoid too much pain, almost collapsing again due to the rippling lightning strikes flashing through my body.

I lumbered my way to a spare first aid kit, messily wrapping a bandage around my midsection, wondering how I was ever going to make it home.

"Need a hand, Leigh?" My best friend Artemis was at the door in her usual office clothes, gaping when she saw my state. "Bloody hell- I need to get you to Portland Row. For God's sake, were you doing a solo mission?" Helping me up, I used her as support as we hobbled towards her Rolls.

"I didn't want to trouble the others. We were all exhausted after wraith hunting and the pay was good-"

"Enough to risk your life?" She snapped, helping me into the car and telling her driver, Marco, to take us to Portland Row. "I admire your tenacity, Leighton, but this isn't the time to use it."

"I was misinformed."

"Still!" She retorted. "You're lucky I arrived on the scene in time. I happened to be in the area and the neighbours were yabbering on about a girl who'd caused a loud crash doing a ghost removal. I checked in and look what I found. I can't protect you from those three in that house, so you're on your own from the moment you walk through that door." She got me out of the car and up the front steps, and I leaned heavily against the rails on either side as I rung the doorbell, also noticing her drive off. It unlocked, so I turned the handle and hobbled in as subtly as I could, trying to ignore the stabbing pain that was riddling my thoughts. But they cleared when I saw who was waiting for me.

I'm done.

"Where have you been?!" Anthony Lockwood snapped. "Bed empty, no note, gear gone! You could've died, you could've- oh bloody hell!" I nearly collapsed, but he ran forward and caught me in time, perfectly catching my muffled cry. He saw the blood leaking through, slowly peeling off my shirt to witness the deep cut soaking the bandage that I'd used as a stand in.

"I... um... got hurt."

"Clearly, Leigh!"

"Artemis managed to find me, though. She brought me back here."

"She was God's gift, because you're losing blood. I may have to call DEPRAC." He pulled out his first aid kit, the rubbing alcohol and cloth ready. "This will hurt."

As soon as the stinging liquid touched my skin, I let out a painful groan, clenching my fists so hard I think I might've left permanent marks on my palms. It felt like fire, poison and pain but it felt like it was the universal treatment to anything. I just wanted it over and done with.

"What were you thinking- going on a solo mission this dangerous; you should know better! You scared the bloody life out of me!"

"I was also scared! Don't you think that in this life or death situation I was scared for my life?!" We stopped arguing, Lockwood's Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"I just... I don't want to lose you too." Sighing, I remembered the trauma he'd gone through by losing his parents as a child. I cupped his cheek, softly running my thumb across the smooth skin of his cheek, the dark circles gracing them even more pronounced in the dim lighting.

"You'll never lose me. I'm Leighton bloody Prescott. No way I'm leaving this world unless I'm bringing down a bad guy with me."

"I can't stay mad at you, Leigh." He grinned that gigawatt grin again, melting my heart and soul.

"Exactly. You love me."

"Too much so, I'm afraid." I blinked in surprise. Was this the love confession I'd been dreaming of?

"W-What?"

"I know this isn't a good time, but I love you, Leigh. I always have."

"This is the most perfect time, because I love you too, Anthony." I leaned in, kissing him softly and feeling the pain go away a little, until he deepened the kiss.

"Ow, gigantic cut "

"Oh, right, sorry."

[stray-kaz]

Oh Dear, Baby : Lockwood and Co x f!reader oneshot

A/N: This involves the found family as a whole, but heavy on George x f!reader. Sorry, this is probably quite OOC for everyone, I love babies.

The Gist of This: Flo brings an abandoned baby to Lockwood so he can turn him in to DEPRAC safely and without getting her arrested, but Barnes invokes a little known law allowing agency heads to be legal guardians of children under their care until a suitable adult can step in to take over. Barnes drags his feet, simultaneously paying Lockwood and Co, and keeping them out of trouble while they look after the infant.

Warnings: Mention of female chemical sterilisation. Fluff and some sadness.

Thank you, @the-biscuit-agreement​ for giving me “custody” of this idea! I love it and hope I can do it justice.

It was Lockwood’s name being voiced loudly from the other side of the door, but you answered, pulling it open and raising your eyebrows at Flo, standing on the doorstep and awkwardly cradling a bundle wrapped in muslin. Your heartbeat skipped and you pointed at the small package.

“Florence Bonnard, is that a baby?”

“Yeah, sunshine, it is. An abandoned wee boy. Where’s your boss?”

You rolled your eyes at Lockwood being called that and gestured for the baby.

“Give him to me” you said.

Usually, Flo would have waited for Lockwood and would have ignored your order, but something in your tone and in your eyes gave her cause to obey. She passed the sweet, warm weight into your arms and you tugged back the edge of the muslin cover to see his face. A thatch of dark brown hair and impossibly blue eyes peeked up at you.

“Hey” Flo said gently. “This isn’t your first time, is it?”

You met her gaze sharply, but there was no judgement, no malice, just a hint of understanding and sympathy. You shook your head.

“No” you murmured. “It isn’t.”

Flo sighed.

“Look, sunshine, the deal is I can’t take him to DEPRAC because I’ll be detained, at best and at worse, arrested. But Lockwood can do it without blowback. ‘Kay?”

You nodded and backed up into the house, slowly closing the front door. You were just turning, still staring down at the baby, when George paced into the hallway, calling your name. He hesitated when he saw you holding what was plainly a new human child. He glanced beyond you at the closed door and then returned to studying your face.

A year into loving you, George knew three things without a doubt, and one of them nobody else did. One: you loved him. Two: you wanted nothing more out of life than to live long enough to eventually be a mother. Three: when you were fourteen and showing some interest in boys, your agency head had you chemically sterilised.

You looked up and saw him standing a few feet away from you, and felt the colour drain out of your face and your eyes widen.

“Georgie...” you said softly, fearfully. “He can’t be more than six months old! You know what they’ll do. He’ll get shoved into an orphanage and eventually the Talented ones will be weeded out and taken away, and if he isn’t one, he’ll get booted out.”

George pinched the bridge of his nose above his glasses and sighed heavily.

“I’ll get Lockwood and Lucy” he said quietly, and then without thinking about it, he strode towards you and cupped your face in his hands, lowering his head to press a kiss to your forehead. “We’ll do the right thing.”

You bit your lip and nodded, and walked quietly into the sitting room, standing in the farthest corner and gently swaying with the little boy, your eyes flickering between his face and the open doorway opposite you.

Five minutes later, a wide eyed Lockwood burst into the room, Lucy and George hot on his heels. George pushed between them to stand at your side, his attention distracted by the baby’s blue eyes, which were now locked on his face.

“How do you have a baby?” Lockwood demanded, staring hard at you.

“Flo left him here because if she turns in an abandoned baby to DEPRAC, she’ll likely go to jail. You, on the other hand, won’t.”

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes.

“This is true” he admitted, resigned. 

He glanced at his watch.

“But, it’s too late to do it now. Should be time to get supplies, though!”

He said this last brightly, and winked at you.

“You and Luce go out to do that and George and I will cobble together a cradle.”

George arched his eyebrows at Lockwood and snorted.

“Oh, we will, will we?” he muttered.

“Having three engineers in the family must have rubbed off somehow, right, George?” Lockwood replied, entirely too cheerful.

“Just shut up, Lockwood, and come help me.”

When you and Lucy arrived at Portland Row, Lucy’s arms held down by shopping bags bulging with nappies, bottles, formula, dummies and clothes. Lockwood swung open the door before you could get to it and beckoned you in with an exaggerated sweep of his arm.

“Come on in, ladies” he said. “Come and see!”

You and Lucy exchanged weighted glances before following him into the bedroom you shared with George. The carpet had been cleared and sat in the middle of the space was an empty drawer lined with a soft blanket, its corners and edges sanded down to smooth roundness. You looked up at George, something stuck in your throat, and he shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, thinking you were disappointed.

“It’s the best I could do on short notice” he mumbled.

You handed the baby carefully to Lockwood and stepped to George, stretching up on your tiptoes to wrap your arms around him, your fingers sinking into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Thank you, Georgie” you whispered, just for him. “It’s just right for Theodore.”

George’s hands landed on your hips and he pulled you away slightly to look you in the eye. Lockwood moved around the room so he, too, could see your face.

“Theodore?” they repeated together.

You smiled over your shoulder at Lucy.

“We named him on the way home” she said, shrugging while staring the boys down as if daring them to argue. “We can’t just keep calling him ‘the baby’ or worse, ‘it’. We decided he needs to have a name. He’s a human, Lockwood, not a Source or a relic. He’s flesh and blood, not plasma.”

George raised an eyebrow and looked over at Lockwood.

“She’s right” he told him. “They both are. He’s a person. Theodore. Strong name.”

You grinned and leaned on his chest, arms around his waist.

“I thought so.”

You woke in the middle of the night and shuffled on your knees to the edge of the bed, only to discover that baby Theodore wasn’t sleeping in his makeshift bassinet. Panic propelled you from the room, socked feet almost slipping on the stairs as you made it to the kitchen, where there was a dim light.

You pulled up short, breathless at the sight before you of George pacing the kitchen, baby nestled in one arm, a half full bottle of formula in the opposite hand. You must have made a sound, for he stopped and glanced in your direction, eyes wide until he saw it was you.

“Sorry if I scared you” he said quietly. “He woke up hungry and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

You padded across the floor, leaned down and kissed the sleepy baby’s warm forehead. His eyelids flickered and lips pursed. George watched you closely, knowing that when Inspector Barnes took this baby away, you would be heartbroken.

The next morning, you handed Theodore to Lockwood as he settled himself in the backseat of a cab. You bit your lip hard as you gently stroked the soft dark cap of hair before George grasped your hand and pulled you away from the edge of the curb. He wrapped his arms around your middle and rested his chin on top of your head, hugging you tightly as the cab disappeared, taking Lockwood and your dream with it.

He was back two hours later, carrying both the baby and an official looking document. He didn’t miss the light in your eyes as you jumped up off your chair in the kitchen and took Theodore out of his arms.

“What happened with DEPRAC?” Lucy asked Lockwood, surprised.

He passed her the paper and the three of you gathered together around her to read over her shoulder. You muttered parts of it under your breath as you read.

“...law invoked...infant or young child...under care of agency head...more permanent solution...”

You raised your head and stared at Lockwood, hope fluttering wings inside your chest.

“We get to keep him?” you asked, eyes wide.

He hesitated, then nodded.

“For now, yes. He’s ours” he told you.

You let out a triumphant squeak and flung your free arm around George’s neck, pulling his startled face down to kiss him, your mouth ecstatic and open over his.

“We have a baby!” you stage whispered in his ear.

George nodded, but when you pulled back from him and turned away, he watched you go with dread settling down upon him like an unwelcome visitor. This wasn’t likely to end well for you.

It took a week for Barnes to arrive at 35 Portland Row to check on the home environment the abandoned baby was living in, and when he knocked on the door, no one came to answer it. But he could hear voices from inside, so he tested the door, found it unlocked, and let himself in.

He tracked the voices, steadily getting louder, to the warm kitchen, where he found all four members of Lockwood and Co standing around the Thinking Cloth, all hands pressed down onto the table, and the six month old baby boy rocking gently in a bouncer on the floor, curious blue eyes gazing in the direction of the familiar voices.

Barnes almost laughed out loud when he realised what they were arguing about.

“Theo!” you were insisting, a faint dusting of red in your cheeks.

George’s hand came down on top of yours, covering it entirely.

“I love you, babe, but Teddy is pretty cute” he added, wincing when you glowered at him.

Lucy pushed her hand into the air.

“I agree with George!” she announced.

Next to her, Lockwood shook his head vehemently.

“No, I think Theo is better” he agreed with you.

“So you’ve named him then, have you?”

Barnes finally spoke and all four stopped to stare at him. He noted how you stepped away from George to stand in front of baby Theodore. You crossed your arms over your chest, but still looked small. Small but ready to go to war.

“Yes, we’ve named him. We feed him, change him, cuddle him and wake up in the night to him.”

Barnes eyed you, nodding slowly. 

“Want a baby of your own someday, kid?” he asked.

They all watched you stiffen, but only George knew the reason why. Neither of you bothered to respond, you instead choosing to crouch down and lift Theodore out of his bouncer, tucking his soft head underneath your chin.

“Well, don’t mind me” Barnes continued eventually, trying to bypass the tension. “I’m just here to have a look around and make sure Theo is safe with you four.”

He winked at you and you smiled back, turning in triumph to face the others.

“See?”

It was another whole month before Barnes returned to your home, and when he did, he almost tripped over the largest stuffed zebra he had ever seen, just sitting in the middle of the hall. He looked around him, surprised and a little amazed, to see dozens of polaroid pictures of Theo and his little oddball family stuck to the walls on either side.

Lockwood and Co had experienced a quiet number of weeks at home together, paid comfortably by DEPRAC, Barnes ensured, to keep them away from the dead and keep them safe, them and their ward. Because of this, the house was quiet as he trekked calmly through it, no plans being pawed over on the Thinking Cloth, no chains being oiled, no George nose deep in a book.

Curious, he followed the trancelike sound of white noise coming from behind George’s bedroom door. It was ajar, so Barnes gently pushed it open a little further, leaning against the jamb so he could soak in the image in front of him for a while more.

George and you were facing each other on the double bed, sound asleep, his glasses already leaving indents on his skin. You were both curled like fiddleheads, leaving space in between you for Theo, lying asleep on his back, his head turned toward you. The fingers of one of your hands were loosely tangled with George’s, you having fallen asleep holding his hand, while your other hand was resting lightly on Theo’s tummy, rising and falling with his every breath.

Barnes heard a footstep in the corridor behind him and turned to face Lockwood, who was watching him with a half worried, half determined look on his face.

“You’ve seen them” he said solemnly.

Barnes nodded slowly, and waited.

“Are you going to let us keep Theo?” Lockwood asked quietly.

Barnes took a deep breath in, taking time to hesitate. Then he released it and nodded again.

“Yes, I believe that I am” he said simply, and then turned and left.

Lockwood suppressed a grin as he tiptoed to George’s bedroom door, glancing in at you. Theo shifted a little in his sleep.

“Sweet dreams, Teddy” he said softly. “You’re home now.”

[hurtcomfortficstilltheend]

A little post-river pick-me-up.

Lucy Carlyle x gn! Reader

Summary: R makes panqueques con dulce de leche (argentinian crepes filled with a milk based caramel) for the team after the shiver-inducing Thames fiasco.

Warnings: Falling into the Thames (chapter 7 follow-up), me sugarcoating the end because I'm weak for this fandom and this fandom only, and fluff.

A/N: The uncover DEPRAC agent didn't die, Joplin (just noticed in the book she's a man btw) doesn't exist, and Penelope Fittes is a good person, because I say so. Also, reader is Lockwood's cousin.

Word Count: 1.9k

Thank God. 

Thank God you were born in a town surrounded by water, thank God your father had insisted on swimming lessons since you were five, thank God you actually learned.

You’d probably drowned otherwise. Jumping from that rooftop, at least fifteen meters high, was already too much of a physical trauma, to add struggling to keep afloat on top of it. Now that you think about it, thank God you’d done all those scouts survival courses too. 

The moment the three of you hit the water, and after the initial sinking -followed by the thermic shock and panic- you instinctively swam up to the surface.The night breeze was somehow even colder than the Thames now.

“Lucy!” You yelled with the first gulp of air you got into your lungs. “Anthony!” You weren’t sure how far they could be, if you had drifted away during the fall, if they were still underwater. It was pitch black, and you didn’t even know if you were safe from the golden blade yet.

You kicked your shoes off into the river to lessen the weight, and considered doing the same with your dressing pants. “LUCY!” You heard some rustling in the water near you, and begun a clumsy front crawl towards it. It was your cousin, Anthony, who seemed to have just had his first breath. You held onto his arm. "Are you okay?"

"Peachy." He was having no problem with keeping his head above the water, so you let go.

You rolled your eyes, a dry but sincere "Great." Left your mouth, then you got serious. “I can’t find Lucy.” 

He nodded dutifully, but before either of you started calling out for the girl, she popped up a few meters away from you. You thanked God again, but noticed that she was coughing and struggling to stay afloat.

Lockwood got to her first and helped stabilize her, but you noticed that he was just as shaken, so it was kind of up to you to wear the trousers in the situation. Which right now meant to take them off. You had a pair of biking shorts under anyway, no biggie. So you did, discarding your coat into the river as well.

You got closer to Lucy and took Lockwood’s place holding her up. You weren’t sure Lucy knew how to swim at all. 

“We need to get to shore ASAP.” Anthony nodded again. You wondered if today’s events were too much for him, he seemed so quiet, unlike his usual self. You already missed his overconfident attitude.

At some point of the trip to the nearby beach, Lucy had actually started swimming by herself. Still, you kept an eye on her, just in case.

-

Getting out of the river was not as satisfying as you had imagined. You were grateful and relieved to be on solid ground, of course, as the whole group’s muscles were quite fatigued, and you were all agitated after swimming; but the cold that came with it was almost unbearable. The three were shivering violently when you threw yourselves to the gravel to catch your breaths.

Lockwood was the first to sit up. He felt horribly guilty for how the events had unfolded and how all of you had ended up in this situation. He knew it was his fault, his pride started the whole bone glass thing anyway.

Your teeth were chattering, and you knew you all were going to die of hypothermia if you didn’t get home as soon as possible. Besides, sooner or later you were bound to cross paths with a Visitor, and you were in no condition to fight. 

You turned to your side, and saw Lucy looking up at the dark cloudy sky with glassy eyes. Her lips were turning purple.

You jumped up into action, and reached an arm towards your girlfriend to help her up too. She struggled a little bit to gain balance, and so did Lockwood, and so did you, but in no time you were walking towards the nearest ghostlight to hail a night cab. 

Your appearance wasn’t decent at all. You were all dressed in night attire, but wet to the bone and filthy. Lucy’s mascara was running down her cheeks, and you were barefoot and in gym shorts. For a second you thought you probably looked like wet, sad, kicked puppies. Still, a taxi driver took pity on you and parked.

-

You didn’t even have the energy to fight Lockwood on this one, or tell him how reckless he had been, or how you could have all died tonight. You were exhausted. Still, as his family, you had the inherent responsibility to make him take account for his actions. “You can take the shower first, Luce.” You told her the moment you stepped into 35 Portland Row. 

“Are you sure..?” She turned around to look at you, hesitant to climb up the stairs to your shared room. 

You nodded and tried your best to smile for her. “Of course, just don’t use all the hot water again, please.” The joke went right over her head, but she still nodded and made her way to the attic.

You crossed your arms to try and hide your shivering. When you were both alone, you turned to face your cousin. “Dude..” 

“I know. I’m sorry” You didn’t mean to make him feel worse about it, but this wasn’t going to just be forgotten and forgiven like almost everything always was.

“You fucked up big time.” He just gulped and stared at his now water damaged dress shoes. You sighed. It was not the time anyways. “Go shower so I can patch up your forehead.” He was about to complain, but you cut him off with a gesture of your hand, “Don’t lie to yourself, we all know you’re an awful nurse. Now go.”

“You sound like aunt Lauren.” He grumbled. That’s how genetics work, you thought, but before you could react, he had already gone upstairs.

You sat on the second bottom stair step, and leaned your body to rest on the wall. You were facing the door, waiting for George to barge in, and tell you all that the mirror had been safely handed to DEPRAC. You truly couldn’t take any other scenario for an answer. 

-

The dissonant shriek the hinges emitted when the entrance door was opened disturbed your sleep. You hadn’t even realized you dozed off. You clothes were still wet and cold, so it couldn’t have been too long.

“George.” You said standing up slowly. Your knees popped and the general soreness hit you like a tidal wave. “Is it over?”

He turned the key and locked the house. “What happened to you-”

“Long story, jumping into the Thames does this sometimes, is it over?” You repeated. It sounded desperate.

He seemed to understand. “Yes, it is. The furnaces are not on during the night, but I made sure they took the mirror to the lowest level to be incinerated first thing in the morning.”

“Good.” Everyone was inside, everything was okay. You were all safe and alive. You tried to hold on to that thought. You breathed out slowly. “I need a shower.”

Halfway up the stairs you looked over your shoulder. “The entirety of today was a clusterfuck. How does argentinian milk caramel crepes tomorrow afternoon sound? If we go to Arif’s before that I can prepare some. This team really needs a pick-me-up.”

George took in your tired eyes and miserable appearance altogether. He formed a half-smile and nodded softly. You did the same and headed to the small bathroom in the attic, making a quick detour to apply a few steri-strips to Anthony's forhead and calling it a day.

-

You got out of the shower and dried your hair. Your piyamma was already on when you got out of the bathroom and into the room, a cloud of steam following you. The lights were off, but the street’s ghost lamp illuminated enough for you to get to your side of the bed without stumbling over something.

Lucy had been so tired she had fallen asleep over the covers. You picked her up softly, undid the bed and did your best to settle her in, following suit onto your side. She stirred.

“What took you s’long?” she slurred out. You could tell she wasn’t really awake. You answered anyway.

“I was just waiting for George to get home. It's over.” You were lying on your back, and in her drowsy state she got closer and curled onto your side, an arm around your waist. You caressed her hand softly with your fingertips.

“Yeah?” She asked. You hummed in confirmation. Her body relaxed and her breathing evened out. Soon enough, so did yours.

-

The feeling of freezing water engulfing you and getting into your lungs woke you up. You opened your eyes, the adrenalin already in your bloodstream, muscles itching to get into action. But you didn’t. You were safe, in your room with your girlfriend sleeping soundly by your side. It was just a nightmare.

You didn’t want to go back to sleep though; you knew if you did, your mind would come up with more terrors to torment you with. From your position you checked the clock on the wall. 10.52 a.m. Too early for your liking, but it would have to do.

You got up slowly, making sure Lucy's sleep didn’t get disturbed in the slightest. 

Every single fiber of your body was sore, it felt worse than the night before, but it made sense, so you decided to ignore it.

You brushed your teeth and picked up some clothes to change downstairs.

-

After getting the supplies and getting the pancake pan going, little by little the house started waking up. 

“Would you please put the kettle on the stove?” You asked George. He was the first to wake up and the most alive looking, at least compared to the shapeless form slumped over the table, AKA your cousin Anthony. Lucy hadn’t gotten up yet.

It was one p.m. when the last crepe left the pan. They were all stacked up on a plate, ready to be filled with dulce de leche and enjoyed. The tea was already in the teapot, Ariff's swiss rolls on display, and other add ons made by George scattered around.

Still, Lucy wasn’t there.

“Don’t you dare start without us.” you said in an over dramatic manner, pointing at them and making a threatening gesture as you headed upstairs. You knew they were going to be halfway down the stack by the time you came back anyway, but you didn’t actually care that much. 

“Lucy…” You sing-songed when you got to the attic. At first glance you noticed she hadn’t changed position from when you left her a few hours before. 

You sat on the edge of the mattress and ran your fingers through her hair. Slowly but surely, she started stirring, her eyelashes fluttering open.

“Hi.” She croaked out.

“Hi, babe. There are fresh crepes in the kitchen, and I was wondering if you wanted some… you know, before they get eaten by George and Anthony… who were left unsupervised just about now in front of the plate-”

She jolted up at that. You knew it would do the trick, since it was her favorite dish. She smiled broadly, gave you a little peck on the cheek and got into the bathroom.

In no time you were both heading towards the kitchen, holding hands.

-

-

-

Bonus:

You were surprised to see the guys hadn’t gotten to inhaling the food yet. Then realized as they handed you a butterknife, they were just too lazy to actually spread the caramel into the crepes. You rolled your eyes, but prepared one for each, and then another one. You ate last, but you didn’t mind, you were happy you could bring a smile into their faces, even if it was just with something as simple as food.

-

After finishing the breakfast feast, the whole agency, one by one disappeared into your bedrooms to take a well deserved nap.

[13atoms]

The Curious Case of Norma Fields (Anthony Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle)

Summary: The whole team is needed for a run-of-the-mill haunting at the glamorous London townhouse of retired supermodel Norma Fields.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | 4.8k / 25.8k

Chapter 3: A Reluctant Haunted House Revisitation

“She wants us back, to clear the type two,” Lockwood began sombrely.

He looked uncomfortable on the sofa, hunched awkwardly as he tried to maintain his barely-recovered composure.

“That’s a good sign,” George offered, but Lockwood quickly shot him a withering look.

“Not quite. She wants us back for free, tonight. And if we don’t clear the ghost, she’s more than willing to drag us through the mud in the press.”

“Charming,” George grumbled.

Lucy swallowed. It was hard to forget the encounters with Norma. To reconcile the awkward kindness she’d shown Lucy with the harshness of her blackmail. 

“Does DEPRAC know it was us?” she asked.

“Yes. But Barnes called, and he doesn’t have any concerns. There’s plenty of other reasons that ghost could have been there two days later, but not when we were there.”

“There’s not that many reasons,” George grumbled, before holding his hands up in surrender under two glares, “but whatever they want to believe.”

“I don’t think we got it wrong,” Lucy admitted timidly, quiet enough that she hoped maybe only Lockwood would hear.

“I don’t either,” George agreed, “we’re better than that.”

“But we can’t be responsible for a murder.”

Lockwood’s words fell flat, and Lucy and George sank back as if they’d been scolded. He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We know it wasn’t us, guys,” he insisted, “but we can clear it, right? It might be fun!”

Lucy felt the friction burn on her chin as she pouted, the skin still raw against the warm air. It had barely begun to scab over, the healing helped by an ointment Lockwood had wordlessly left on her bedside table. George flexed his wrist, still sore from a missed rapier swipe the night before.

Lockwood surveyed his employees. They suddenly seemed more battered and bruised than he’d remembered. Still, Ms Fields had talked him into a corner on the phone. He’d been out charmed. Outwitted.

And just a tiny bit afraid.

It took a huge inhale from Lucy for any of them to be pulled from their thoughts.

“So, tonight?” she asked.

“Apparently, tonight.”

He offered her an apologetic grimace. George covered his face with a floppy hand.

They were all emotionally exhausted. The house was a disaster. Their laundry baskets were reaching Everest heights. There was an appointment for some light work clearing a shade from a church that they’d have to reschedule. Lucy seriously contemplated a nap.

“I’m really sorry, guys,” Lockwood muttered, “I just… we can’t risk her going to the papers.”

“They’d believe her over us,” George agreed, “even if DEPRAC backed us up. And they’re not our biggest fans.”

Lucy laughed. Neither of the boys flinched.

“Once more unto the breach…”

George stood with the groan of someone twice his age, stretching his back. He looked down to catch Lucy’s blank expression, he rolled his eyes.

“Philistines, I swear,” he grumbled.

“…or close the wall up with our English dead.” Lockwood finished, “Perhaps not the cheeriest line for tonight, George.”

The researcher made a noise which indicated he was sincerely impressed, and Lucy couldn’t help a smile through her bafflement.

“Didn’t have you pinned as a Shakespeare man, Lockwood.”

“I had to read it for school,” he confessed, shooting Lucy a wicked grin, “it’s the only line I remember from the whole of Henry V.”

George rolled his eyes dramatically. Lockwood didn’t miss Lucy’s shoulders drop in relief. He hated when George made her feel outclassed, no matter how unintentionally. She absolutely was not outclassed in anything that mattered.  

“On that depressing note, I guess I’m heading to the Archives,” George offered.

As Lockwood prepared to ask why, the researcher waved him off.

“I’ve got some theories. I’ll meet you guys at the house at… half-five?”

“Perfect,” Lockwood agreed.

George raised both eyebrows pointedly at Lucy, and she held the magazine up to him.

“Fancy something crap to read on the way over?” she said.

“Obviously.”

George took it from her with a very convincing amount of enthusiasm, and Lockwood rolled his eyes.

“I should never have let you bring that crap into this house,” he teased.

Lucy shrugged, nodding to where George was examining the fashion model on the front cover.

“Looks like you’re outnumbered now. He’ll be dressing in Balenciaga before you know it.”

Lockwood groaned as George pretended to strike a pose, magazine carefully rolled up in his hand to stop the polaroid from slipping out. For now, she laughed. She’d thank him later.

*

The pair of them were left in the library, and Lucy clasped her hands together, feeling a little guilty at their emptiness.

Lockwood trusted George. Completely. Fully. Perhaps more than he could trust Lucy. And yet when it was just the two of them, she sometimes thought she could see Lockwood’s guard drop a little.

Lockwood covered his face with his hands as he leaned back against the sofa, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, finding awkward angles in the too-short drop to the floor. He wasn’t wearing pink socks, today – black with blue toes and heels – and the lighter fabric was a little discoloured where he’d been traipsing around the house in them.

It wasn’t the first time she’d watched him in this room, when his attention was captured elsewhere by a book or a newspaper, or occasionally the television. Lucy wondered whether he’d liked this room as a kid. Maybe his love of books had always been there, outweighing the intimidating size and quantity of books in this room. Maybe his parents had given him a special corner.

 Her town hadn’t had a public library, and the children’s books on a half-height bookcase at school felt like a distant memory now.  

She often wondered which of these books he’d read. Which his mother had read to him. Which ones his father had haggled over, or spent too much money on only to return and be jokingly scolded by his wife.

She didn’t know much about Lockwood’s family, but she knew Lockwood. And she imagined someone like him could only come from a lot of love, and a lot of intelligence. A lot of good. She wasn’t sure their absence would hurt him so much otherwise.

They must have been able to reach those high top shelves, laughed at Lockwood’s chubby baby hands as he tried to pull books from the lower shelves.

Their loss ached in her chest far more than her own father’s ever did.

She looked at his hands now, still rubbing at his face, long fingers and prominent knuckles covered in nicks and scratches which never seemed to quite fade before the next ones arrived.

When he pulled his hands from his face, leaving the skin reddened and his eyes blinking against the dim light of the room, Lockwood caught her watching him.

He sat up, leant forwards, hands finding purchase on the sofa.

“I just don’t believe you missed anything, Luce. You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He waited for a second, until Lucy swiped some hair from her face and continued speaking.

“I just can’t be certain either way, you know?”

Lockwood shook his head.

“No, Barnes, uh, he thought the same. He doesn’t trust me a bit, but he knows how good you are. Well, some of how good you are.”

He shot her a conspiratorial wink, and Lucy felt her cheeks getting hot at the gesture.

“I don’t think we missed anything.”

When she said it again, Lucy started to convince herself.

“No,” Lockwood agreed, “but unfortunately the owner of this agency is a crap businessman. So I guess we’re doing a free ghost clearing.”

“Should’ve gone to Rotwell,” she teased, and Lockwood rolled his eyes at the comment.

“They’d make you wear a uniform,” he shot back.

“I look crap in red.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he returned, pulling himself to stand before offering Lucy a hand, “but if we ever get uniforms, I’ll let you pick them.”

As Lucy found herself hauled to her feet, she forgot whatever it was she’d planned to say.

Instead, a few feet from Lockwood, she found the start of a confession falling from her lips.

No more lies, okay?

“Did she mention anything missing from the house, other than the jewellery?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Lucy suspected he was already a few steps ahead of her questions. She cursed her track record.

“No,” he replied cautiously, “she didn’t. Why?”

“I might have… there were these photos. In the office.”

He nodded silently, and Lucy steeled herself to keep speaking, choosing to focus on an errant lock of hair as it stuck straight out from his head.

“I was looking at them, they were like the ones I’ve got upstairs, you know? Like from a Polaroid camera. And there was this one… I think it was a party. There was loads of models there. And when I was looking at it, that was when I first felt her behind me…”

“The phantasm?” Lockwood supplied.

“Yeah. They looked the same, I think it was her. Her death loop… it was horrible, Lockwood. She was begging for her life.”

When Lucy looked up he was watching her intensely, arms braced at his sides like was prepared to catch her if she lost consciousness.

She had a track record of needing to be caught, too, she supposed.

“She was so young, Lockwood. And beautiful. I didn’t recognise her, but a lot of the others in the photos looked familiar. I wanted to find out who she was. Still want to…”

Lockwood nodded again, mute.

“And I showed George and he agreed,” she rushed out, “I think it was her.”

“So you took the polaroid?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sighed, and seemed to show no anger with her for not telling him. Maybe it was relief – that she hadn’t sincerely developed a new habit of spending thirty quid on magazines every time she went out.

Maybe he was just glad she was telling him now.

Either way, Lucy found herself looking at her feet.

“I’m sorry. It was stupid, and then the case came back and I thought you should know.”

“No, Luce. It’s fine. She didn’t mention it, and I appreciate you telling me.”

She sighed.

“George is at the Archives now, trying to find out who she is. How she died.”

The final pieces clicked into place, and Lockwood groaned.

“I don’t like it when you two get on so well,” he muttered, his face breaking out into a beam at making her laugh.

“We get on fine, thank you. Apart from his hour-long baths.”

Lockwood was well aware. He’d spent his fair share of time banging on the bathroom door, then looking away in horror when a grumpy George emerged in just a towel.

“What do you think we’ll learn, by knowing who she is?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted, “but I’d like to know. It might help figure out what’s happening with this new ghost, too.”

He regarded her carefully, and Lucy watched him think, nervousness rising in her throat.

“I don’t want to sound like George,” he began, which was always a bad start, “but be careful, Luce. Getting too close to a case…”

“I know.”

Lucy cut him off before he could say any more, and he swallowed, stepping back.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he promised.

“I know.” 

She felt like she owed him something, when he looked at her with those wide eyes, bravado dropped and face hollow with exhaustion.

“Did you want me to listen to the source, check which piece it is?” She offered suddenly, “And make sure that we did actually get the right one?”

Lockwood looked visibly relieved, and Lucy found herself glad to help carry some of the guilt he put on himself for this case falling apart.

“Would you mind, Luce? That might help smooth things over.”

“Of course not.”

She really meant it. As much as Lucy couldn’t bear to hear that screaming again, she knew the absence of it would be a lot more terrifying. She had to know.

Lucy followed him to the kitchen, their steps in sync as sock-clad feet bounded down the stairs, leaning against the counter as he pulled mugs from the cupboard and milk from the fridge.

Lockwood flipped the kettle on before darting down to the basement, emerging seconds later with the source, still in its velvet jeweller’s box, then trapped in their ornate silver-lined box.

He pulled out a chair for her, silver net in hand, standing against the counter and holding his breath as Lucy opened both boxes.

She made quick work of reaching out for the necklace, inhaling and closing her eyes, and hoping against all reason that nothing would happen.

Lucy found herself transported, surrounded by people, American accents and laughter, glittering lights in her eye line and house music pounding in her ears.

She could hear herself speaking, a vocal fry that wasn’t hers, a transatlantic accent reaching her ears.

Her hand was in a larger one, warm and yet bringing her no comfort, even in her inebriated state.

Somewhere distantly Lucy felt her chest hit the table, hands on her shoulders. She covered one hand with her own, her right hand clutching the necklace until her knuckles went white and the jewels hurt her palm.

“Where are we going?” she was asking, and the man laughed.

There was pressure in her shoulder, lessening as she followed him.

Arguing.

She was shouting.

Then, water.

Lucy screamed, thrashed, felt her feet hit the bottom, and then she was moved. Her feet weren’t hitting the bottom anymore.

She thrashed and grabbed and fought against the pressure on her neck. Screamed.

Why was no one helping?

The hands grew tighter. On her shoulders. On her neck. On her wrists. She thrashed, feeling something solid hit her hip, her muscles ached.

“No! Please, no.”

She was sobbing. Her lungs were being crushed, screaming, like they couldn’t hold out much longer.

“I’ll do whatever you want!” she screamed.

Lucy felt her knuckles being prised open. The water filled her ears, deafening her. Something hard hit her back. Her hands ached. She screamed again.

There was a clattering of metal on tiles.

The necklace.

Their kitchen tiles.

Her hand really did hurt.

She was inhaling fresh air.

She could hear again, and her panting was suddenly painfully loud.

“Lucy…”

She was being touched, she realised. Arms caged her in. They were on the ground, she was between Lockwood’s legs and pulled to his chest, and he was trembling with the exertion of keeping her still. When Lockwood finally loosened his grip, he didn’t let her go.

Lucy’s arms shook as she wrapped them around one of Lockwood’s arms, letting herself be hugged close to him. His breathing was jagged and erratic, she could feel it in his chest.

“That was so stupid. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think… I didn’t know it was that strong. George isn’t here, and I thought you were going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured into his arm.

She waited for him to calm down, to talk everything out, let Lockwood hold her. The necklace was in a patch of sunlight, its ornate metalwork face up. It would do no harm for a few minutes.

Finally, Lockwood’s breathing returned to normal. Lucy was fighting to keep her eyes open, adrenaline pulsing through her veins, fear fresh in her mind.

“Sitting at the table doesn’t help, then,” she joked weakly.

She wondered if Lockwood was about to cry, his breath leaving him like a sob.

He loosened his arms, and she unwove herself from him.

Lockwood had been crying. His eyes were reddened. She’d ripped the buttons off his shirt, the middle of it gaping open in her rush to get away from him. There was a pair of red scratches on his cheek, parallel and an unpleasant match for her nails. Fortunately, they hadn’t drawn blood. She’d missed his eye.

She reached for them with curled fingers, careful not to catch them as she touched the raised skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lockwood murmured, “wasn’t you.”

It was her. It had been her hands. Lucy knew what he meant.

“She was drowned,” Lucy didn’t make him ask, sitting back to kneel beside Lockwood as he slowly recovered himself. “By a man. At a party. There were voices and music and he led her away…”

To her surprise, Lockwood raised a hand. Like he’d heard enough. She looked down, nodding her understanding. It was ridiculous, but Lockwood pulled the silver net out of her hand as she went to fetch the necklace.

He wrapped it and put it carefully on the table. Away from her. She returned to her seat, and he sat down opposite, head in his hands.

“You were thrashing, Luce. Screaming. Scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, I… he forced her under. It was violent.”

“When you said she was begging…” Lockwood was regarding her with absolute horror, and Lucy felt her heart sink at his fear.

“The same as her death loop,” she confirmed.

The box sat between them. Lockwood kept glancing at it.

She took a second to wait for him to be distracted, before quickly pulling the left earring into her hand.

She listened hard, eyes closed. Echoes of horror. A vague sense of unease. She opened her eyes as herself.

“Fucking hell, Luce…”

“It’s fine. We know the necklace is the source. It would be new to science if the earrings were too,” she wasn’t sure when the words had become an apology.

Lockwood let out a shaky exhale. He kept her gaze as she put the earring back, a game between them as Lucy made slow movements. He groaned and sank back into his seat as she grabbed the other one.

“Go on then.”

Lucy closed her eyes. The same thrashing. Pain. Water. Desperation that took her breath away.

That same worry on Lockwood’s face as she opened her eyes.

“Not a source,” Lucy declared, fastening the earring back into the box with its pair.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he declared, gathering the necklace in its silver net before Lucy could even offer a sheepish look in response.

She couldn’t help it. Despite everything. For just a second, as Lockwood returned the necklace in its silver-lined box to the basement, she held the chandelier earrings to her ears in the hallway mirror.

It was no surprise, how they looked next to her tear-stained face. Nor that they were heavy, and sparkly, and beautiful. Lucy couldn’t imagine ever having tens of thousands of pounds, and choosing to spend it on earrings.

All she could think of was Norrie, giggling behind her as they tried on silver-plated pieces at the Saturday market. They couldn’t have afforded any of it, but that had been fine. Lucy forced a smile at herself, trying to remember what it looked like to have Norrie peering over her shoulder and pulling faces at their reflections.

The diamonds were replaced neatly in the box long before Lockwood returned, the thrill of trying them on completely missing, and replaced by that familiar pang which marked the absence of Norrie.

She would have loved this case, drama and all.

“All secured!” Lockwood declared, bouncing a little on his heels.

Lucy offered him a weak smile of acknowledgement, occupying herself with reboiling the forgotten kettle.

*

They arrived at the house for quarter-past five, armed with full kit bags and far too much nervous energy to wait at Portland Row for much longer.

After a nap, Lucy felt a bit better, and Lockwood had ordered takeaway for them to share over the kitchen table. There had been no further mention of Lucy’s episode with the necklace, nor the way Lockwood had refused to let her go afterwards. But the companionable silence in the cab told her everything was okay between them.

It always was, in the end.

“Look at you, dressed up all proper!”

George made his presence known with all of his usual respect for Lockwood’s ridiculous suits, making the taller boy straighten his collar with a sniff.

He’d opted for the nicest jacket he had, and Lucy had made the exact same jibe as he’d met her by the front door. Though her quip had a little more bite.

“Seeing if she’ll give you a modelling contract, Lockwood?” 

*

They were early, excessively so. Fifteen whole minutes. Lucy was contemplating a walk up and down the street to kill time as the front door opened, and Norma strode out.

The same pair of keys were in-hand, and this time she had no hesitation in striding towards them, that same smile plastered onto her angular face.

“Lockwood and Co.!” She offered, declining to shake hands and instead dropping the keys into Lockwood’s outstretched palm.

“Ms Fields,” Lucy returned, “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened.”

She didn’t need Lockwood’s sidelong glance to realise it was the wrong thing to say, feeling a drop in the pit of her stomach. Nonetheless, Norma seemed unphased.

“Dreadful. The whole business,” she responded seriously. “I so appreciate you coming out on such short notice. I can’t bear to think of poor Adil, the boy must have been terrified.”

Lucy and Lockwood offered matching sympathetic smiles, as Norma’s attention was diverted to hailing down an arriving black cab. She offered nothing more than a wave in the way of goodbye, and Lucy found herself a bit wrong-footed by the whole interaction.

“Practically blackmailed us into it,” George grumbled, stepping beside his colleagues as Norma strode to her night cab.

“Definitely a bit odd,” Lucy admitted, watching Norma give one last mouthed thank you before the car sped away.

“Either way, let’s get this over with. We might still make it to that church if we’re quick,” Lockwood teased, making the others groan.

George stopped him after a few steps towards the house, breaking Lockwood’s strange confidence with a hand on his shoulder.

“This isn’t going to be a quick one,” he pointed out, “Potentially two ghosts, if we’re really unlucky.”

Lucy and Lockwood looked at him in confusion, before groaning in unison.

There was a ghost, and the person the ghost had killed. That could mean two ghosts. And at least one of them was a type two.

Shit.

Lucy felt her stomach drop. They’d barely survived their last type two encounter in this house.

All that glass was beginning to look like an enclosure, trapping them in.

“That would be very unlucky,” Lockwood tried to reassure them, suddenly patting down his pockets with increasing agitation.

“Shit. Sunglasses.”

“There’s a spare pair in the kit bag,” Lucy offered, taking it off her back and reaching into a front pocket.

George felt his stomach turn as Lockwood watched her, face soft with an adoration neither of them seemed to have recognised yet. He looked for a bush to vomit into as Lucy tucked them into his front suit pocket, and Lockwood whispered a thank you, their gazes catching for a frankly embarrassing amount of time.

George cleared his throat.

“Very nice. Now, what are we doing? Same as last time?”

“Works for me,” Lucy shrugged, “we’ve still got an hour before it’s properly dark.”

With a nod of agreement, Lockwood led the way. They were halfway through the front door when Lucy had a realisation.

“We forgot to give her the earrings!”

Lockwood pulled the box from his jacket pocket with a groan.

“We’ll leave them on the counter. A nice present, when she returns to her ghost-free house.”

“That we cleared for free,” George grumbled. “couldn’t Flo sell them for us?”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, as the researcher continued.

“We’re sure they’re not a source?”

“Luce listened to them,” Lockwood confirmed, setting the box neatly on the countertop.

That was enough for him, and George began to unload their supplies around the earrings.

*

With three cups of tea and a pack of digestive biscuits open on the countertop, Lucy found herself settling into another evening at the house. With the novel glamour of the house fading, she’s started to find it quite heartless.

All that endless white on the walls. Norma’s photos of herself, everywhere, her friends and her personal life confined to their spot in the office. Lucy couldn’t help but think of the story behind every scuffed part of the carpet in Portland Row. The handprint on the hallway wallpaper from Lockwood catching himself as he bounded downstairs. There were clashing colours everywhere, the place crammed with presents and tchotchkes and life.

She kept catching reflections moving in the glass of the huge windows, and startling.

They’d surrounded themselves with an iron circle, and begun a waiting game as darkness fell.

Lockwood was sneaking a biscuit out of turn.

“Did you find anything in the archives?” Lucy asked George, distracting him from glaring daggers at Lockwood’s half-tea-soaked digestive biscuit.

Immediately George pulled his notebook out, flipping to the right page. He shot a conspicuous look at Lockwood.

“He knows,” Lucy told him, “about the photo.”

George wasted no time in sliding the polaroid back to Lucy.

“What else don’t I know about?” Lockwood’s eyes flickered up from his tea (which now had added biscuit flavour, he’d left it too long).

“Nothing,” Lucy insisted, as George began to speak.

“She was called Bailey McCormick, 26, super famous, apparently,” he shrugged, making Lucy laugh, “she’d modelled for everyone. Beauty brands. Playboy. All the big fashion houses. There were rumours she was next up to be a Victoria’s Secret angel.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. After Lockwood made a very big show out of asking what a Victoria’s Secret angel was, as though he wasn’t aware, George continued.

“Bailey died in L.A. last year, under super suspicious circumstances. There’s still an ongoing investigation happening, it was re-opened after the coroner’s report was called into question.”

“What did the report say?” she asked.

“Accidental drowning. But it noted bruising on her collarbones and throat. Like she’d been forced under.”

“That tracks,” Lucy mused.

The ghost had looked wet, hair slicked back. Though it had been hard to tell. Interesting.

George continued.

“Here’s the best bit - she was wearing a borrowed set from Bvlgari Amore, when she died.”

Lucy fixed him with a raised eyebrow, making him taper his enthusiasm a little.

“There are some unbelievably tacky magazines out there,” George explained sheepishly.

“So, the set was borrowed from Norma Fields?” Lockwood theorised, reaching for the jewellery box to examine the earrings again.

“The set was borrowed from the brand. I guess they didn’t want them back, after she died in them.”

Lucy shrugged, taking the box from Lockwood.

“Or maybe Norma really wanted them. She did say they were friends.”

“A mentor figure, if you believe Bailey’s interviews,” George supplied. “She started modelling as Norma’s career slowed down, it sounds like they had a lot to offer one another.”

“Norma offered advice and contacts, and in exchange Bailey kept her relevant?” Lockwood theorised, and Lucy winced.

“Maybe they were just actually friends, guys? It seems like a cutthroat world – a good mentor and confidant is worth a lot.” 

 As both of them looked at her, Lucy knew they were unconvinced, and she fixed her stare back on the diamonds.

“Either way, why would Norma have the jewellery?” Lockwood asked.

“Sentimentality? That’s why she said she wanted the earrings back,” she suggested.

“The whole set was estimated to be worth up to a hundred-thousand pounds,” George read from his notes, “I’d want the earrings back too – regardless of who died in them.”

“She’s got insurance,” Lockwood insisted, “though, we’d better hand that necklace over to DEPRAC before Flo breaks into the basement.”

Never mind Flo, Lucy was considering a career change.

*

They were sweeping the ground floor of the house, noting what had changed. The answer was not much. There was hardly any evidence of the party, let alone anything supernatural. Lockwood was in another room, as George speculated on the existence of party planners who didn’t mind cleaning a haunted house.

“George?” Lucy suddenly interrupted him, making him pause his rambling.

“Yeah?”

“You should know, I listened to the necklace. I wasn’t sure if Lockwood would tell you… he was a bit shaken by the whole thing.”

George offered her a sympathetic look, before realisation dawned on his face.

“You let me do all that research on gossip rags for nothing?”

“Not nothing! We’re verifying our theory with multiple independent sources?”

George rolled his eyes, but said nothing, privately thrilled. Lucy knew she’d won.

“What happened?”

“It was… like that death loop I told you about. She was at a party. Some guy drowned her.”

“They printed a list of everyone who was there that night. Models. Actors. All the bigshots.”

Lucy stopped her investigation into a side table drawer to face him.

“Do you have the list?”

“I could get it from the Archive tomorrow.”

“Let’s do that.”

As they heard footsteps on the stairs, Lucy and George rushed to help.

[kirishwima]

can you please do a headcannon with the rfa that’s dating an insecure mc? i’m sorry my english isn’t very good

Your english is fine lovely! I’m also not a native speaker, so im sorry if i make mistakes sometimes ^^”

YOOSUNG:

* Honestly…he’s just as insecure as MC. He tries to hide it, tries to act tough and will argue with Zen when he teases him, but his facade couldn’t be farther from the truth-he’s scared, constantly worrying over his looks, the way he speaks, his intelligence, everything is a struggle and it often feels like he’ll never be good enough, neither to himself nor to others.

* Yet MC accepts him as he is-they love him unconditionally, have been there for him even when he kept using them as a substitute for Rika-they helped him see his wrongs and make them right, helped him become a better man. So to know that MC doesn’t see themselves as the amazing, wonderful person they are, it hurts him to his very core.

* He’ll remind MC constantly of how much he loves them, will praise them over every little thing-because to him it’s not compliments, it’s facts. MC is amazing, and that’s that. 

* Sometimes he’ll catch MC making self-depracating jokes; “I don’t even know why you’re dating me” they’d laugh, and Yoosung-oh boy, Yoosung’s furious. 

* “Do you hear yourself? Why date you? Because you’re wonderful! You’re an amazing, beautiful person, you’ve helped me through the hardest times of my life, you’ve been there for me no matter what-I want to be there for you too! You have such a kind soul, you love so much and so strongly and I-I love you just as much. So please-” he rubbed furiously at his eyes, bidding the tears gathering to go away, “Please don’t undermine the love I have for you. Don’t undermine yourself.”

* He’d spend every day of his life reminding MC of their worth, and that’s that.

ZEN:

* He’s a confident person. No, that might actually be an understatement-he’s what some would call a narcissist, albeit a high-functioning one-while he objectively knows his appearance is envy-worthy, he also knows his faults, and isn’t afraid to admit them. He knows he’s not good with technology. He’s honest to a fault, and quick to anger, but he doesn’t deem those as faults-they’re just part of who he is, for better or for worse.

* MC envies this confidence, this intimate way in which Zen both knows and accepts himself as he is, only working to better himself as a challenge from him to him, not for the gaze of anyone else. How could MC ever be like that? Would a time come where they too could confidently stand by his side, not nit-picking every single flaw in their looks, their personality, their entire existence?

* Zen’s fans aren’t all that helping in the situation either-after going public with their relationship, MC can’t help but constantly look through news articles, looking at what fans and reporters have to say about them, taking every single negative comment and locking it up in their heart, letting it infest with them until it rots-refusing to shine a light on the positive comments, the one that talk about how happy Zen looks with MC, how sweet their own smile is or how gentle their eyes are.

* Zen isn’t a fool, and he’s not blind-of course he knows MC isn’t the most confident person, and that they constantly judge their worth based on the perception of others. He tries to help them as much as he can without making it too obvious, will hold them tight when reporters stop them during a date to conduct an interview, will kiss their neck and compliment them until his mouth runs dry.

* MC appreciates it, they really do-but they’re always scared, so scared Zen will eventually realise he’s better off without them. They know, rationally, that Zen cares deeply for them, that he loves them as they are-as impossible as it seems, but this unwarranted worry never goes away, eating its way through their gut and into their lungs, making them lose their breath at the thought.

* “Do you realise how beautiful you are?” Zen asks one night, the apartment dark and quiet minus for the hustle of the city outside. He’s trailing his fingers alonside MC’s side, stopping at every hollow of ribs, pushing his fingertips on bumps and scars. “I’m not just talking about the way you look, as much as I love that too. I’m talking about this” he says as he pokes a finger to their chest, relishing in the silent laugh MC lets out as his fingers tickle them “and everything that happens in there. I love your laugh, your humor is impeccable, I love your kindness, your patience, how much you love to help others-you’re beautiful. Please don’t forget that.”

* And well, it’s hard to forget-even if it takes a long time to believe in Zen’s words, MC will always keep them to heart, remember them every time they try to bring themself down-they’re beautiful. No matter what.

JAEHEE:

* You’d think she’s very confident at first glance, and well, that’s partly true-she’s confident, in the sense that she doesn’t really care. She’s okay with the way she looks, though she’ll get bouts of worries from time to time, probing and poking at her face and body in front of the mirror, but soon it’d pass, and she’s back to normal, content with the way she is.

* it’s hard to wrap her head around MC’s worries and insecurities most of the time. She can’t understand just why MC feels so bad with themselves, not when to her they were a saving grace-taking her from the hectic worriesome state she was seen and bringing her most well-hidden dreams to the surface, making them true.

* She’ll watch MC interact with customers, how they’ll hum whilst making coffee and she’ll smile to herself, soft and sweet and falling in love all over again. How someone like them could not be confident is something she could never understand.

* She tries to help motivate MC, will lean her head on MC’s shoulder and wrap her arms around her waist from the back as MC brews coffee, whispering bashful ‘i love you’s and praises to their skin. When talking with customers she’ll frequently slip in a word of affection towards MC, praising them for their hard work and dedication-even if MC isn’t there to hear it, she just wants the world to know how amazing they are!!

* Sometimes MC gets really down, insultin every little thing about themselves. Jaehee was never that good with words and expressing her emotions upfront-so instead she did what she knows best. She wrote a report. Yes, a report, along with a whole power point presentation, explaining each and every point of why she loves MC, with facts, proof and evidence. Whenever MC talks badly about themself, Jaehee simply pulls up the powerpoint, puts her glasses back on and asks MC to take a seat on the couch, pulling up her laptop and begining to talk about each point until MC is too shy to let her continue.

* No one disses the person Baehee loves, not even themselves.

JUMIN:

* Jumin is confident. That’s it, it’s a fact. He’s grown up learning how to poise himself, has been given constant praise to the point where he hated it, but he knows his pros and cons, and will never let anyone else’s opinion alter his own, especially not when it comes from people who aren’t even close to him.

* So honestly...unless MC straight up talks to Jumin about their insecurities, he’ll never get it. Of course he’ll notice when MC looks away when he compliments them, or how they seem a nervous wreck when out with him at social gatherings, but he figured it’s just them being bashful, not that it’s because they don’t believe his words or feel insecure around him.

* He only realises when they’re lounging together on the couch, a wine in hand and Elizabeth the 3d on MC’s lap. MC watched the way in which Jumin sat-his back straight, his profile picture-perfect, confidence in his every movement. They ran their hands through Elizabeth’s fur, looking down at her in contemplation.

* “How do you do it?” They asked and Jumin turned to face them with a soft frown of confusion. “You just...whatever you do, you do it so confidently. Like, you know what you want and how to get it and that’s it, and you-you ended up with me, who’s too nervous to even look people in the eye when talking. How do we-are you okay with this? With me?” 

* Their words were jambled, worry pooling in their stomach as Jumin’s eyes widened, his mouth ajar. “You-is this how you feel?” he asked. He tried to school his expression into something more neutral, put his wine glass back down to turn and hold MCs hands in his.

* “I love you. There’s no logic in love, and even if there was, there’s nothing about you I could not love. Your kindness, your smile, you’re smart yet modest, you’re just...to me you’re impeccable. I hate to think that you never realised all these yourself, MC, you’re wonderful. I need you to believe that you are.”

* He vowed to himself to never let MC forget it from then on. Every morning he’ll wake them with a kiss, listing at least one thing about MC he’s grateful for before starting their day. He’d do this day after day, until MC started to believe it themself.

SEVEN/SAEYOUNG/LUCIEL:

* Lmao he’s literally an insecure k i n g. Before meeting MC, before falling in love with them, he’d be unable to list a single thing he likes about himself. He’s too much of this, too little of that, every time he looked to the mirror it’d be a war zone, his face reminding him too much of things he’d rather just forget.

* Yet MC helped him so much. Little by little, they helped him learn to accept himself as he is, to allow his heart to open and gain a little bit of confidence. He’s learnt to at the very least feel neutral when looking in the mirror, starting to accept hsi existence as just that-another human being in the world.

* Yet he knows, he knows that as much confidence as MC is trying to help him build, the less they have themselves. He’s no idiot, he’s been there, of course he knows the tell-tale signs of it-the self depracaitng jokes, the way they look in the mirror when they walk past, how they roll their eyes at his compliments.

* “You know me, I’m your resident klutz” MC started once, after a glass slipped from their hands and broke at their feet. They started cleaning it up, telling Seven to stay away since he wasn’t wearing any shoes or slippers. “Just a big ol’ idiot here to fuck things up and make life all that much harder for everyone-” they continued, laughing yet their hands were trembling.

* “Of course I can’t even hold a freaking glass correctly, why would I anyway I’m such a-”

* “Stop.”

* Seven didn’t care for the glass shards at this point. He walked to kneel across MC, wrapping his hands around theirs. “Do you hear yourself? What you’re saying is stupid, and some deep hidden part of you knows it. You’re brilliant. Stop looking at me like that, you know it’s true. You are” He smiled small and soft, drawing circles on their hand with his thumb. “No regular person could’ve gone through what you did and come out of it even stronger. You’re amazing, you’re kind no matter what you-I love you. I want you to see yourself like I see you, even if it’s cliche as hell.”

* He leaned over the broken glass, kissing MC soft and gentle. “So stop with these jokes. Start appreciating yourself, please. For me.”

* MC didn’t know if they could. But they’d try. For Saeyoung, they’d try.

-Send me mystic messenger headcanons/scenarios for characters’ reactions!-

[jesslockwood]

Y’all look at this Lockwood and co picture I haven’t seen before:

I love them 😍

[silverspectre]

en garde, pret, aimer! || lockwood & co.

pairing: light florence bonnard x anthony lockwood

genre: fencing(?)ish!au and also maybe straying away from canon bc what iS canon at this point, fluff, platonic main relationship, eventual angst, pre-canon??? aka beFore the series takes place

words: 3.8k

tags: fluffy!!, young lockwood nd flo, fencing stuff, apologies for the french (literally lol), i wrote this like half a year ago i’M SORRY-

what to expect: “’Why else would I be here? Tea time?’”

a/n: so this was beta-read and edited by two lovely people! i appreciate their help so much, as they’ve made this story what it is now. thank you so much @piratekingimogen​ and @willowwisk​ for your help! is this canon-compliant? someone ask jonathan stroud. this will be my last fic for a while, unless i have a spontaneous bout (pun intended) of inspiration. thank you all for your support!

translation: en garde, prets, allez = on guard, ready, go (used to start a fencing bout) / en garde, prets, aimer = on guard, ready, love (used to start this story)

The train ride from London to Paris is a particularly long, arduous journey. There's not much to see; reading a book 50 times or twiddling your thumbs is perhaps the most productive thing one can do. However, though a subjective opinion, it's a great deal less dull when in the company of a pretty girl whose name you learn through one piece of black licorice.

Florence Bonnard. It was elegant and flowed off the tip of your tongue. She was pretty; her teeth shining white and her long, blonde hair practically another shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight. Anthony Lockwood could only stare at her.

To Anthony, Paris was a dream of any fencer. It was hailed as the fencing capital of the world, home to countless famed swordsmen and agents. He could merely wish to be like them. He was sure he was on his way, however. He'd been invited to a DEPRAC-sponsored competition in France, and of course, he absolutely had to go. His supervisor, Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, forced him anyways.

He made the acquaintance of Florence Bonnard only a few minutes ago, when she huffed into the train compartment that was otherwise empty except for Anthony's doe-eyed presence. Looking upset, she plopped herself down diagonal from him. She didn't even acknowledge his existence.

"Hi?" he squeaked out. His voice was a little scratchy. He coughed, then repeated the word in a much more confident tone.

"Well? What are you?" This was the first he'd heard the girl speak.

She spared a glance at Anthony.

"I'm, uh..." He thought fast. She didn't

know him; no one on the train, as far as he knew, knew his name. He could reinvent himself, banish the name used so fondly by his parents and sister. He could be...

"I'm, uh... Lockwood. Just Lockwood. Yes. That's me."

"Lockwood... classy," she commented. She paused, in thought. "Though... I think I'll call you Locky."

"L-Locky?" Lockwood stuttered. This was not how she was supposed to react to his name.

"Locky. It practically rolls off the tongue, don't you think?" She smiled, slightly exposing her white teeth. It was a pretty sight. He could've stared at her for a second or an hour before he registered her answer.

Lockwood was caught off guard. "W-well, what's your name, then?"

She smiled a pearly white smile. "Wouldn't you like to find out," she said slyly.

A sweets trolley rolled down the aisle, pushed by a plump old woman. "Anything you'd like to buy?" She popped her head in the compartment.

The girl scanned the trolley, then made up her mind. She turned to Lockwood. "You'll have to buy me a liquorice to find out my name."

"I'll have a bag of liquorice, please," Lockwood immediately said to the lady, pulling out two pounds and exchanging it for a bag. He didn't know why he complied so easily - maybe he'd fallen under a trance for her. 

He handed one to the girl, who looked momentarily startled before recomposing herself. "So, what's your name?" Lockwood asked.

"Florence Bonnard," she simply replied. It matched her, Lockwood thought. Prim and proper, it matched her perfect posture and neatly combed hair.

"You fence?"

"Why else would I be here? Tea time?" 

"O-of course not, but you're just so pretty-"

Oh no. He'd let it slip.

Florence Bonnard's lips curled upward. "Thanks, Locky. I'll remember that on the piste."

He was suddenly scared to imagine Florence Bonnard on the piste, with her blonde hair tied up and her body in first position, sword ready to attack. With her confidence, double of his, how good could she be? Lockwood felt his stomach turn queasy. How good were the others on the train?

She poked Lockwood lightly. "Worried?" she teased. "En-garde," she mimicked a referee, "prets-" she made a face, "allez!" She pretended to poke Lockwood with her rapier, then laughed.

Lockwood couldn't help but laugh with her at her imitation.

"What's your agency?" Lockwood asked.

"That'll cost you a liquorice," she stated.

He handed her one.

"Sinclair & Saones. 'm an apprentice for 'em. You?"

"Nigel Sykes."

"Really?" she drawled. "You seem like the Rotwell type - well, then again, you weren't sitting with the lot in the first place."

"Rotwell and Fittes agents always win, don't they?"

"I'll give 'em a run for their money. How old are you?"

"Ten."

She looked up and down. "Alright then."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She smirked. "Nothing... When's your birthday, then?"

He told her.

"I'm older than you."

"So what? That doesn't mean you'll be better!"

Florence Bonnard smiled. "We'll see about that."

Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, or just Sykes, was Lockwood's mentor. He was a bit scraggly, but not enough to make him incompetent with a sword. He was on the slightly mad side, yes, but was an extremely skilled swordsman. Lockwood was constantly amazed by his ability.

"You rely on remises too much. Practice on your footwork, you're doubting yourself too much.”

They'd been practicing for two hours - maybe more. Lockwood didn't even bother trying to count the bouts. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his breaths hot in the mask. Lockwood's legs were sore and his arms hurt from all the attack, parry, and riposting he'd done.

The competition started in three days - Sykes had decided Lockwood needed to cram in as much practice as he could. On and off the piste, Lockwood could hear Sykes' voice in his head, telling him to Parry quarte or Eat your breakfast, it's free food! Food was accommodated at the hotel which sponsored DEPRAC for the competition. The rooming was nice as well, Lockwood being lucky enough to get a room to himself rather than most participants in the tournament who had to share a room.

When the competition finally rolled around, he'd won the first bout easily - almost too easily. Regardless, a win was a win, even against some Bunchurch agent with half a brain.

The real competition - or so he'd heard from rumours - was Quill Kipps of Fittes. He was apparently a prodigy fencing-god in his mid-teens, favoured by the majority of the crowd. He was tall and ginger, from what people had been telling him. Easy to spot in crowds. Lockwood was curious to see the famous Kipps in practice - rather, he was curious to see what any Fittes or Rotwell agent could bring to the table.

Lockwood had yet to see the mysterious Florence Bonnard do her bout. He was eager to do so after showering and slipping into the stands to watch the next bouts. After a win from Alexander Fawley, and another from Emily Schreiber, Quill Kipps was up. The teen was fast, and his every move was clearly calculated. It was everything Lockwood could aspire to be.

Florence Bonnard was fast as well, to Lockwood's surprise. She was extremely quick on her feet and could get a touch faster than the referee could blink after saying allez. It was impressive, being younger than a lot of contestants- and she wasn't even a Fittes or Rotwell agent.

Lockwood considered what he'd do if he was ever tasked with being her opponent, but only for a split second. It was too unrealistic he'd make it that far. But still, he had a vivid image of her lunging, ponytail swaying and rapier thrust as the tip of her blade touched his side. Now was not the time to daydream.

The second bout passed, 14-15. Lockwood had won in a landslide, attacking the split second his opponent hesitated.

After, as Lockwood chugged a bottle of water on the side, still sweaty and clad in his fencing gear, Florence Bonnard approached him. "Good bout, Locky," she said in her sly way. "Although, your footwork could be better." His gaze was stuck on her, even as she stalked off in true Florence fashion. 

"Th-thanks?" It was already too late; Lockwood just watched her straw-colored hair swish away. She was one interesting girl. He sighed, staring at her back.

Lockwood's days consisted of eating, practicing, and sleeping. He would occasionally watch other agents practice, to pick up on faults and techniques they used. That's, at least, what Sykes had told him to do. Half the time Lockwood just drifted off, staring at a wall corner or, as a current example, a blonde ponytail. ...Blonde ponytail...? It was Florence Bonnard in the flesh, practicing. Of course, Lockwood just assumed this fact, judging by the fencer's posture and hair. It was unmistakably her.

Lockwood hadn't seen her much, either because their schedules didn't match up or she barely practiced. She was very good, sharp on her feet and maneuvering like she was on ice. It was scary the way she got a touch so fast. He assumed she'd practiced a great deal privately; at least, that's how he comforted himself at the sight of her skillful rapier patterns.

Lockwood's eyes jumped to a tall ginger-haired fencer - no doubt Quill Kipps, practicing a couple metres away. He, too, was skilled. Close to Florence's level, but not quite. This could be the year someone from a small agency won - though, Lockwood couldn't keep his hopes up. Being the crowd favourite, who was to say he didn't have a couple tricks up his sleeve?

Bouts three and four passed, and just somehow, Lockwood had survived into the quarterfinals. The numbers were dwindling down; Florence Bonnard, not much to his surprise, was in strong.

The quarterfinals passed, but now that he'd won, more pressure had been draped on him. Practices stretched late into the night, leaving his muscles incredibly sore and eyelids drooping on their own accord. He almost forgot to shower one day, planning to sleep in his fencing gear. Sykes had been drilling into him much more. The lineup for the semifinals was posted; Lockwood would be fencing against Quill Kipps.

To say he was nervous was an understatement. He sweated at the thought of fencing the teen. No matter how much he analyzed Kipps' fencing, he never felt ready. Sure, he wasn't as good at Florence, but she was substantially better than Lockwood - as was Kipps. The day of the bout, Lockwood almost froze before walking in, trying not to look at the crowd. It was bigger than any he had fenced for before. He sucked in two deep breaths then pulled the mask over his face. Sykes patted him, whispered quick advice in his ear. Lockwood wasn't paying attention, more focused on the judges, rhe referee, and the feeling of his feet on the ground. He and Kipps did the salute, like any other bout.

The referee started to speak, also like any other bout. The words were muffled in Lockwood's jumbled mind. His thoughts were racing at 100 kilometers per second, tumbling around each other, unlike any other bout - but he didn't need to hear the words regardless. He knew what they were.

"En-garde."

Lockwood stared at Kipps.

"Prets."

He took a deep breath, readying himself.

"Allez!"

The bout began.

Immediately, swords clinked and clashed against each other as the agents attempted to protect themselves. Lockwood's mind went pure blank, and his body went into autopilot.

1-0. Sure, a rough start, but he could catch up.

1-1. Tied, that was okay.

2-3. Lockwood was in the lead-

5-7. Halfway there!

11-10. No, losing wasn't an option-

13-14. His sword was a blur in front of him, basically acting of its own accord. Parry, riposte, attack-! It was all too quick. Kipps had lost his balance, and Lockwood took the opportunity. He lunged, slashed with his blade just to earn a point. His blade felt something soft - he got a touch! - but then Lockwood actually looked at the tip of his blade.

Quill Kipps was stunned entirely. He'd fallen on the piste and stared up at the younger agent. The moment was silent; practically in slow motion. The crowd held their breath in disbelief.

Lockwood had struck Quill Kipps with his rapier on the bum. The judges were in shock. It was a touch, though, right? It... counted? The referee gestured, and Lockwood pulled his raper away.

The bout ended.

Lockwood won. Lockwood won, against the star of Fittes agency. Quill Kipps, meanwhile, fumed. His cheeks were redder than his hair, which was matted with sweat.

"I'll beat you next time, Anthony Lockwood..." he murmured.

The crowd was having its fun; booing in disappointment or cheering in amusement, Lockwood couldn't tell. He convinced himself it was the latter. He didn't mean to stab Kipps in the bum. It just happened. It's not like anyone ever goes into a bout thinking, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to riposte a clean one up his bum."

Sykes was impressed, though he seemed more pleased by the last touch Lockwood earned.

"You'll be going up against that Bonnard girl, so you better clean up that footwork of yours. Her bladework is quite fine, too, I'd say. Sharpen yourself up, Anthony - no pun intended."

Practice, as always, lasted to the evening - Lockwood had just gotten out of the locker room, hair wet from his shower when he heard a familiar rasping tone.

"Locky~" Florence Bonnard sing-songed, conveniently leaning on a pillar outside.

He approached her.

"Finals are tomorrow," she said, smiling. Her teeth glinted - it was charming. Her eyes shimmered a bright blue - when had he missed this feature of hers? She was breathtaking. He didn't react, dumbly nodding as he stared at her.

"Oh, and by the way? Stop staring at me sometimes, it's creepy, Locky. I know you like me, but you're too... you." She tapped his nose, ignited a blush across Lockwood's cheeks.

"Cute," she commented. "See you on the piste." She walked away in her typical manner.

Florence Bonnard beat him the next day, 13-15. It was completely fair. Her attacks were clean and precise, and she hesitated not a second. It was a blur in Lockwood's head; one second her blade was against his torso; the next, her blade had touched him 14 other times and the referee proclaimed her the winner. He wasn't disappointed, however - she, from a small agency, had won, not a Fittes or a Rotwell agent. He decided it was well-earned on her part, completely ignoring the way she had so softly put him down the day previous. She was just so attractive.

She gave him a toothy smile after the bout and patted his shoulder. "Don't be too upset, Locky." It was safe to say he wasn't.

2 years later.

It was terrible. It was one of those moments in your life where you can recount every detail of where you were and what you were doing exactly when it happened; heck, you could even recite the exact seconds.

Lockwood was reading the morning newspaper, sipping his pulp orange juice (the joys of being a blue whale!) when he read the news.

Both Sinclair and Saones (of the Sinclair & Saones agency) had died on a case, with poor Florence Bonnard being the only survivor. Florence Bonnard - the name reminded Lockwood of so much; mainly, his puppy crush on her when he was younger. He failed to see the appeal now, but platonically, she was wonderful, despite how much she demanded liquorice.

He visited her on the shorelines of the River Thames; it was mainly where she resided, to the most of Lockwood's knowledge. He slipped a bag of liquorice hidden under his coat for her.

Her appearance was slightly disheveled and a straw hat covered the half of her face. 

"Locky!" she croaked, but her voice lacked its usual mirth. In fact, it was incredibly fragile; to put an exclamation mark after it would never properly do it justice. She looked cold, shivering in what appeared to be her agent clothing. Her rapier was still attached to her side.

"You're shaking." Lockwood sat beside her.

"A-am I, Locky?" she hiccupped. She took a deep, shaky breath, then laughed, an echo of bitterness and a sore throat.

"I heard what happened," he said softly. "How?"

"How else, Locky?" she said, less of a question than a horrible revelation. Her voice was terribly sad, full of pain and memories. "It was ghost-touch. I protected myself with an iron cross 'til dawn against the Limbless." Her fists clenched in her skirt. A tear dropped down her cheek - which Lockwood noticed to have fresh, small scars and what looked like to be traces of tears on her slightly muddied face. It was the exact opposite from the pristine, composed Florence he'd known for so long.

"I'm sorry."

"You needn't be."

"Did you get hurt anywhere?"

She shrugged, wincing as she touched her cheek.

"I could-"

"Don't. It'll heal on its own." He wanted to tell her to clean it as well, but he could tell she'd turn down the advice in the same manner.

"Well," Lockwood said, "what are you doing next?"

Her grip tightened on the fabric of her skirt. "I don't know."

"You could train with me," Lockwood offered gently. "I don't have an agency or anything, but-"

"I-I think I'll try that. Thank you, Lockwood."

"Also, I brought these." He handed her the bag of liquorice.

A slight smile appeared from under her hat.

Her swordsmanship was still intact. Lockwood could for sure confirm this after she'd disarmed him 5 times. She'd lost her will, though. She looked pained picking up a rapier and could barely glance at salt bombs. Lockwood didn't ask. It seemed too personal. Over the course of 3 months, nothing had changed. If anything, it seemed to be harder and harder for her to fight properly.

"Locky... I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?" Lockwood knew perfectly well what she was referring to. "You're amazing with your rapier, still."

"This whole... 'agent' thing. I-I don't think I can go back." She was incredibly vulnerable with no snarky remarks or sarcasm in her voice. It hurt him to see her like this. He'd once felt similar, in his pain-filled rage when Jessica died. He couldn't look at ghosts, couldn't bear to think of them. Unlike Florence, however, he'd had rage to direct toward ghosts; she just felt pain.

Lockwood nodded. "You're sure?"

"It's been 3 months. Every time- every time I can still see their bodies next to me. Hear the screams, see the Limbless. I can't do it."

He hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. But- what will you do?"

"I'll find something, I'm sure."

"I'm always here, Florence. I've been thinking about starting an agency, so if you need anything..."

Florence Bonnard smiled her classic grin. She patted his hair - he took so long gelling it in the morning.... Her blue eyes shone like the sea. "Don't worry yourself, Locky. I've got this."

For months, Florence wandered from thing to thing in search of replacement for being an agent. She hadn't found much. With the Problem raging, agents were in the highest demand, and it was hard to ignore all of the flyers and inquiries looking for one. Lockwood had been concerned she'd find nothing, constantly reminding her of his offer. One thing was clear, though: she was never becoming an agent again. She didn't need to say the words, but it was mutually understood even as Lockwood asked her to train with him.

Slowly, she gravitated toward relic collecting. It exercised her Talent, yet comforted her. She could be free from expectations, and not have to be perfect or clean; she could collect the relics on the River Thames and sell them. It would sustain her and calm her. Most importantly, it was an environment she was comfortable in.

As time went on, her straw hat became faded of color and gained splotches of mud on them. She traded her agent fit for a padded jacket and Wellington boots. It suit the job. For once, maybe she was happy.

"So, you're sure you don't want to become an agent?"

"Locky, the only reason I came was because you said you had liquorice. I'm perfectly happy as a relic woman." She smoothed down her padded jacket and adjusted her signature straw hat.

"I have my license now. I'm recruiting-"

"I'm happy where I am, thank you very much." She took a sip of tea and plopped a liquorice in her mouth.

Lockwood sighed. Florence Bonnard, as always, was impenetrably stubborn. she'd started going by Flo Bones, which was catchy, and fit her relic woman persona. Lockwood respected this. He could see how happy it made her, though not particularly sanitary.  He recalled the day she'd first told him of her new occupation. They'd been sitting on the banks of the River Thames, near where Lockwood had comforted her the morning after tragedy struck her.

"So... you're becoming a Relicwoman? Where will you get the sources?"

"The river has enough," she gestured to the muddy shore of the river. "My Sight's been getting stronger."

"Be careful, Flor-"

"Oh, and Locky, I've started going by Flo Bones - it's quite fitting, don't you think? I like it. It's catchy." She'd lifted her hat, just enough to wink at Lockwood before pulling it down again.

"Well, my offer will always stand, Flo. You're a spectacular agent - you know my address. 35 Portland Row, hasn't changed."

"You haven't an agency to work for, Locky, have you?" Flo mused bluntly.

"Working on the license. I plan to open my own agency, agent run. What d'you reckon I call it? I was thinking 'Lockwood and Company.'"

Flo gave a grunt of approval. "'Lockwood and Co.' It's decent."

"Thanks, Flo."

She'd nodded. "Now go. I can't be seen hanging about the lots of the upper class. See you, Locky."

He pushed the bag of liquorices to her, the memory making him smile sadly. "It's all yours." 

Lockwood couldn't find any agents willing to work for him. Flo, being one of his main friends, was painfully aware of this fact, subject to his forever hanging offer of employment. 

"Oh, cheer up. Don't be lonely. You'll find someone. Lockwood & Co.! It'll be known through all of England." She softened for a second. "Anyway, I have an auction to attend." She stood up, bits of dirt falling from her jacket. "Bye, Locky!" He reached out to her then restrained himself - but she'd already exited 35 Portland Row, shutting the door behind her.

"Bye, Flo." He stared at the closed door, at his slightly outstretched hand. He could only hope she was right, and he'd find someone soon.

[ilu-writes]

Reflection

Days and Nights (solangelo)

Rating: G | Warnings: None

AO3 | FF.net |

Prev | x | Next

I wrote this in response to a prompt, but it didn’t quite fit. Still, i really love it. Will gets a little introspective thinking about his job. 

Will suppressed a groan as he opened the cupboard and found the nectar store empty. He couldn’t get too frustrated, not when there were so many people around. Instead, he just stuck his head around the door and looked at Austin, who was looking inside one of the compartments. He still looked mildly irritated at having to leave his music, but he’d come as soon as he was asked.  

“Any chance there’s any ambrosia in there?” Asked Will, hopefully, but Austin just shook his head.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’ and turning to face him. “We’re fresh out.”

“Great.” Will couldn’t help the exasperation that leaked into his tone, and he didn’t try. His fingers tapped impatiently against the cupboard door as he tried to think.

No ambrosia or nectar made healing people a lot more difficult, especially since he was basically working on his own. Unfortunately, it happened, especially during summer when the camp was at it’s busiest and they had an influx of new and naïve campers. He didn’t have time to deal with all the injuries from training and the stupid lava climbing wall. Especially when they wouldn’t get anymore supplies until the end of the week.

Will pressed a hand to his temple. “Alright, new plan. Any mild injuries we bandage and get out the door. Anything that needs treatment, we’ll have to go with unicorn draught. But a limited amount – we really need to not run out of at least one thing, alright?”

“Got it.” Austin gave him a mock salute and turned to make his way back to the cluster of people by the door.

Will shut the cupboard and leaned against it, letting out a frustrated breath of air. He hated having to send away campers who were still injured, but all things considered, they could all handle having a few minor scrapes. It didn’t stop some of them complaining, though.

He glanced up when someone new walked in, already tensing in anticipation, but he relaxed when he realised it was Nico. The son of Hades edged awkwardly around the small crowd and beelined towards him.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to have enough time for a training session?” He hummed once he got close enough, and Will rolled his eyes.

“At this point I’ll be lucky to have enough time to eat,” he huffed, and Nico grinned at him.

“Tell you what, if you’re still stuck in here at dinner, I’ll bring you some food,” he offered, touching the other boys arm lightly. Will couldn’t help but smile slightly at the contact, but it quickly fell back to a scowl.

“If I’m still here at dinner, just take me out. Like, with a sword.” He muttered, and Nico rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be dramatic, that’s my job.”

“I’m not, I’m being serious.” Will folded his arms. “If I’m not done, just end me. I’ll thank you.”

“Well, as nice as a ‘thank you’ sounds…” Nico frowned at him. “What’s up? You aren’t normally this sulky.”

“I’m not being sulky-“

“Petulent? Whiny?”

Will tried not to let the corner of his mouth twitch up. “I’m just… frustrated, okay? We’re out of ambrosia and nectar until the end of the week, which makes dealing with all these injuries especially fun. And I haven’t even started on any of my duties as head councillor.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just stressed.”

Nico thought for a second. Will loved the way his brow wrinkled when he did that. “I could help you,” he offered, pokeing his boy friends chest. “Somehow. I’m sure you could find something.”

Will gave in and smiled. “No, don’t worry about it,” he assured his boyfriend, catching his hand and looping their fingers together. “It’s fine. The rest of the cabin can deal with the daily inspections and stuff- we never win those, anyway- and I’ve already roped Austin into helping me in here. I’ll figure it out.”

Nico hummed in response, running his thumb across the other boys hand. “But you’re still stressed. And that sucks.”

“It does suck,” Will agreed, making his voice solemn, before sighing. “I just- I keep thinking about Michael, and Lee. They both- they both handled this stuff so easily. I don’t understand how they did it. I feel like no matter how much I do, there’s always more.”

“That’s probably because they had you taking care of the infirmary for them,” noted Nico, rolling his eyes. “It’s probably a lot easier to deal with all of that stuff if you aren’t also the on-call doctor for literally everything.”

“Well, they both taught archery during their time,” countered Will. “And also, they actually fought in the war-“ he cut himself off, and Nico shot him a look of pity.

“I know,” he said, softly.

“It’s not-“ Will drew in a deep breath to ground himself. “It’s just, comparitively, what I do… it seems so minor. And half the time I can’t even manage to do it right.”

“I’ve got a guy with two sewn-on arms that would beg to differ on the ‘minor’ point,” countered Nico, before switching to a more concerned demeanor. “It’s hardly your fault the infirmary ran out of mediciene. That would’ve happened regardless of who was looking after it, ‘cause a lot of people needed it. That’s how this stuff works. And everything you’ve done- in both wars- has been integral to us surviving, you know that. Without a healer- so many people would be dead.”

“I- I do know that,” Will sighed, leaning back against the cupboard without breaking the contact between his hands. “I know. It’s just that I’m feeling frustrated at myself because of all the injuries, and that’s making me feel really self-depracating.”

“Good sense of self awareness,” noted Nico teasingly, but he smiled. “You know these injuries aren’t your fault. Blame the real lava wall. Or the deadly weapons. Or the hay fever pandemic.”

“It’s only a pandemic if it’s a new disease.”

“The point is, it’s dumb to blame yourself for stuff you can’t control. And there’s no point sulking over how ‘bad’ you are just because you’re getting frustrated.”

“I’m not sulking,” muttered Will, although he knew Nico was right.

“You are sulking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Well, fine,” Will shrugged, letting his expression lighten up a little. “Maybe I’m sulking.”

Nico grinned at him. “Yeah, maybe.” His expression shifted into something more concerned. “I do wish I could help, though.”

“You did help,” Will said, immediately and honestly. “You always help.”

“All I did was talk to you,” countered Nico, raising an eyebrow.

“All I needed was talking,” said Will, before amending it a bit. “To you, specifically.”

“Hm.” Nico grinned, and moved forward to press their lips together in a quick kiss. “In that case, I should probably go and let you get back to work. There are people’s elbows that need saving.”

“Haha,” deadpanned Will, but he grinned. “Alright, fine. Abandon me.”

“I’m not abandoning you.” Nico rolled his eyes. “In fact, I promise, if you’re still here at dinner, I’ll bring some food over and we can have some alone time. Okay?”

“But what if I’m not here?” Asked Will, pouting. Nico shrugged.

“Then we’ll get some alone time after it. Cross my heart.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m fully expecting you to.”

Will grinned and kissed his boyfriend goodbye, before steeling himself for work again. 

[wolfjawswriter]

Le Gentilhomme Aimant Sans Pitié - Lockwood x Lucy 8 (FINAL)

“Mon Belle Dame” Lockwood x Lucy

Lockwood and Co. Series

Summary: What happened with La Belle Dame Sans Merci, but reverse.

Sequel: Fury's Act Finale

————Lockwood———— Outside the theatre, everything was still dark with night’s embrace. The fair was closed, everything dead-like. However, no member of the staff slept that night; they were all kept awake by the desolate bellowing that came from Charity’s caravan.

But once George and Kipps sealed the source in a silver net, everything went quiet outside: Charity stopped hollering, apologized for causing such a ruckus and asked to please be brought something to eat, and everyone knew we had captured the ghost.

Tufnell and more of the staff’s members entered the auditorium as we were putting off the fire I lighted in the stage on my little tete-a-ghost. Surprisingly, Mr Tufnell wasn’t all that bothered by the burnt stage, the rest of the staff was, or about me using the trapeze artist’s material in my hurry to the podium. In fact he was jollier than we’d ever seen him, even after Lucy explained how she had discovered how the source was brought into the theatre in the first place.

Turns out it had been Samuel Parkins, the stage manager, all along. He had been the one with the idea of the cubbyholes for more than business reasons, he even confessed it after Lucy accused him. However was it that Lucy found out, we didn’t knew, but that was a question for later.

Samuel was taken away to his caravan by the two strongest-looking trapeze artists, who then stayed there to guard him.

“I cannot believe it!” Mr Tufnell exclaimed once Samuel was taken away “Such an unthinkable act! Such a treason! Such a betrayal! I’ve always treated him like my own son!”

“It has nothing to do with you, Mr Tufnell” Lucy assured him after she came back. She had gone with Samuel to interrogate him, which didn’t took much time since he had been willing to confess “You said it; he had become too attached to Sandra, and he told me so himself. He had originally planned to set it free to get back at her for rejecting his advances, since she had been intent on flirting with Chase Blears. Samuel felt heartbroken, and wanted revenge. So, when he was cleaning the storerooms, he came across the relic of Le Gentilhomme- the turban he wore during The Sultan’s Revenge. After he died, it was kept on an iron box, which prevented the ghost from escaping. But Samuel took it without really knowing the ghost’s psychical power, and turned out to be much stronger than he thought it was, but he gave that little thought when he discovered the ghost’s particular interest in women. So he hid the turban inside the box and waited for progress. During weeks it was only witnessed by other guys; no one who could become a victim, but then, Charity was snared by him, but she wasn’t who Samuel wanted dead- that’s why he saved her. And just a day later, Sandra Morrison ran a different luck.”

“But why didn’t he removed the turban after Sandra’s death?” Kipps asked “Why risk anyone’s else life?”

“He said he simply didn’t found the time to take it away” Lucy shrugged “I personally think he was deceived by the feeling of power it gave him to know he had set this dangerous ghost free”

Inspector Barnes arrived soon after with more DEPRAC agents and Lucy had to retell the story for him. Many of the theatre’s staff crowded around them so to listen to the story again. Not that Lucy told it like Mr Tufnell probably would have- dramatic pauses, different timing, volume changes.

I discussed the prize of our work with Tufnell, which, I’ve been sure it would be reduced due to the damaged stage, but Mr Tufnell actually insisted on not counting that in the paycheck, since we saved his company from ruin. We also got Charity’s personal thanks for saving her from the ghost’s enchantment.

“That was a nice speech there” George prized me once we got a moment alone.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’d reenact it, but I don’t have a ghost here to which to yell all those things you said” Oh, that thing “…I imagine you meant all you said, didn’t you?”

“Of course”

————

We stood by the fair’s doors, waiting for the night cabs to pick us up. We’d all been given some tea by a very nice bearded lady who very much seemed to have grown to really like Kipps.

I saw Lucy perched against the metal rail, looking out into the night while Holly talked with George and Kipps, so I decided to perch myself beside her.

“I know what you’re going to say” She said “Had I stayed home, this wouldn’t have happened”

“Yes, I called it” I said and took a sip of my tea“…but I was going to ask how’d you’d been doing”

“I’m fine” We stood in silence “By the way, thank you”

“Hmm?”

“I was told what you did” I shuddered at the memory “I can’t believe you swung down a bloody trapeze just to save me from him”

“Well, I did told you before” I replied “I’d die for you, Luce. But I was right; you and Holly should have stayed behind on this one job”

“He also tried to approach you, from what I heard” She countered.

“Yes, but he barely came to me. He just stood to the side while I thought about other things” Lucy looked at me with a certain sadness that told me she already knew what I’d been thinking about back then “He took advantage of my vulnerability, fed off it, but he didn’t tried to snare me too”

“Well, I’ll make sure to listen to you more next time, boss” We laughed together and then fell into a comfortable and companionable silence “Also, Lockwood…” Her eyes casted down on the asphalt, a small blush coming to her cheeks and ears “…are you really the only one who can smile charmingly at me?” My eyes widened and my mouth opened and closed like some sort of fish. At once, my face became the theatre’s stage from an hour ago; aflame, burning and hot.

“How di- George told you, didn’t he?” Oh how I was going to kill him!

“No, the skull did” Right. The skull. I forgot he had been somewhere inside the theatre during the whole affair, and of course, it would had been just close enough to have a good look and listen to what I did and said, only to gossip it to Lucy. She smiled, burying her face on her coat so that I wouldn’t notice her blush, but it was a little too late for that.

‘“She is mine! Mine! You hear me? Mine! Only I can smile charmingly at her! Only I can stun her! And anyone who dares try to lure her away from me will have me at full wrath!”’

My words ran inside my head. I hadn’t been thinking very rationally when I was upstage, battling the curse spirit of Le Gentilhomme. It had been like I had become pure instinct, pure feeling, pure action. There was no thought process, no wondering, no hesitation, just reactions. Like an animal who showed just how it feel, when it felt like it, how it felt and because it felt like it.

“Well…” I was at loss to what to say. Because, what was there to say? Even thought I had said that because I was being protective, I had basically imposed myself on her there, saying she was mine, like she was some sort of trophy to be won and displayed, and that was not what I felt for Lucy.

I didn’t wanted to tell Lucy to love me; I didn’t wanted to be possessive. I wanted her to choose me like I chose her, freely and for love.

“Because I’d rather no one else smile at me like that other than you” I looked at her in search for any kind of sign that told me she was lying. And I found signs, just not the ones I was looking for.

I found signs of honesty in her smile.

I found signs of timidity in her posture.

I found signs of compassion in her voice.

I found signs of devotion in her acts.

I found signs of caring in her blush.

I found signs of adoration in the way her eyebrows arched.

But most of all, I found signs of love in the profundity of her eyes.

“Well, I’d rather never smile to anyone else the way I smile at you” I took my hand our of my coat’s pocket and reached to hers, her tiny hand fitting completely inside my palm “I wouldn’t fly across a room in a trapeze bar for anyone else” A single tear rolled down Lucy’s cheek. I reached my other hand to her face, cupped her cheek with it and brushed the tear away with my thumb.

“I love you like Le Gentilhomme Aimant Sans Pitié loved his audience’s applause” Lucy said longingly.

“Let me be your Gentilhomme Aimant” I whispered caressing her face “Would you like be mon Belle Dame?”

She smiled widely “Always”

[askullinajar]

The Living Ghost (part 4/4)

(CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR TEG)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Fic info: takes place right after The Empty Grave. Rating: General. Pairings: Lockwood/Lucy and Holly/her ‘flatmate’. Ao3 link: here

Further fics in this series: The Shattered Frame, A Merry Little Christmas, A Little Help From Your Friends.

“I leave for one minute and you let me get nicked again.”

“You were gone for a week!”

“Yeah, whatever. Some friend you are.”

Lucy comes home to find the skull missing. On their quest to get him back, Lockwood & Co. discover that the secret to eternal youth might not have been the only thing the Orpheus Society were striving towards.

Part 4 – New Member

DEPRAC arrived sooner than expected; it turned out Jake had heard the cacophony of explosions and gunfire from his cab and contacted them. They had brought ambulances with them, and paramedics were now tending to Holly’s arm and Kipps, who had managed to rip some of his stitches.

“You lot just can’t keep out of trouble, can you?” said Barnes, grumpily.

“You know us, Inspector!” Lockwood said, cheerfully.

Barnes gave an illegible grumble, then raised an eyebrow at Skull who was slouching in the seat on my left. Barnes looked him up and down and grimaced. I could understand his disgust; aside from Skull’s ragged clothes and bare feet, he was covered in grime and his hair seemed to be spiked with mud and grease, obscuring its natural colour. “New member?” he asked.

“Yes!” Lockwood announced. “This is…”

“Jim!” George supplied, and I felt Skull tense up beside me.

Barnes nodded with a sigh. “Good luck, Jim,” he said, before moving off to deal with the arrests.

I turned to George. “Jim?”

“Oh! Didn’t I tell you?” said George, shooting a grin at the Skull who glowered in return. “I did some research into Bickerstaff’s associates after we found out what our good friend really looked like. He matched the description of a serving boy named Jim Walker. Sound familiar, Jim?”

‘Jim’ crossed his arms and muttered something that was most likely death threats.

“’Jim’,” I repeated, laughing; I had a feeling he’d never really forgotten his name.

“What’s wrong with ‘Jim’?” Skull demanded.

“Nothing,” I said, still snickering. “I just figured you’d have a cool name, like ‘Dexter’ or ‘Sebastian’ or something.”

“Your taste in names is questionable,” he told me. “And what about Jim Moriarty?!”

“Pretty sure he went by ‘James’,” I replied. “Plus, he had a cool surname. Yours is kind of common. Just ’Walker’.”

“Jimothy Walker,” said Lockwood, grinning gleefully.

“Jimbob Walker,” George added, snorting.

“I could kill you both in a second,” Skull reminded them, shortly. They shut up pretty quick after that.

Holly wandered over to us, her arm now bandaged and in a sling, and took a seat next to George. “They’ve taken Quill to hospital,” she informed us, “and I have to check in tomorrow, but I’ve managed to get away for now.”

There was suddenly a shout from across the room. “Holly! What have they done to you?!”

A girl in a DEPRAC uniform and a midnight blue hijab ran over and flung herself down next to Holly, gently taking her hands.

Holly laughed. “I’m fine, babe. Nothing to worry about.” She turned to the rest of us. “Hey, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Rani. Rani, these are my colleagues from Lockwood & Co.”

“I’ve heard all about you!” said Rani, smiling broadly at us. “Lockwood, Lucy and George, right? And… uh…”

“This is Jim,” I said, patting Skull’s leg as he gave me a dirty look. “He’s new.”

“Lovely to meet you, Jim,” Rani said, oblivious to the death glare Skull was shooting her way. “Anyway –” She turned back to Holly – “I’ve got to go, babe. You’ve caused such a mess.”

“Hey!” Holly protested. “That wasn’t all my fault!”

“Sure,” said Rani, tusking jokily as she got up to leave. “But just so you know, if you get into any more fights, I’m gonna have to divorce you.”

“We’re not married!” Holly called after her, laughing.

Rani turned back to her, just before she disappeared back into the crowd of DEPRAC operatives, and cupped her hands over her mouth. “One day, babe!” she called.

Holly leant back in her seat with a stupid grin on her face and rosy cheeks. It was nice to see her so happy. I wondered if I’d ever have a relationship like that, then I blushed at the thought; Lockwood was sitting on my right, his knee pressed against my leg, his hand set casually between us so his fingers brushed mine.

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Holly,” Lockwood mused.

“Lockwood, I told you about her, remember?” Holly chided. “When you asked me if I wanted to move in and I said, ‘no thanks, I’m living with my girlfriend’.”

“Ohh,” said Lockwood. “You meant you were living with your girlfriend, not female friend.”

“Lockwood…” Holly started, then sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Always oblivious, this one,” said Skull.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lockwood demanded.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Are you not weirded out by two girls in a relationship?” I asked, suddenly curious.

“Oh, please,” said Skull. “Like we didn’t have lesbians in the old days.”

We got home a little after 9 pm, after a lot of questioning from DEPRAC, lying from us, and George running off for some reason.

“Oh,” said George, just as I was about to push open the door, “I should probably mention, I called my mum to meet us here.”

“What? Why?” I exclaimed. George’s mum was lovely and everything, but to be honest, after the day I’d had, I just wanted to relax with my friends.

“Well, she’s a doctor, remember?” George answered. “I figured she could give Jim a little check-up. Make sure everything’s tip-top. He did just come back from the dead after all.”

“This is for your scientific research, isn’t it?” Skull groaned.

“Might have something to do with that.”

“Fine,” said Skull. “Let’s just get this over with. I can always smother you in your sleep later.”

I pushed open the door, ignoring George’s squeak of protest, and was immediately met with the shrill shriek of Mrs Cubbins as she bustled into the hallway. “Oh, you kids! Always getting into scraps! Let me look at you.” She took George’s face in her hands and tusked. “Oh, darling! Those bruises still look awful! My poor baby…” She bundled him into a tight hug.

“Mum…” George moaned.

“And just look at the state of this place!” Mrs Cubbins scolded, releasing George and gesturing around at the mess. “I’ll have to stay the night and clean up in the morning!”

“Mum…” George tried again.

“Lockwood, you’re looking skinny. And Holly! Look at your arm, you poor thing. Lucy, sweetheart, I hope you’re looking after them?”

“Doing my best, Mrs Cubbins,” I replied as she gave us all squeezes in quick succession.

Finally, Mrs Cubbins turned to Skull, who was trying unsuccessfully to hide behind me. “And you must be Jim,” she said, pushing her thick-rimmed glasses up her nose in a manner very much like her son. “Used to be a ghost, hmm?”

“That’s the one,” said George. “We used to keep his skull in a jar.”

Mrs Cubbins gave him a side eye. “I hope you weren’t cruel to him.”

George forced a laugh. “No, of course not.”

“He put me in the oven once,” said Skull, helpfully.

“George!” Mrs Cubbins scolded, and her son had the good grace to look a little guilty. “Right, well,” she said, turning back to Skull, “why don’t we go into the living room and take a look at you? I’ve already set up in there. George, you can go and clean out your desk while I’m gone. There were maggots in the drawers! I’ve told you not to leave food lying around.”

George groaned but went off to sort out his desk, dragging a reluctant Holly with him to help.

“Be nice,” I told Skull as he passed me to follow Mrs Cubbins into the living room.

“When am I not?” he replied. The door closed behind them, leaving me alone with Lockwood.

“So, I have some news,” Lockwood announced, as we moved into the kitchen. “Barnes mentioned it to me just before we left. They’re building a gallery where Fittes House used to be, to show the history of the Problem, and they’re naming it after me! I would have suggested the ‘Lockwood & Co. Gallery’, but I guess I didn’t have a say.”

“Well, the ‘Anthony Lockwood Gallery’ has a nice ring to it,” I said, grinning at him. I was genuinely thrilled for him; he’d always wanted a name for himself, and now he’d have a whole building named after him for years to come. And he deserved it; he had solved the mystery of the Problem, after all. “That’s amazing news, Lockwood. I’m so proud of you!”

Lockwood rubbed the back of his neck, shyly. “I just… I wanted you to be the first to know. None of this could have happened without you, Luce. You really are amazing, you know?”

And, as I gazed up at his face with that beautiful sparkle in his eyes and a sheepish, lopsided smile that could put the sun to shame, I couldn’t help myself. Maybe it was the excitement of the day, with the last dregs of adrenaline still in my veins, or the joy of having the skull back, if not quite how I expected, or the relief that everyone had gotten out safely, if a little worse for wear. Whatever it was, somehow it gave me courage. So, I reached up, grabbed Lockwood’s collar to tug him down, and kissed him. And he kissed me back almost immediately, smiling against my mouth and wrapping his arms around my waist to tug me closer. My heart pounded in my chest as I reached up and I ran my fingers through his hair, standing on tiptoes to get a better angle.

Then we heard the front door open and leapt apart.

“Managed to get discharged early,” Kipps announced as he waltzed into the kitchen and took a seat. He really had a knack for interrupting at the worst time. “Stitches all sorted now! Though, not gonna lie, little bit buzzed on pain meds right now.” He looked at us and raised an eyebrow at our ruffled hair, flushed faces, and swollen lips. “Did I interrupt something?”

“What? No, no, no, not at all!” Lockwood blundered, frantically running a hand through his hair to neaten it up. I felt a strange thrill at seeing him so flustered and I made a mental note to do that more often.

Kipps raised an unconvinced eyebrow at us and was about to say something when George and Holly returned from the office.

“There!” George declared. “Maggots all taken care of. Mum should be happy!”

Holly gave a shudder. “Never let your desk get like that again.”

We heard the living room door open and, a moment later, Skull walked in and headed straight for the cupboards. He shoved a few biscuits in his mouth, eyed a packet of Holly’s dried fruit before chucking it over his shoulder, then opened the fridge and downed some milk from the carton. I would have scolded him, but I guess he hadn’t eaten anything in decades, so I let him off.

Mrs Cubbins entered a moment later and dropped her Doctor’s bag on the table before gathering us all around her, leaving Skull to continue demolishing our food supply. “Well everything seems to be alright,” she announced. “His temperatures a few degrees lower than normal, but everything else seems fine, so I put that down to his connection with the Other Side. Also –” She lowered her voice – “there was some scarring on his back. I think he may have been abused, poor thing.” She shot him a sad look before straightening and moving over to the counter, where she began bustling around, making us something to eat.

I glanced across at Skull, who was currently digging through the freezer, and felt my stomach twist unpleasantly.

“That’s awful,” Holly murmured.

“It would have been pretty normal in those days,” said Kipps. “Discipline and whatnot.”

“That doesn’t make it alright,” said Lockwood, grimacing.

“Who would’ve done that to him?” I asked.

“Most likely Bickerstaff,” said George, removing his glasses to wipe them on his jumper.

“That can’t be right,” I said. “He idolised him.”

“Ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome?” said George. I felt my stomach twist again.

“What are you lot whispering about?” Skull called to us with his mouth full.

“Oh, we were just talking about you behind your back,” I told him casually, ignoring the sick feeling of pity in my chest; he wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Rude,” said Skull. “If you’re gonna insult me, you do it to my face.”

“Fine,” I said.  “We were just saying you should take a bath. You’re kind of gross.”

“That’s more like it,” said Skull. “Also, no. I’m still scarred from my last bath.”

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Forgot about that.”

“What’s this about?” Holly questioned.

“George took a bubble-bath with the skull,” said Lockwood.

“It was an experiment!” George exclaimed as Holly gave him a horrified look. “And, in my defence, we didn’t know he was sentient at the time!”

“Let me tell you, bubbles only cover so much,” Skull said, darkly. “I have seen things I can’t unsee.”

“You’re not scarred from taking a shower, though, are you?” I said.

“Oh, I forgot those are a thing now,” said Skull. “Always wondered what those were like.”

I allowed Holly to take Skull upstairs to show him how to work the shower, after firmly telling him not to try and kill her.

“Poor thing,” Mrs Cubbins said again as they left.

“Mum, please don’t adopt the skull,” said George.

“He has a name, George” Mrs Cubbins chided.

“Sorry. Please don’t adopt Jimbob,” George corrected.

When Holly returned, she joined us all in helping Mrs Cubbins prepare home-made pizza, and if a little flour or pizza sauce happened to hit a few people in the face, it totally wasn’t my fault.

Kipps sat out due to his fresh stitches, and chatted to us about a lot of things, occasionally going off on a tangent, which I put down to his slight morphine-induced high.

“…and I couldn’t see it at first, but his body just got more solid around the skull, and I thought it was weird that I could see it without my goggles, but now we know why. Skulls are so weird, though. Cos, like, your brain’s inside it, so you’re actually inside a skeleton, not the other way around. Also, the teeth are part of the skull, but they’re outside the body. Surreal…”

I tuned out Kipps’s rambling and thought about Skull. There was still so much I didn’t know about him: his childhood, what happened to his family, why he chose to save me and Lockwood… I wouldn’t question him just yet, though; he needed time to settle down. To get used to living again.

I heard the sound of the shower cutting off and the floorboards creaking as Skull moved around upstairs. A few minutes later, the stairs creaked and Skull stepped into the kitchen. And we stared. Because, beneath all the grime and dirt, Skull was, I had to admit, cute. The filth had been washed out of his hair revealing dark, chocolatey locks that were damp and tousled and just beginning to curl. His face had a healthy, olive complexion, as opposed to the grey of his ghostly counterpart, and was adorned by numerous freckles. It made me wonder what Flo looked like beneath all the sludge.

Kipps cleared his throat. “You, err, scrub up well.”

“I know your sexuality is ambiguous at best, Kipps, but keep it in your pants,” Skull said, causing Kipps to splutter and George to snicker.

“Are those my clothes?” Lockwood blurted.

Skull looked down at the soft grey hoody and pale blue jeans he was wearing. “Yeah. Took me forever to find clothes in there that weren’t all poncy. Do you purposely buy all your shirts two sizes too small?” Lockwood flushed and Skull didn’t wait for him to answer. “Besides, it was either you or George.”

“Fair enough,” said Lockwood.

“The pizza’s just gone in the oven, Jim, dear,” Mrs Cubbins said. “It will be ready soon.”

Skull shrugged and wandered off. I let the others handle tidying up and went after him. I followed him all the way up to my little attic bedroom, where he went to stand by the window, leaning on the windowsill where his old jar used to sit, staring out across the street. I leant against the wall next to him.

“I’ve never had pizza before,” he told me after a moment. “Never had a lot of things.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll love it.”

We stood silently for a moment, watching the ghost-lamp flash on and off.

“So,” Skull said, eventually, “you and Lockwood, eh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, feeling my face flush.

“Oh, come on! There have been some obvious developments. He keeps looking at you like a love-sick puppy. Give him a good snog at last?”

“I don’t need to answer that.”

“Ooh, you did!” Skull said, grinning at me and nudging me with his elbow. “About time, too.”

“Oh, shut up,” I told him, looking away so he couldn’t see how red my face had gone.

“Don’t be like that! You’ve gotta give me all the juicy details. Did you use –”

“How does it feel?” I blurted, suddenly. Skull raised his eyebrows questioningly. “To be alive again?” I finished.

Skull sighed and turned back to stare out of the window. “It’s… I dunno. Thrilling? Exciting? Exhausting? Has its ups and downs. Having bodily functions again is weird. Can’t do the Happy Farmhand anymore, either. That’s a bummer.”

“Do you wish you’d stayed dead?” I said, quietly.

He glanced across at me and something flickered in his eyes, then he gave me his familiar grin. “Nah. I’ll be dead again soon enough, anyway. And this is what I wanted. To live again. Might as well make the most of it. How many people get a second chance?”

“You’ll stay, then?” I said, eagerly. “Join Lockwood & Co.?”

Skull hummed in thought. “I mean, I could kill you all and become a street urchin again… but I do kinda like the hot water and constant access to food.”

“So, you’ll stay?”

Skull shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, I guess.”

I suppose I was still kind of buzzed from the day’s events, but whatever. I lurched forward and flung my arms around his neck.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get soppy on me, Carlyle.” But even as he said it, he was hugging me back.

Neither of us were willing to let go, I guess because I was so glad to have my friend here in the flesh, not just a glass jar and a voice in my head, and he had been starved of human contact for decades. Whatever the case, we stood like that for a long time.

I had my face buried in his shoulder so my voice came out muffled. “I never thanked you. For saving me and Lockwood. Even though your source could have been destroyed.”

“Meh, it was nothing. You still had your life to live,” he replied. “Besides, what are best friends for?”

And as we stood there, in the room we’d shared for years, holding each other close until Mrs Cubbins called us down for dinner, I didn’t bother denying it. Because, despite our constant arguing and his incessant ramblings and my threats to bury his jar in the yard, I guess he was my best friend after all.

Previous Sequel

[jesslockwood]

If you’re a character and your name is Anthony that’s a whole personality itself.