#lockwood and co fanficiton

[givemea-dam-break]

ephemeral - chapter one

a/n: hello everyone!! finally had some inspiration, so this will be the first part of a lockwood x reader multipart series!! i hope you enjoy!!

warning: angst, mild language gn reader

full collection: here

It's a warm day out, and you can feel the heat of it even deep within the kitchen at Arif's, intensified by the humming ovens. Sunlight beams through the open window, and you can faintly hear singing birds within the bustling noise out in the front of the store. Summertime is always busy, and although not many people can actually sit in, queues are often out the door, bringing with them loud conversations and whispered gossip.

Soft music plays from a speaker as you roll out some dough, hands dusted in flour, and you find yourself quietly singing along. The smell of pastries of all kinds baking is soothing.

You're the only one working in the back. Arif is dealing with orders at the counter. Kate and Lana are off running deliveries. Jack is on holiday, revelling somewhere in the Scottish countryside. But you don't mind. Even with all the customers, the rush is something you've grown used to over the past few months, and you've found ways to manage it. The less you rush, the quicker the food gets done, as strange as it sounds.

When Arif appears in the kitchen doorway, your hands are buried in a fresh batch of dough you're in the middle of making.

Arif's a big guy, but he's got a sweet face and an incredible recipe book, so it's no wonder he's so popular in this part of London. Even though he's been working out front, he wears his trademark pink apron that had been a gift from you and the others for his birthday. He's smiling, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. A habit, you've found, when he's about to start baking.

"Shift swap?" you say.

He nods. "A few customers sitting in, but the queue has died down for now. I'll wait out front while you clean up."

It doesn't take long to finish making the dough and clean your hands. Swiftly, you swap your flour-covered apron for your front-of-house one, which looks much more presentable, but Arif still has to dust flour from your hair as you pass him.

It's routine now. Come to the bakery in the morning, work the kitchen until lunch, and then swap into the front until closing. Surprisingly, it took only a few days for you to fall into the routine, despite the dozens of late nights you worked in your previous position, and you've found yourself enjoying it.

Even if you have to hear his voice almost every day.

He comes in around ten in the morning, so it's not like you have to see him or be the one to serve him. Usually, you're in the middle of making a fresh batch of pain au chocolat or scones, depending on what day it is and which regulars have arrived, and you know that that's down to Arif's rota. Unknowingly, he's saved you a lot of unease. You're not even sure that he's aware you work here now.

But today is the exception.

You're in the middle of refilling the display cases with doughnuts and croissants when he appears, framed with beautiful golden sunlight. His hair falls over his forehead, brushing just above his dark eyes, lined with thick lashes. The past few months of summer heat have not permitted him a tan, but there are a few very faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. And despite the temperature, he still wears that ridiculously long greatcoat.

"Surely you're melting in that," you say, closing the case and coming to stand by the till. "It's twenty-five degrees out."

It's now that you notice the frozen look of shock on his face. His eyebrows, barely visible under his hair, are almost comical in their position, raised halfway up his head, and his mouth hangs open slightly.

"(name)," he says after opening and closing his mouth a few times. "I didn't - um, where's Arif?"

"In the back making the goods." You keep your voice light, but it's easy to pick out the undertone of strain in it.

You haven't seen Anthony Lockwood in eight months. Yes, you've heard his voice frequently when he's come to place orders. Yes, you've even made his orders - and been tempted to replace the almond sauce he likes with lemon - but it's insanely different from standing in front of him now. Even though he's uncharacteristically quiet, all you can hear is your last conversation together and the horrible things you both said.

"What can I get you?" you ask, trying to shove down the awkward tension that's forming between you both. "Just the usual?"

"You know my order?"

"I've been making it for the past eight months. And I also used to be on the receiving end of the deliveries." Already, you're typing it into the register. "Two jam doughnuts, one glazed, half a dozen almond fingers, and three croissants, all for delivery, right?"

He looks even more shocked than when he first saw you. "Uh, yes, please... Oh, and -"

"Three teas to go?"

That part isn't memorised because of your job. That part you know from your time spent at Portland Row. You know exactly how much milk to put in each cup.

"Erm, yeah, if you wouldn't mind."

"I don't mind at all. In fact, I get paid for this."

He hands you the money for the total order, and you print out the delivery order, slipping it through a small window behind the counter that leads to the kitchen. Arif's hand, covered in chocolate chip cookie dough, snatches it away.

Lockwood stands as you fill the to-go cups with tea and milk, and he watches carefully as you squeeze a dollop of honey into one of them.

"You know," he says, "I've actually been looking for you. We need to talk."

You hand him the cookies, eyeing the bakery door. "Yes, well, you've found me, but talking will have to wait. I've got customers to serve."

As if on cue, a short old woman, one of your favourite regulars, clears her throat behind Lockwood. Next to him, she looks tiny, but the look on her face has him shuffling to the side and out of the way.

"Just the usual, Nancy?"

She nods, and you type in her order.

"When do you finish?" Lockwood asks as you step back over to the coffee machine and begin making the order. You take a few cookies out of the case as you wait.

"That's for me to know," you say. Then, plastering on your customer service smile, "Thank you for popping in. See you around."

But he doesn't leave yet. He watches as you serve the next few customers, only hesitating when the queue begins building up again for the lunchtime rush. Relief overtakes you when he does leave, finally free from the weight of his gaze, and you can breathe again.

You're not very lucky, though.

An hour later, he reappears just shortly after the rush has died down and there are only a couple of customers left, sitting and chatting at the tables. He saunters up to the counter, filled with the confidence he lacked earlier.

But you know him. You can see that it's not entirely genuine from the way his fingers discreetly tug on his pocket zip and fiddle with the hilt of his gleaming rapier.

"Hello. What can I get for you?"

"A few minutes of your time."

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you say, "I'm afraid that'll be quite expensive. And, unless you're going to order any food or drinks, it's also quite improbable that you'll get that order."

"Fine. I'll have one of those."

Your eyes follow his pointed finger and you raise your brows. "Apricot Danish? Lockwood, you don't like apricot."

"Lovely of you to remember. I'll have one anyways."

Begrudgingly, you pluck one out of the case and place it in a little box once he's handed you the money owed. The whole time, his eyes follow you.

"Now, how about those few minutes of your time?"

You almost smile, ready to tell him that you've no time to spare, and another customer is entering the bakery, but Kate, one of your coworkers, appears, smiling.

"I've finished deliveries," she says, brushing her dark hair into a ponytail. "Arif says you're on break."

The look you give her is murderous, but she only grins, nudging you out of the way as she pulls on a pair of gloves and greets the next customer. Lockwood looks slightly too happy.

"Go sit somewhere," you grumble. "Give me a minute."

He disappears, and you huff as you tear off your gloves and apron.

Although it's been over half a year since your fight, seeing Lockwood brings it all up to the surface, bubbling and boiling. Your skin feels hot with anger and sorrow you haven't felt for a good while, fresh as if you've been transported back to the day it all happened.

Lockwood is sitting at one of the corner tables, far from the other customers, nudging the box holding his purchase. At the sight of your approach, he perks up, donning that infamous white-toothed smile of his.

"Here you go." He pushes the box over as you sit.

You stare at him. "What?"

"For you. You used to get them all the time."

Part of you wants to leap with joy at the fact that he remembers a small detail like that, but it's squashed almost instantaneously by your anger and confusion. You don't touch the box as if it is contaminated. It hurts that someone so distant from you now remembers such a thing.

"What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"Yes, you've mentioned. We're currently talking."

He shoots you a look, but there's no anger behind it. Not even frustration. "I need your help. We need your help."

"We being you, Lucy, and George?"

"Yes."

"And what makes you think I'll help you?"

The question stumps him, but he recovers quickly, brushing imaginary dust off his pristine white shirt. It's infuriating how the sunlight hits his face, emphasising all of his perfect features. His eyes sparkle like molten bronze.

"It's a big case, a lot of money involved, and you could get a decent cut of it. There are some things we need, but that involves -" He lowers his voice, leaning close to you - "stealing." Sitting back again, he speaks normally once more. "Now, if this were any normal case, we'd be fine on our own. But it's not a normal case. The documents we need are at the Rotwell building, and nobody knows that building like you do."

You cross your arms. "You're telling me all of this as if I'd accept. Judging from the fact that you want me to steal from the second-largest agency in the country, it'll most likely be a pretty dangerous job and, while that would rack up a lot of money, I'm sure you can tell that I'm not an agent anymore. I'm rusty."

"(name), you know I wouldn't be here asking you for help unless we really needed it."

"The last time we saw each other, you called me a hindrance to the team and demanded I leave lest I kill myself or the others."

He winces. "And if I remember correctly, you called me, and I quote, 'a massively conceited asshole who cares more about his company's status than the lives of his agents'."

"And I'd say it again. But if I'm such a problem, why come to try and hire me again?"

"It's temporary," Lockwood says. "And, like I said, you know Rotwell's just as well as George knew Fittes', if not better. We need this information."

"What do I get out of it? Peace from you? A written apology?"

"A cut of the money."

"Yes, you said, but do you really think that a sum of money is going to console me when I'm working with the guy who fired me because of a small slip-up?"

"It wasn't small -"

"It most certainly was. Do you think I meant to trip over Lucy? The iron circle had been fixed immediately, and no one other than me was hurt. My arm was in full working order a week after it happened, thank you for asking."

He's quiet for a minute, pondering, but his eyes are unnerving. They follow your every move as if waiting for you to pounce. You don't miss the way his fingers tap on the table, a tell-tale sign of his nerves.

"You won't see me again."

"What?"

"You heard me." He finally looks away, finding the Apricot Danish more interesting than you. "I'll make sure you don't see me again. Things ended badly, worse than they should've, and there's obviously still a lot of animosity on your part, so I'll stay away until you're ready to speak to me again, or forever if I have to."

Forever...

A small part of you, the same part that enjoyed the feeling of being known, is screaming, begging you not to accept. But, at the same time, it's painful merely sitting in front of him right now, and, if he's offering you peace from that, you should take it. It won't take long to get this job out of the way, and then you can be free of him.

"You don't have to decide right now," he clarifies. "But, if you accept the offer, come to the house once your shift finishes. We can discuss things then."

As he stands, he pushes the box holding the Danish closer to you.

Then, with a swift brush of air, he's gone, leaving nothing but a sense of... confusion, anger, and a little lingering absence, in his wake.

<- full collection part 2 ->