#locklyle fanfiction

[portlandrowismyhome]

Borrowed Time: Chapter One

A little fanfic I got suckered into writing by @the-biscuit-agreement ‘s incredible prompt. Huge thanks to @lemonsharks and @oceanspray5 ‘s additional ideas.

This is that Lockwood and co serial killer prompt…

Tag list (or interest list for those who showed interest in the prompt. If you aren’t interested in the fic no worries): (also my Lockwood friends in general): @neewtmas @givemea-dam-break @thedonutdeliverygirl @ikeasupremacy @wellgoslowly @edmundlockwood @narnianweirdos @tangledinlove @so-true-jestie @oblivious-idiot @paysomeonetopaysomeone @peachesanddandelions @myownpainintheass @sadwinistic @almostlikequake @saelterlude @fandomscraziness22 @everythingwillend @uku-lelevillain @atlabeth @carlyleons @smol-being-of-light @losticaruss @superpositvecloudshipper @totally-not-an-npc @paranorahjones @malteevars-kee-devi @teaandtoastandthyme @jesslockwood @krash-and-co @lucy-j-carlyle

Please note this is a sideblog and all replies will come from @waitingforthesunrise

This takes place four months after The Hollow Boy: Lucy is an independent agent who starts investigating the wrong case, and Lockwood has always been living on borrowed time…

Warnings: mild language, general pain, angst, suggested injury, death, car accident, hint at torture, threats, hurt/very little comfort (yet). I’m so sorry, guys…

“Miss Carlyle.” Inspector Barnes sighed, flipping over the newspapers strewn across his desk. “Trust me. This is a case to let go.”

“What cases do we let go, Inspector?” Lucy leaned forward. “We’re agents. Getting to the bottoms of things is what we do.”

“And DEPRAC’s job is to make sure that’s the only thing you go to the bottom of,” Barnes said. “Miss Caryle, you have almost no evidence. You have no team. You certainly have no proof. There’s nothing here, and frankly this will only cause you danger I’m unable to help you with.” 

“I didn’t ask for your help,” Lucy snapped. “You called me here.” 

Barnes rubbed a hand across his jaw. Lucy stared stubbornly at his desk. They were sitting in his office; well-lit, clean, and smelling strongly of chemical cleaner. Lucy clenched her jaw, determined not to lose the silent battle. She was so tired — Barnes had called her and left no choice but to return to his office immediately after work. And now she was sitting here in front of his desk, wasting time…she could be eating breakfast, or in a warm shower…the hot water cascading over her tired shoulders….

But the water was shut off due to a leak at her apartment, and there would be now arm breakfast or inviting smells awaiting her. Only crusty dishes and a sulking skull. 

It had been four months since Lucy had left Portland Row. 

Barnes cleared his throat. “Let me make sure I understand. You first took the case from a Miss Helen Younge, correct?”

Lucy nodded. Miss Younge had been young no longer when they had met; the whispery, frail old lady worked at the take-out shop where Lucy often bought doughnuts. Miss Younge often showed Lucy pictures of her cats, but that had been the extent of their interactions until the day the old woman had seized Lucy’s wrist over the cash register and whispered, you’re an agent, aren’t you? Oh, I’m in such trouble…

Barnes studied a notebook. “She offered to pay you?”

“Of course. I am an independent agent. But it was more…”

“A favor?”

Lucy nodded. “She’s an old woman working at a bakeshop, Inspector. She could never pay for a Fittes or Rotwell team.” She didn’t bother to hide the bitterness in her voice; who knew how many nights Miss Younge and others like her had spent, anxious and afraid of things they were unable to see, knowing an inspection alone would cost them precious food?

If Barnes noticed it, he didn’t let on. “Surely you didn’t inspect the property at night?” He squinted at the paper. “An apartment building, nonetheless.”

“Of course not. I did it in daylight. But…” Lucy hesitated. “I thought it would be just a weak Type One, an old person’s death or something, but…”

“Yes?”

“There was a strange whispering.”

“Miss Carlyle, you are a Listener, and sources do have a habit —“

“I found the Source, sir. It was just a simple Type One and gave almost no trouble. But I don’t think it’s the only ghost there. There’s something else, maybe more than just one.”

Lucy paused, remembering the sticky brush of a spiderweb against her face, the quick rush of cool air, the sudden suspension of time. 

“It says here,” Barnes said, “you ‘found yourself stuck in a time-loop.’ You have no idea when it could be from, or what it’s stemming from. You’re convinced it’s connected to the Type One, but that it’s not the cause.”

“Exactly.” Lucy eagerly leaned forward. “The voice, it kept saying the same thing, over and over—”

“— help me, I’m dying, he took care of you, so now you’ll kill me too,” Barnes finished in a bored tone. “Very concise for a ghost.”

Lucy brushed off his skepticism. “Of course there was more, that’s just what was clear — Inspector, this ghost was murdered. Maybe Miss Younge’s Type One, too.”

“Wouldn’t it have been a bit stronger, then?”

“Not if it was a miserable, elderly person living alone in an apartment complex with a cat and a bottle of pain pills. Those are a dime a dozen, Inspector. The person might not even know they were murdered. Not until it was too late.” 

Barnes groaned. “You have the Source, don’t you.”

“Not on me,” said Lucy. She did. It was in her knapsack, securely sealed in iro; a small, initialed pocketknife. 

“Miss Carlyle—”

Lucy hurriedly shuffled through her knapsack, and held out a stack of papers. “Look, Inspector, I found these in the library — it’s a murder case, I’m sure, I think this might lead to the victim, an unnamed body — the Source gets clearer every time I listen to it—”

“Miss Carlyle!” Barnes brought his hand down on the table. “I don’t have time for this. DEPRAC can’t keep you off the case, but consider this a warning. Whatever happens after this is on you. And —“

The door banged open. Lucy looked up to see an ashen-faced assistant gabbling into a hand-held receiver. 

“Sir!” The assistant said. “Sir, it’s urgent…there’s been an accident outside, a body…”

Barnes jumped to his feet and hurried out the door, and Lucy, after hesitating for a moment, followed. 

Clouds were gathering in the sky overhead; the air smelled like rain. A cool breeze tugged at Lucy’s hair as she hurried down the steps after Inspector Barnes and towards the knot of people gathered near the road. 

“They said it was a green van,” the assistant said. “Just barreled through and drove off…”

Voices rose excitedly from the gawking group. “Came right out of nowhere, he did…just slammed into the poor thing…never had a chance….” 

“DEPRAC Inspector!” Barnes roared. “Stand back!”

The crowd drew apart, and Lucy had a clear view of the blood streaked face staring empty-eyed at the sky. 

It was Miss Younge. 

There was a blur of ambulances and shouting and the passerby offering eager comments. Lucy couldn’t look away from the sightless eyes and crumpled cardigan of the old woman. Her head pounded; it couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. Miss Younge had given her a sandwich only that morning! The blood spattered across the pavement…

Barnes tried to steer her towards the steps, but she caught his sleeve. 

“Miss Carlyle —“

“Inspector.” Her voice was ragged even in her own ears. “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? This is proof! She must have been coming here to tell me something, she must have found something out! She was murdered, I —“

“Lucy,” Barnes said gently. “There’s been an accident. I understand you’re distraught. Go home, get some sleep.”

“Don’t you get it? This isn’t an accident, this is murder!”

Barnes glanced at the crowd, the assistant waiting nervously, the flashing lights of the screeching ambulance. “This was an accident, Miss Caryle. You’re conjecturing —“

“No!” Lucy stumbled back. “No, it wasn’t.”

An official approached, holding a clipboard. “Inspector, if you’d step this way…”

Barnes looks down at the paper, and when he looked up, Lucy Caryle was gone. 

He swore under his breath. 

Lucy paused in front of Miss Younge’s apartment building, breathless. She had run all the way from DEPRAC headquarters, rapier digging mercilessly into her hip, stopping only at her apartment to retrieve the skull. Lucy would rather have died on a bed of hot coals than admit it out loud, but she felt safer with it at her side. She bent over, gasping. 

The skull groaned from inside her knapsack. “You know, I said that all that greasy food would slow you down. But did you listen? No, of course not. Why listen to your friends? Oh wait…” It cackled. “You only have one!”

“Shut up,” Lucy said abruptly. She was digging in her pockets for the key Miss Younge had given her. The key she had been going to return today….

But there was no time for that. She needed to focus, keep her mind clear. Find any clues before DEPRAC took over. She bounded up the stairs, skull complaining loudly in her ear. Hurry, hurry, hurry…

The door was unlocked. 

Lucy tapped it hesitantly and it creaked slowly open. 

“Put me down!” The skull complained. “I can’t see a thing!”

Lucy slid the jar out of the bag and set it in the corner. The room was dark and musty; a few half-empty bookshelves,  a stained quilt covered the sagging bed…and that strange muttering whisper in her ear sending shivers up her skin…

Something warm and furry brushed against her leg and she almost jumped out of her skin. 

“Skull! You could have warned me.”

“Oh, because that’s my job now? You haven’t even apologized for this morning, and you expect me to hand out my exceptional services for free? Besides, it’s only a cat.” 

The orange cat meowed hesitantly, and Lucy bent down to brush its back. 

“God, no,” the skull said. “Lucy…I see what you’re thinking, Lucy, and the answer is no!”

“We have to take it.” Lucy straightened up and began to examine the dusty bookshelves. “Miss Younge won’t be coming back.” 

“It’s a cat. Cats live like the little demons they are. ARGH! It’s coming closer, Lucy, make it stop, it’s so ugly…”

A sharp riiiing cut through the skull’s moans. Lucy jumped, glancing at the phone. Just a call. Probably some elderly friend, looking for a chat. And she’d have to tell them…

She picked up the receiver. “Hello, I—“

“Hello, Lucy Carlyle.” The voice was smooth; slippery, sharp, and entirely unfamiliar. “I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. Might I add how beautiful you look this morning?”

Lucy froze. “Who is this?”

“A businessman. Looking for a deal.”

Lucy shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t my number.”

“Oh, no. It’s your location. But why leave a message when I can reach you like this? I knew you’d come for the cat, anyway.”

The sounds of the skull arguing faded away. “What did you say?”

“Look, darling. You’ve had a good run. A good case. Why, if you go home now, you’ll even find a little payment on the doorstep.”

“A payment for what?”

“Dropping the case, of course.” The voice was like silk. “And never speaking about it to DEPRAC again. We wouldn’t want to bother our silly little head about it, would we?”

“I’m not dropping the case!”

“Oh?”

Lucy scrambled for time, a cold weight in the pit of her stomach. “So you know something? Miss Younge was murdered?”

“Oh, Miss Younge.” The man made a disgusted noise. “She was small and unimportant.”

“The Type One, then?”

“No, my dear. This is about Lockwood.” 

Four months. Four months. And her world still reeled at the sound of his name. 

Lucy swallowed. “What does Lockwood have to do with this?”

“What doesn’t he have to do with this is a better question. Everything about you traces back to him eventually, doesn’t it? But it’s simple: you bury the case or I bury the boy. After I’ve had some fun, of course…And come on, Lucy. We both know catching him wouldn’t be the hard part.”

“I—”

“You need to drop this while I still have the restraint for it. Think how hard it will be for me to stop after I’ve heard him beg like you have. The boy’s practically screaming for someone to end his misery already, and trust me — when I’m done, he will be. And I’m sure you saw that last case put him in the hospital for three days…No, our Locky’s been looking for death a long time…”

Lucy’s ears were ringing, her nose full of the heavy must of dust and cat. “I—“

“Good day, darling,” the voice said, and hung up. 

Lucy clenched the receiver, staring at the faded wallpaper. Her knees were shaking. God, he was right. That hospital visit. A broken leg. She had scanned the papers every day for news of Lockwood, hoping she wouldn’t find a death announcement, hating herself for it every time…

The skull was making horrific faces at the cat, which was inching closer. The skull yelped as Lucy swept it into the bag and bundled the cat in her arms. 

“What kind of treatment is this, huh? And we’re going home, I hope…”

“We’re going to find Lockwood,” Lucy said briefly. “Before it’s too late.” 

Lucy didn’t bother with the bell or the iron line. She threw herself at the door, hammering at the wood, a horrific panic clutching her heart. The voice had seemed so sure, so certain. She had imagined her re-entry to Portland Row many times; in one particularly gratifying scenario, Lockwood had been on his knees begging her, the hugely successful businesswomen, to save his beloved house. And now it was her begging for entry…she kicked the thoughts aside and hit the door with her foot. 

The door swung open unexpectedly and she fell into the dark hallway. George was staring at her, eyes round from behind his glasses, a rapier in his hand. 

“Lucy?” He said blankly. 

“George,” Lucy gasped, the cat leaping from her arms. She brushed her hair back with a sweaty palm. “Is Lockwood here? Hurry, please, I need to see him!!”

Holly appeared over George’s shoulder, wrapped in an elegant coat. “Oh, it’s Lucy! And she’s brought us a cat!”

“Please!” Lucy pushed past them towards the library. “Where is he? Lockwood!”

“Oh, Lucy,” Holly whispered. 

Lucy paused, the quiet house settling over her like a heavy weight. For the first time she noticed George and Holly’s coats and hats, rapiers strapped to their waists. 

“We were just going to find you,” said Holly. 

Lucy swallowed. “I..”

George heaved a sigh. “Lucy, Lockwood’s been missing for two days.”

The world was spinning again. 

Lucy felt a hand on her elbow, and Holly guided her into a chair. “Hurry, George, put on some tea, she’s probably frozen…oh, I’m so sorry…”

George made a disgruntled noise. “She still hasn’t said what she’s doing here.”

“I got a phone call,” Lucy said numbly. “About Lockwood. There’s this case — it was a warning, and I …Oh, my word.”

Holly set down a mug. “We were just going to look for you. We thought, maybe…”

“He wasn’t with me,” Lucy said. 

They all jumped at the shrill ring of the phone. The sound sliced through Lucy with a cold recognition. She rose. 

“I’m alright, Holly, really. I — I need to answer that call.”

“You don’t even work here!” George said, following her into the hall. “It’s not your job!”

“You never answered them even when it was your job,” she shot back. “And this one will be for me.” 

The receiver was cool in her hands. She stared at the dark bookshelves, breathing in the familiar smell of Portland Row. “Hello?”

Silence. 

Hope filled her. Maybe it was just a wrong number — a grocery order —

“Hello, darling,” the voice said, a soft chuckle hiding in it’s voice. “What a pleasure to hear your voice again.”

“Wish I could say the same for you.”

“My, my. Sass this early in the day? Did your little pals miss you?”

She gripped the receiver. “Where is he?”

“Where is he? But you’ve guessed that, haven’t you, Lucy Caryle? Best Listener in London. Head like that on your shoulders. You know where he is.” 

“I swear if you’ve hurt him,” she whispered. “It will be the last thing you ever do, do you hear me? I swear—“

“Oh, Lucy,” the voice crooned. “If I hurt him? You should be begging me for a little mercy.” He sighed. “What would you have guessed? DEPRAC arrived at the apartment only five minutes after you and started a Source sweep with a double team. Your Mister Barnes trusted you a little more than you thought. But that’s besides the point…”

“I don’t know you have him,” Lucy said. Geroge’s worried face loomed in her vision, Holly right behind him, hands clasped under her chin. “You could be lying.”

“I could.” The voice hummed lightly. “How would you like me to prove it to you? His voice saying your name? A handkerchief?”

Her stomach clenched. “A recording. A piece of fabric. Could have gotten them anywhere.”

“True,” it mused. “What about a finger? You’ve stared at his hands enough; you’d know them anywhere, wouldn’t you?”

“I—“

“Or his ring? The one you thought you might wear on your finger one day.” It chuckled. “Still time for that. At his funeral, maybe —“ 

“Where is he,” Lucy spat into the phone. “Where is he, you stupid bastard!?”

“Now, now,” the voice tsked. “I’m not cruel. Why don’t I just put him on the phone? Be a good girl and listen to his demands, now.”  

Lucy’s stomach dropped at the familiar voice over the phone. 

“Luce,” Lockwood said warmly. “It’s been a while!”

“My word, Lockwood,” she said faintly. It was him, really him; his voice and his nickname for her… “What are you doing?” 

“A spot of business. Quite nice, really.” 

She could hear the rough edges in his voice now, the little gasps on the end of his sentences, like the air was whistling through his lungs. 

“Lockwood,I—”

“It’s so good to hear your voice again, Luce; you have no idea. Wish you could have popped round for some tea the other day, though. George made your favorite.”

“Lockwood!”

His voice was weary when he spoke again. “Yes, Luce?”

She turned away from the others. “What’s going on, Lockwood? They couldn’t find you — I was so worried — where are you? Where do I need to go? I’ll come and I’ll —“

“Not to worry,” Lockwood said cheerfully, but it sounded forced, as though he was saying it through clenched teeth. “I’ve got it all handled, Luce. Everything’s under control. You’re not running yourself to the ground over me, are you, Luce?  Get some rest and take care, you hear me? And stay at Portland Row as long as you like. Oh, and tell Holly that I broke one of her pink teacups the other day. She can order a new set. My apologies.”

Lucy’s gaze rose to meet Holly’s horrified eyes. “Lockwood!” She spat, trying desperately to keep the panic from her voice. “Tell me where you are, I swear — dear God, Lockwood, this isn’t a joke—”

“Isn’t it? That reminds me: I heard a particularly good one the other day, I made a note to tell you…” Lockwood hissed sharply. “Ah. Oh, that’s better.” There was a sliding sound. “Just needed to sit down.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” Lucy knew she was babbling. “Lockwood, please, please—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s okay, Luce.” Lockwood’s voice was perfectly calm, with only a slight tremor to remind her they weren’t sitting across from each other at the breakfast table. “I promise.”

“No!” She gasped for breath. “No, you swore you would never lie to me again, Lockwood — you swore—”

“Lucy!” Lockwood chuckled, but inhaled sharply as though it pained him. “I’m taking care of a brief issue. It’s business as usual.”

“No, Lockwood, it’s not! Just tell me, please, please—”

“I’ve spent my life feeling like a weapon,” Lockwood said quietly, his voice echoing over the phone. “Always living on borrowed time. I never could tell if the weapon was pointed at myself or at others. But I’ll make damn sure it isn’t pointed at you.”

A ragged sob caught in Lucy’s throat. It wasn’t real. She’d wake up tomorrow, in her own bed, and Lockwood would still be an annoying prick who lived nearby, and she would have a chance to fix everything. It couldn’t end like this.

And here she was, already acting as though it was the end. 

“No,” she whispered into the phone, her voice growing louder. “No! NO.  DAMN YOU, LOCKWOOD, YOU ANNOYING BASTARD — JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE, YOU’RE NOT GOING TO DIE, I WON’T LET YOU, I—“

“Listen to me, Lucy,” Lockwood said, his voice suddenly urgent. She broke off, sobbing for breath. His voice was quick and direct, like they were on a case together. “Take the Source. Listen exactly to what it says, and then tell Barnes. Okay? And then take it to the furnaces and burn it. Understood? You’ll be alright. Everything’s under control.” 

“No,I—”

“One last thing,” said Lockwood, his voice shaking just a little. “Luce, I needed to say…there’s not much time, but I lov—”

There was a sharp beep, and the line went dead. 

~ To be continued ~

#save lockwood and co #lockwood and co #renew lockwood and co #save lockwood & co #bring back lockwood and co #together for lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #togetherforlockwoodandco #lucy carlyle #locklyle #locklyle fanfic #lucewood #lucewood fanfic #Lockwood and co fanfic #holly munro #george cubbins #george karim #fanfic #Anthony Lockwood fanfic #Locklyle fanfiction #Lockwood and co fanfiction #Original fanfic

[givemea-dam-break]

5 Times George Missed Lucy + 1 Time He Admitted It

a/n: this was co-written by the phenomenal @ikeasupremacy i quite literally had the time of my life writing this with you, and i think we broke our own hearts quite a few times during the process. we really, really hope you enjoy it <3

warnings: big sad (i beg, listen), language, spoilers for the end of the hollow boy words: 5k+ taglist: @neewtmas @waitingforthesunrise @wellgoslowly @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @flashbackwhenyoumetme @ettadear @ella23116 @mirrorballdickinson @magicandmaybe

5. More Chores

The basement was too cold, but George persevered with the chores. If he turned the thermostat up, Lockwood would probably have him beheaded, meaning he had no choice but to grin and bear it.

It was meant to be early spring for heaven’s sake, but he was stuck in the depths of the Earth to do the cleaning, while Anthony Bloody Lockwood was off frolicking in the sun with Holly to Satchel’s and Arif’s and God knows where else! Probably buying doughnuts or something! The favouritism at Portland Row was blatant that day.

He carefully laid Lockwood and Co.’s dozens of chains out across the hardwood floor, with some oil and a rag sitting on his desk, ready for Lucy. While she oiled them, he’d polish the rapiers and make sure they had enough salt bombs and lavender bundles. Not the worst job by far, but he would’ve definitely preferred to be outside or better yet, in the air-conditioned, cherry-blossom windowed Archives.

Heaving a sigh, he stepped over the thick iron links and trudged to the bottom of the stairs that led up, up, up into the kitchen.  

“Luce!” he called. “Need you to come oil the- ”

Oh. 

How stupid. Within a moment, his shoulders had sagged as he remembered; Lucy was gone. He suddenly became very aware of how alone he was in the house, the gentle hum of peaceful silence suddenly the disconcerting emptiness of a black hole.

Lucy had been gone for at least a week now, so how could he forget? He’d cleaned everything once without her already! She had been careful not to disturb anyone when she left, but George was a notoriously light sleeper. He had wordlessly sat in his room the morning she crept out, knowing she was gone for good as soon as he heard the third step creak. He heard everything, but he didn’t move an inch. He just listened as she crept out of the house that morning. Even though he didn’t do anything about it, he knew just as well as anyone that she was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

A self-pitying laugh tore through his lips, resounding in his solitude, a moment meant for him alone. She had left them. Her absence was impossible not to notice, filling him with something distinctly empty. Hollow. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A bittersweet nostalgia for something that hadn’t really left. Call it cheesy, but she’d started actually accepting him for who he was, and then she left.

She left.

For a moment longer, he lingered there, staring up at the spiralling stairs with a half-glare. Daylight glared back at him, causing him to squint and furrow his brows in frustration while the sun tried its best to burn his eyes right out of the sockets.

As he stared into the sun for whatever self-inflicted reason, a single quiet thought made him soften his gaze in defeat. He had nobody to be angry at but himself.

Turning with a dejected sigh, he rested his gaze upon the rapiers and the chains.

Once more, he’d have to do them both. 

4. Food Gone Cold

Silence. Terrible, uncomfortable silence.

George stared down at the food that he’d spent the better part of an hour making, and a pit formed his stomach. There was Lockwood with his meal, Holly with hers, food left over, and an empty plate. Just sat there. Waiting. It haunted the dinner table more than any Source ever could.

When would he stop doing this? Lately, every single meal he cooked ended up with four portions, even though there were only three of them there. He could already see the concealed remorse on Holly’s face as she thought about stuffing yet another spare portion in the fridge in hopes that someone would eat it later. Usually, no one did.

The thought of it apparently made Lockwood “sick to his stomach” and, well, George couldn’t say he was nauseous, but he had definitely lost his appetite when he saw the leftover food in the pan, regardless of whatever it was that he’d made.

Worse still, he should’ve realised the moment that he’d set it down that it was wrong. After Lucy had left, they’d begrudgingly swapped the thinking cloth out for a new one, folding it up carefully and placing it on top of the fridge, scribbling back on George’s stray research from the last, any pending tasks from the last one, and new doodles had taken residence everywhere: George insulting Lockwood; Lockwood’s loopy handwriting forming a shopping list or writing reminders for everyone. Hell, even Holly had started adding to it, normally with little smiley faces or cartoony flowers, but it was something at least. 

Then there was Lucy’s spot.

No one dared sit in her seat. It felt like an action that they would be scolded for, by either Lockwood or some incorporeal voice that was haunting them, like a strange shared conscience between the three of them. Maybe it would even be Lucy’s voice, scolding them like she did when, every day for a week or two, Lockwood would sit in her place just to annoy her. She would jokingly tell him off every time, and force him off of the seat in a light-hearted push-and-shove. A sweet memory came to mind of Lockwood falling off the chair, and they had all doubled over laughing until their ribs pulled and their cheeks ached, the kind where anything sets you off again. A sweet memory indeed.

And, so, there was a portion of the thinking cloth that was entirely blank. Not even George’s messy and rushed research passed the invisible line that marked Lucy’s section. Maybe a mark of respect, of not wanting to let her go, of fruitless ambition and silent mourning.

Even the biscuits. The biscuit rotation was all messed up. With Lucy around, they would know who had last taken a biscuit on their little mental rotation, a fine-tuned seventh sense (after being a Sensitive, naturally), but every time George reached for a custard cream, he mentally hesitated as a ghost of Lucy’s voice went to whisper in his ear, “Have I had my biscuit yet, George?”

He wanted to say something; he was desperate to end this stifling, choking silence that plagued them all like a hand to his throat, a gag in his mouth. What could he even say? Jokes often ended up turning sour nowadays. Holly had the (albeit little) decency to give George a polite laugh at the predicament, but on the other hand, Lockwood would simply sit and stare at the empty plate as if he could summon Lucy back to her plate if he just thought about her hard enough.

George had already tried that. It didn’t work. 

3. Patience Lost

Lockwood was like a cat, George observed. When he had a goal, he was a machine; a well-oiled, slit-eyed, prowling machine. He waited for his prey, and he attacked just as gracefully. He was always waiting, watching for his next move, the next opportunity, with careful focus, and George could see why Lucy liked him. It was a skill neither he or Lucy possessed, yet one they both admired. All the same, he thought Lucy was bonkers for it.

When Lockwood had no purpose, he was a cat stretched out in the sun, ambling with no real purpose and slinking around in his suit and tie, waiting for the next thing to do. George generally found this habit of his incredibly pointless anyway, but with Lucy gone it was just worse. For the last year, Lockwood had the goal of thinking about Lucy.

If she were here, Lockwood would be moving. He’d be yelling at her from the foot of the stairs to turn her music down before marching up and doing it himself. He’d be prancing around, animatedly talking about the latest gossip from his magazine and how it was so important that they knew what colour of dress Penelope Fittes wore to a meeting with Steve Rotwell. Green meant it was about new gear, purple about the future of their agencies, blah, blah, blah. George had no mind for it.

But now? Lockwood slouched in his armchair in the library, flicking through a magazine, entirely devoid of emotion. His freakish poker-face had come out strongly as his eyes darted from line to line, occasionally lifting a finger to flip the page he was on. A cold mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned by his side that George had, yet again, accidentally made out of pure muscle memory.

Lucy always drank a hot chocolate with him. 

George was now completely out of his book. His eyes remained on the pages, reading the sentences over and over again, but they weren't what was running through his head. What would Lucy be doing right now if she were here with them? No, he couldn’t let himself linger on that thought. He tried to bring his attention back to his book.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might ngo fda bfgn tj Sorgfn. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg npt wutg hwt bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She’d have complained that the fire was dying down and added a log to it, her frame sinking into the seat near Lockwood yet again to continue her new crochet project of the week, as the calming click-clack of the plastic needles against each other melded wonderfully with the crackling of the (now revived) fireplace. A song would be stuck in her head, and she’d quietly hum along to it, none the wiser that George and Lockwood could both hear her. 

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg not with her bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She would have called them all boring for just sitting there, and gotten out the chess board to entertain herself. She was always freakishly good at that, George recalled with a slight smile. There were quite a few times where Lockwood had gotten so frustrated at her that he resigned and stormed off into his bedroom, leaving George to get absolutely throttled by Lucy every time. Every. Single. Time.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. The woman was sentimentally attached to not the wedding band, but her husband. Her source, as the agents soon found out, was not with her bones, but the husband’s. This was a revolutionary discovery for many reasons, one being the realisation…”

George gave up on the book, gently closing the hardback cover with a soft thump.

At the time, nothing could’ve annoyed him more, but George was bored of winning chess games now. Lockwood was somehow even worse than he was (and that was saying something), meaning the games lasted forever. Neither of them had the patience to sit for hours going back and forth. Lucy did.

That was the refreshing thing about games with her. It wasn’t relevant if the game lasted fifteen minutes or two hours, just sitting there with her gave the game an entirely more interesting feel. Especially when she swore under her breath after a bad move. George was a sore loser, and a gloating winner, but Lucy always took her losses humbly and her wins even more so.

Unless she was playing Holly. When Lucy won against Holly, it was as if the Heavens had shone a spotlight onto her face with how proud her smile was.

Lockwood missed that smile, and in some (pretty fucking irritating) way, George thought he did too.

It didn’t matter now. He’d have to deal with Lockwood’s doubled pawns and forgotten rooks, which was much less preferable. They would have to bear the silence of nobody humming as they crocheted, painfully watching a chess board gather dust, and having to live in the house that was no longer a home.

2. Ducks in the Wash

George could hear Lockwood rattling around in the basement incessantly, and he could only sigh. This all over again?

Surely there were no more socks missing - every single wash, Lockwood checked, and every single time he came back empty handed. It wasn’t like the washing machine was going to gobble them up. (And there was definitely no need to lift up the whole washing machine.) However, Lockwood always folded the washing better than George. That was the one reconciliation about the whole thing, thank goodness. Once George heard the telltale thump of the washing machine being on solid ground again, he assumed Lockwood was folding the clothes. Feeling less worried that Lockwood was going to break the washing machine this time around, he unpaused the telly and kept watching Pointless, or whatever crappy gameshow he had chosen to put on that day.

It wasn’t long before Lockwood came trudging up the basement stairs and through to the living room, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. But it wasn’t the neatness of it (usually they were folded haphazardly until Holly came along and fixed it up) that had George pausing the telly once more. It was the bright blue thing on top.

“Lucy’s,” Lockwood said, not even trying to conceal the miserable look on his face. “She left a sock.”

George wondered if Lucy had noticed that it was missing. Unlikely. She had so many pairs of socks, all the same shade of tell-tale royal blue, she could probably provide a few dozen to each family on Portland Row and the next few streets over and still have enough for the next two wash cycles. Besides, it was such a small thing that she’d never notice. She’d never. Never. She wouldn’t have. It’s just a sock. She’d probably lost another one and she had perfect pairs again.

But, an irrational part of George couldn’t help but blurt out, “Are you going to call her?”

There wasn’t really any need to call her. She’d survive without one bright blue sock, even if there were cute little silicone ducks on the sole of this one to keep her from slipping. But George found himself wanting to hear her voice through the phone, strangely enough. The way she said “Hello?” in her Northerner accent on the phone, her little inquisitive chirp, even though she usually knew who it was, always used to make him laugh, and he was sure it would now.

It was clear Lockwood wanted to call, what with the twitch of his fingers, and the way he longingly stared at the ducky sock. It was easy to read him after a while of knowing him, and as he observed Lockwood, he saw a strange, stone-like look on his face. He knew that expression. The barrage of emotion he was holding behind a facade of stoic presence. The way he didn’t blink while he looked at the piece of fabric in his hand, not once. His eyebrows furrowed so slightly it could even be mistaken for natural.

George knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror every day.

“No.”, Lockwood muttered breathlessly.

He placed the washing down, balanced precariously on the back of the sofa, threatening to tip over. George had bigger things on his mind than the laundry, observing it as it teetered in the balance, but his mind was in a different place as he watched the washing basket lean forward.

He simply remained on the sofa, entirely sunken in his armchair, feeling as frozen as a marble-cut statue, and staring at the sock in Lockwood’s hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as if it held some piece of Lucy that was finally attainable now that they had found it - something that could connect the three of them once again. For a moment, he wished that you could have Sources for a real person.

It’s just a sock, George told himself. There was nothing outright special about it and there never would be.

So what was their deal?

What had them reeling over a sock of all things? Was it because they could both easily imagine Lucy’s laughter as she tried to skid over the kitchen floor, only for her socks to keep her from sliding? Those stupid ducks on the bottom of her socks? Was it because of all things to have been left by Lucy accidentally, this was it? This was the last thing they had of her in the house? A literal sock?

Then again, it wasn't unwelcome. It simply brought with it a reminder of the gaping hole in their household, and dragging behind it the ugly emotions of guilt, and the hurt of a betrayal.

“I’ll wait to give it back to her,” Lockwood murmured in the same tone.

But they both knew the time would never come. Lucy wasn’t coming back, no matter how tightly Lockwood held onto the sock now, knuckles turning white. No amount of socks stolen by the washing machine would bring her knocking on the front door, or bursting through and demanding them back. The sock would simply sit, gathering dust and harbouring feelings that had no need to be felt. 

But George still agreed, holding onto whatever tiny shred of hope he still had that she would come back. George knew as well as anyone else that it was fruitless, but even he didn’t have the heart to extinguish the hope that their paths would cross again.

It felt like something was destroying him though. He had gotten to a point where it was getting unbearable, the pain of all the reminders of her everywhere, it gnawed at him and ate away at his focus, at his time, at his brain, at his happiness. He should’ve put into words, and he knew that inside him, but that would destroy all the work he had put into coping with it; for both Lockwood and Holly. Lucy was an unnamed ticking bomb, ready to cause an explosion at 35 Portland Row anytime soon, and George was reaching his limit of how many more reminders of Lucy he could take.

The washing fell over. Once upon a time, Lucy and him would have laughed together over the thought of watching Lockwood fold it all again. They would’ve giggled until their cheeks were on fire, their ribs felt tangled in knots, shrouded by the ecstasy of simple delights.

“Lockwood? The washing’s just fallen over.” George called, entirely monotone.

1. Someone Familiar

The early spring air clung to George as he stepped through the front door, shopping bags in hand. Really, London had no excuse to still be so cold, but, alas, he still shivered as he kicked the door shut and placed the bags down. The warmth of the hallway was incredible, and he could’ve just stood there forever, feeling his skin grow warm. It was only when he eventually tugged off his jacket that he heard the laughter.

He peeked into the living room, where Lockwood sat in his armchair, and Holly on the sofa beside someone else whose hand she held and squeezed. The sight filled George with warmth. Holly’s last relationship… Well, it had ended badly, and she was a wreck for a little while, so to see her happy now felt like something, finally, was going right. George was genuinely happy for Holly, and for everyone. They really needed something to go right, all of them did.

He hadn’t realised the ache in his chest until his eyes lifted to the girl whose hand she held.

How did he not notice? The bobbed brown hair, the wooly jumper and denim skirt, it was…

“Oh, George!” Lockwood said, grinning as he set his mug of tea down. “You’re back! Hope you don’t mind, Holly brought her girlfriend over for a bit.”

George tried to move, but he found himself stuck in place, simply staring at the back of her head. Surely he was dreaming. None of this was real. It couldn’t be her. No, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed and his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. It was a lie. This couldn’t be real. A dream. A nightmare.

But- But, still, however he hated to admit it, there was hope in him. She had come home. She was back. She was here. She had finally come back to them after all these horrible months and he would never let Luc-

“Lucy” turned and flashed a grin at George, and he felt a little pang of nausea in his throat. This girl, she wasn’t Lucy. He’d mistaken her just because of an outfit and a haircut. How stupid of him. As he scanned her up and down, within a matter of seconds he had noticed the pristine white trainers she wore rather than plasm-covered, chunky black boots, her jumper was purple instead of blue. Her eyebrows were prominent, pointing upwards and giving the face an inherently sharp aura about it, combined with long features that he could never even imagine on Lucy’s round face.

He saw it all clear as day, all of it. The freckles Lucy lacked and the blue eyes she didn’t have, the mascara-caked lashes and the pointed chin.

“You’re George?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that Lucy would’ve definitely later made fun of. “Hol’s told me all about you.” 

Lucy would make fun of the nickname too.

He felt insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should’ve realised sooner - she had been introduced as Holly’s girlfriend for Heaven’s sake! There was a higher chance of Lockwood and Kipps dating than there was Lucy and Holly. But, he would’ve preferred Lucy over whoever this was. He didn’t hold anything against this (probably lovely) girl, who just coincidentally managed to look uncannily like Lucy from the behind, but George couldn’t help but bite back a sob.

The bittersweet lemon-curd hope now tasted rotten and acidic in his mouth. The taste of his idiocy coated his tongue and twisted his insides, and he hated every moment of it. He hated that for a moment he’d believed it to be her, that he had been ready to smile and accept her back without a word’s notice. He hated himself for having hope, and he hated Lucy for leaving, and he was entirely ready to be sick to his stomach.

He was impressed he managed a nod in her general direction, before abandoning the shopping bags on the floor and storming upstairs. Up, up, up, until he found himself in the doorway of the attic bedroom. The door was forced open, and he stared inside the stripped down room, the same way she’d left it, with her Blu-tack stains still on the walls and a leftover Polaroid of the three of them to the right of the bed. He couldn’t help but stare at the photo, as a tonne of weight settled on his shoulders as he stood unsettlingly alone in the attic bedroom. The weight of Lucy’s memory, perhaps. Because that’s what had made him feel so terrible these last few months, wasn’t it? It was never just throwing away the food, or being bored with a chess game, or seeing a sock with ducks on it, or any of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw Lucy, but he didn’t have her at his side, bickering with him and making her little remarks, lifting his spirit a percentile at a time, and dropping him down to ground level after he finally felt valued and appreciated by someone, after he found a friend who made him laugh until he couldn’t anymore, even though he absolutely hated her sometimes.

He had never hated Lucy Carlyle more than that moment.

He flung his clothes off the vanity chair, mad that he’d even had the gall to put them in this room, and sat on the bed, trying to arrange his thoughts. 

It was like cutting himself open to admit that he missed Lucy. This girl he’d detested for months; this girl he’d slowly learned to appreciate, and even cherish. He looked for her in every room of this house - the little crocheted coasters she had made, her abandoned mugs in the cupboard with awful sayings on them, the honey jar in the kitchen that only she had used for her tea.

Hell, even whenever he took out his favourite mug, because she had accidentally chipped it her first week there, and George had sworn he would never talk to her again after that, decreeing it on the Thinking Cloth with so many swears that he lost count.

Every moment of regret, of sadness, of longing he had felt since her leaving seemed to add up and show itself proudly to him now, sending him into a rabbit hole of falling into emotional turmoil. The solitude of the basement every month, the quiet of the evenings without the click clack of a crochet needle, the way his socks were never mixed up with hers anymore, the way nobody stopped him from researching until 5 in the morning-

Fuck.

George sprinted to the little bathroom and unloaded the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When his quaking body had finished purging the contents of his (again) too-large breakfast, he crumpled onto the floor beside the bowl. The sour taste of bile was heavy on his tongue, and it slicked along the sides of his throat.

He looked up at the abandoned room around him. Just the sight of its sorry state was enough to tempt him back into throwing his face over the toilet bowl once more, but he resisted. He leaned his head against the cool tile behind him, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, the mucus in his throat mixing awfully with the vile taste in his mouth.

Lockwood had come upstairs at this point, the door being thrust open as he rushed to George’s side. His expression was pained, as he looked at George with concern in his eyes, but a resigned light to them as well.

“You’re okay,” was all he said.

0. Confession

Moonlight streamed through the attic window, splitting across the clothes-covered floor in beams of silver. It was a peaceful kind of light - the sort that would have Lucy standing by any window in the house, staring longingly up at the sky. She always spoke about how she missed the stars, stars that glittered for her back home but were now hidden by the dozens of ghostlamps scattered across the city, and the haze of pollution in the city.

As George sat on the edge of her bed alongside Lockwood, he wondered if Lucy was looking up at the moon now, too.

Oh, the horrible feeling of knowing they shared a sky but not a roof.

Lockwood heaved a sigh, playing with the polaroid in his hand. He’d plucked it off the wall not long ago and had taken to staring at it, occasionally brushing his thumb gently over where Lucy was. Maybe he thought it was like a genie’s lamp, that if he rubbed it three times some otherworldly being would come and grant their wish of bringing her home. 

No genie appeared, no wishes were granted, and Lucy didn’t return.

George remembered the day that photo had been taken. Lucy had taken the last jam doughnut, the one he had wanted, and they had argued the entirety of breakfast. Holly had trotted into the kitchen, polaroid camera in hand, grinning about how she’d found it in a charity shop and had to buy it. She wanted her first photo with it to be of her friends, the agents of Lockwood and Co., but no matter how much she and Lockwood tried, George and Lucy wouldn’t stop arguing. So there was Lockwood, smiling, albeit awkwardly, between George, who looked like he was about to implode with anger - anger he now saw as an overreaction, even if she was a thief - and Lucy, whose cheeks were flushed pink, as she waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. The camera caught the moment some of the jam in the middle had dribbled out onto her brand new jumper.

“I thought it was her, too, at first, you know,” Lockwood said after what felt like years of silence. “Holly’s girlfriend. I thought it was Lucy as well.”

With a shrug, George said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“You miss her, and that’s okay.”

“I do not miss her.”

But it was a lie. That’s all George had been doing since she left, wasn’t it? Lying to himself and to everyone else that he didn’t miss her.

He had hated Lucy for so long. From when she had first joined the company and the few months that followed. Then after she left them, giving some bullshit excuse and a secret escape. But he had never allowed himself to miss her, not really. He had only burdened himself with the memory of her, looking for her in anything he could find but not allowing himself to grieve the girl who hadn’t even died.

His fingers hurt from clutching the duvet cover so hard. “Maybe I miss her a little.”

Lockwood’s laugh was breathy, filled with tears he wouldn’t dare shed. “You can give up with the pride, George. She’s not here to make fun of you.”

“But you are.”

The words resonated between them both, and for a moment George truly realised how alone they were. Yes, Holly was there daily, mourning Lucy’s resignation in her own detached way, but George and Lockwood… Lucy had been everything to Lockwood, and somewhat less than that for George. They were a trio. George couldn’t even remember the agency before Lucy, so now it felt like a machine missing a cog - it didn’t function properly, and wouldn’t until it was put back into place.

“I’d never make fun of you for this.” Lockwood’s smile was nowhere to be found. Not in the corners of his lips or the dark of his eyes. It was as if it had been torn from him the minute Lucy stepped out the door for the last time. “I miss her, too.”

Of course Lockwood did. Missing Lucy was second nature to him. Any time she’d gone off on a case by herself he had missed her. Hell, he probably missed her when she went to bed a few floors above him. But this was unfamiliar territory for George. He wasn’t used to missing people. Not his parents who still lived in London, who occasionally visited and checked in on how things were going. Not his siblings, who were also still nearby muscling on with their careers. He’d never experienced loss like Lockwood and Lucy had.

Was that why it felt like he had been hit by a ten-tonne brick? He hated this feeling more than he’d ever hated anything.

“She’s not coming back,” George said, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “We’ll cope. We have to.”

But, staring at the room she once lived in, straining to try and feel any remnant of her presence, he wished that the genie would finally appear.

#givemea-dam-break #mayra lore #lockwood and co fanfiction #george karim fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #george karim #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood fanfiction #lucy carlyle #lucy carlyle fanfiction #locklyle #locklyle fanfiction #holly munro #the hollow boy

[worldofkaeos]

WARNING: Spoilers for the whole series!!!

It’s funny to think that sometime after the fall of the Fittes House, I started to believe that the Problem was no longer causing so much suffering to the world anymore. But it is times like these, when death resurfaces and slaps you in the face, hard, that really grounds you to reality. Every day, the Problem robs the lives of innocent children who are just doing their best to protect others. Countless lives lost, the terror and sorrow it would cause to families and friends. Sacrifices. It was always going to be this way.

A day before Halloween, Lockwood and Co. is suddenly tasked with one of the most arduous and dangerous cases they have ever encountered.

A group of missing agents, an ancient tale of a peculiar girl, and a sudden outbreak of supernatural Visitors in the midst of order, when things seemed to have already calmed down.

The stakes are sky-high; will they succeed in their quest and save these agents? Above all: will they make it out alive?

-----

(set after the events of the Empty Grave)

there'll be lots of locklyle and interactions with the gang, and a halloween party at the end :D

This is my first fic ever, hope you enjoy it!!

#lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfic #whumptober #lockwood and co fanfiction #halloween #whump #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george cubbins #george karim #skull in a jar #quill kipps #holly munro #montagu barnes #l&co #locklyle #lockwood and lucy #fanfic #locklyle fanfiction #lockwood & co #spoilers!!!

[saltwaterburns]

VERY EXPLICIT DETAILS AND DESCRIPTIONS OF MY FEELINGS AFTER FINISHING "THE EMPTY GRAVE"

I tabbed 5 pages: blue for 347, red for 354, green for 385, orange for 415 and yellow for the very last one

i. Lockwood tells Lucy about the blue sapphire necklace his dad got for his mum as a "symbol of his undying devotion".

I was listening to Radiohead for most of the book, and this scene in particular was very dear to me because "Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi" is almost most definitely Lockwood's song. Like. Everybody leaves when they get the chance to, but Lucy won't. Lucy is back here and he's with him and they're standing side by side and he nearly can't get the words out of his mouth that's gone incredibly dry but somehow he's telling her about the necklace in his palm and his mind is racing while thinking about how pretty it'd look against her supple skin. He's almost about to give it to her, his mouth is open but the words die in his throat because Kipps is leaning over the doorway and telling them that Winkman is here and now he might die and she might never really know about his feelings for her but it's okay, because she'll live. He'll make sure she'll live.

ii. "But, if anything, I had my eye on someone else."

"Good God, you don't mean George?"

"You must know there are other possibilities in this world."

Sweet, darling girl Holly and her unrecruited wlw crush. Sweet, darling Holly who was squealing on the inside whenever she caught a glance of Lucy, her glowing skin and twinkling eyes and bright hair. Sweet, darling girl Holly who couldn't help the mean words that sometimes spilled from her lips because God forbid anyone realised what actually might hide under those longing glances.

iii. Lucy and her pet Skully but Skully is being TAKEN AWAY and they're having an angsty goodbye.

I'm pretty sure I actually cried during this scene. As much as she hates to admit it, she's so fond of Skull and his company and she's so used to his vile, unannounced jokes and comments that when he's being taken away from her, her heart literally stops, even though she isn't in the living world anymore. We only realise what we have until we've lost it, and this quote fits here perfectly. Sure, she hates him and his comments are unneeded and he never helps her, but they can't just take him away, can they?

iv. "Marissa came by?" Lockwood asked. "Was she alone?"

"Hey, Lucy asks the questions around here," the youth said. "You can't just barge in and take over like you're the leader or something? Where's your respect?"

Bonus - Skull telling the Clapham Butcher Boy to "find his own human"

I GIGGLED SO LOUD. He's so emotionally dependent on her. Find your own goddamn human, fish face!! That's right!! He's my favourite character. Nothing intellectual to talk about here, it just made me smile really big.

v. She hung the symbol of Lockwood's father's undying devotion to his mother around. Her. Neck. Cause. Locky. Gave. It. To. Her.

CAN YOU HEAR MY SCREAMS AND SOBS? Oh my God, where do I even start? During the entirety of those 5 books, they've always ran and someone's been hunting them down and Penelope was always breathing over their shoulder but not anymore. They'll still take on dangerous jobs and get into little quarrels with Barnes but now Kipps and Flo are also part of their little 35 Portland Row agency. They'll still be in danger every day because that's just what their job requires but it's different because Lucy's got that little gemstone around her neck and it might not mean anything to simple onlookers but all the love and light that's ever been gathered in it is now shining upon her. It's casting a little golden halo around her head and it's all okay because even when death is looking them in the eye, they'll look at each other and nod and everything will be okay.

This is it! Thank you for reading my little rambles. I don't know how I'll ever recover, because 35 Portland Row will eternally be etched to my heart. As my favourite singer once sung, there'll always be a chamber in my heart dedicated to those three and all their little hooligan friends and the shenanigans they got into.

#lockwood and co #𖦹 saltwaterburns speaks! #lockwood and co review #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #anthony j lockwood #lucy carlyle #locklyle #locklyle fanart #locklyle fanfiction #jonathan stroud #the empty grave #george cubbins #george karim #flo bones #quill kipps #holly munro #flo and george #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood and co x reader #george karim x reader #lucy carlyle x reader #renew lockwood and co #netflix #lockwood and co netflix

[patiencetakestyme]

What She Deserves: Locklyle Fic

A/N:  After watching Lockwood & Co. on repeat for over a month, I dug into the books, and I just finished them.  The ending left something to be desired, in my opinion.  Don’t get me wrong:  I love the books, I love the characters, I love how the plot wrapped up.  But that last scene between Lockwood and Lucy…something was missing, and it wasn’t just a kiss.  This is my attempt to contribute to that scene; it picks up basically right where the last page ends.  Oh, and it’s in Lockwood’s POV!  

What’s to follow is nothing extraordinary, I’m sure; I’m sure this has all been done before and has probably been done better.  I’m new to the fandom, so I have not perused a lot of fics, so I’m sure something like this exists out there.  But there was just something nagging at me when I finished that last page, and I felt like I just had to get it out and get it on the page.  This is my attempt at doing that.  I hope you enjoy it! 

Warning: There are spoilers for the entire book series throughout this one-shot but especially The Empty Grave. You've been warned!

As he waited on the curb where it met 35 Portland Row, Lockwood found himself fidgeting.  He was usually the image of charm, poise:  a cool collective in a crisis.  

But today was different, for a number of reasons.  For starters, he couldn’t stop tugging at the collar of his new coat.  Sure, unlike his old one, it was not plagued by the claw marks from the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s tomb, but what it made up in novelty it lacked in character; he found himself missing the old, familiar, comfortable coat he had owned for many years.  

Still, the coat had been sacrificed in an effort to save Kipps, and as that effort had ultimately proven successful, he did his best not to mourn the coat too much.  It had died serving a good cause.  With a return of his smile, he found that that brought him quite a bit of comfort and joy.  

But it was not only the coat that caused him discomfort on this particular day.  He was waiting for Lucy, and there was a certain measured weight to this waiting period.  

Would she be wearing the necklace?  Every second that ticked by—he counted them.  The longer it took her to join him, the longer she had spent considering the gift.  Did she approve of it?  Did it offend her?  Did she understand—truly understand—the full complexities of the message he was attempting to send with such a gift?  Did she even see it, carefully concealed, wrapped around the legal paperwork he had delivered?  

With a sigh and another counted second, he came to a realization that he suspected he had always known deep down:  he owed her more than that.  A vague—yet weighted—gesture that may or may not be misinterpreted—or, hell, even seen—was not proportionate to what she meant to him.  

He knew what that meant—what he had to do.  He would need to be more direct; Lucy appreciated straightforward, raw, and honest communication.  

He knew that, of course—had known it for many years.  But just as he knew that was what she might need from this conversation, he was equally as aware of his struggle to provide that for her.  

He was great at fooling people.  He was always so good at talking to the others.  Need a motivating speech to breathe new life into your bedraggled army?  Lockwood was your man.  Need a condescending comment thrown casually—yet oh-so pointedly and painfully—that will simultaneously help you become a better person and make you feel like the worst human being alive?  Lockwood was your man.  Need someone to put George in his place when he was on his soapbox?  Lockwood was your man.  This skill—it had many applications. 

Expressing his private feelings was not one of those applications.  Opinions, observations, critiques, compliments—all of these things, he expressed quite easily.  

But anything personal?  His stories, his experiences, his traumas—his actual human feelings and emotions—all of these things came rarely if at all.  

It had frustrated Lucy for quite some time after they had first met; he knew that with confidence.  While he had always appreciated and respected what she chose to share with himself and George, she had struggled to understand why he had, in turn, failed to reciprocate.  

In her eyes, this felt like a lack of confidence:  an undermining of their relationship, worse, an impediment upon their relationship; he was sure of it.  If he wasn’t willing to share with her, did that mean that he, much like she had experienced with her own family, only kept her around for what she had to offer—for what she had to bring to the Thinking Cloth, so to speak?  

Lockwood keeping Lucy at arm’s length resulted in her doing much the same, which was, in a sense, ironic, as, while he kept her emotionally at a distance, physically, he called out to her at every turn.  Lockwood remembered all the times he had reached out to her—the caress of his hand on her arm, the way he would run that hand down her arm to interlink their fingers.  

He remembered, specifically, the first time they had really seen each other after George had been attacked.  His posture had been wrecked, his back aching with the burden he had carried.  He was responsible for what had happened to George; he had been the one to insist on George pursuing his research; he had been the one to keep pushing George towards that boundary.  

He could barely even bring himself to look at her—the stuttering, the stumbling, it was all there, just as he feared it would be again now, in this upcoming conversation.  

He remembered looking at his hands—his fingers.  He didn’t even recognize them as his own.  Then, just as suddenly, he—and those very hands—had led a revolt.  He threw pretense away; he swooped in, pulling her into a hug.  

That was how he communicated.  He suspected the situation with George had been enough to at least hint at this preference he coveted.  

In the time that had passed since the attack on George, he felt fairly confident she had now cracked that code:  that she now realized what he was doing, and how he was doing it.  That was merely how he chose to express his feelings.  He had always been one to reach for her, almost since the start of her time at the agency.  It had only increased with time, and since their first trip to the Other Side several months ago, he had grown increasingly reliant upon it.  

It was, to him, a simple truth:  he simply didn’t open up to people often.  But once he did, he knew it meant something.  He wondered if she saw it now—the weight that it carried; to him, their bond and their relationship had been cemented when he had opened up to her, when he had opened the door to Jessica’s room.  

Lockwood knew she was aware of this, to some extent at the very least.  Their dynamic had changed once he had started opening up.  She appreciated his words, and he could admit that he appreciated the challenge that came along with that:  the push to better himself in the task of sharing things—with her, at least, if no one else.  

Still, he could acknowledge that that was her preferred method of communication; she preferred words and gifts of sharing:  a sharing of information.  That was what she needed in this conversation, here and now:  for him to meet her in the middle and make sure her needs were met, as well as his.  

Another second had ticked by, but he was no longer worried; he could hear her running down the stairs.  Hearing her approach, he became even more resolved to his task.  It didn’t matter if she was wearing the necklace, he decided; he would make sure she heard what she needed to hear, necklace or no necklace.  

He turned to face her just as she reached the curb of Portland Row, his new coat billowing around him as he did so.  It wasn’t quite up to snuff with his old one yet, but he had hopes that it would be broadcasting his energy, sweeping anyone in the vicinity in and along for the ride, in no time.  Even still, the coat may not have been consistent, but his smile was; he could already feel it pulling at his lips before he even met Lucy’s eyes.  

Lockwood knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself; his eyes wandered down, looking for the distinct sparkle of the necklace.  He spotted it at her neck, and his eyes couldn’t help lingering, taking in the sight of it.  To be honest, he stared at it.  He resumed counting the seconds again; at three, he forced himself to meet her eyes once more.  

Words weren’t exchanged, but an understanding passed.  He faltered in his goals; was putting words to his feelings strictly necessary, now that she had elected to wear the necklace?  

He thought about Lucy—about all that he knew about her, about all that he loved about her.  

Yes, it was necessary.  She deserved more, and she would get it.  

Silently, they fell into stride next to each other.  Dusk was setting; houses would be closing up very shortly.  With any hope, these days would be numbered.  

As always, he had a goal in mind:  a goal for their destination and the path they would take to get there, both in terms of the physical route as well as the trajectory of their conversation.  

Lockwood, true to form, started talking; he always had topics ready to avoid any form of apprehension:  he wanted to make everyone as comfortable as physically possible, and that meant avoiding uncomfortable silences at all costs.  

He started with familiar and comfortable topics, a fact Lucy seemed surprised by, if the widening of her eyes was meant to indicate anything.  They discussed any updates afforded by his most recent conversations with Barnes—things he had hesitated to tell the others just yet, for fear of a lack of permanence.  

Barnes had solicited their help in the matter of cleaning up the Fittes foils, and Lockwood had turned him down, but Barnes had remained quite adamant—far more adamant than Lockwood had let on to the others; he was still pressing the matter with Lockwood fairly regularly.  

Lucy was his partner.  He had gone to Hell and back with her—twice.  If there was anyone who should know the full extent of Barnes’s pressing, it was her.  He did not hesitate to share this with her, just as he knew he would not hesitate to hold the line with Barnes—just as he knew Lucy would not fear his ability to hold the line with Barnes.  He did not tell her this in an attempt to seek support on holding the line or to bolster his resolve; he was more than equipped on his own in that matter.  

No, he shared this with her so that she could hopefully feel appreciated:  so that she could feel consulted. He wanted her to feel validated.  Hopefully—selfishly, he amended, that voice in his head sounding:  the one that always appeared when he had something to blame himself for—sharing this with her and her alone would reaffirm the underlying initiative he sought in this conversation.  

As the topic of Barnes came to a natural close, he cleared his throat.  Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could nearly feel Lucy’s suspicions rolling off of her in waves; she had managed to feel the change in his tone, and it was reflected in her own mood.  

He could not say he was surprised; he was not one to hesitate, so it was unsurprising that this would raise a red flag for her.  He had done it moments before, in the attic, but that, too, was an uncommon experience for him.  Still, it didn’t overly concern him.  If she drew the connection, she would not be wrong; he was hesitating now, just as he had hesitated then, because of the sensitive matter of the content he wished to discuss.  

“Luce,” he started, once he thought he had found his footing; still, his eyes evaded hers—yet another uncommon sign that he knew she was likely to pick up on.  He hesitated yet again, only to laugh at his own embarrassment.  

With a shake of his head, he started again, settling into simply being honest and relying upon the realizations he, himself, had only managed to come to earlier.  “It’s so funny.  Words typically come so easily to me.  Manipulating Barnes into investigating Fittes?  Easy,” he released a humorless laugh.  “Persuading Kipps into the most dangerous action imaginable?  I didn’t even break a sweat.  But here, right now,” he released a deep sigh.  “I’m struggling to find my words.”  

He took another break, allowing himself to feel the full burden of the task he had undertaken.  He needed to do this—he owed her this.  Still, he felt his fingers flex reflexively; even subconsciously, his hand ached to reach out for her.  

Abruptly, Lucy’s hand was in his, her fingers weaving through to link with his own.  Warmth radiated from the meeting point, and he could feel that very warmth spreading through him from head to toe.  In no time whatsoever, it had reached his face, daring to escape from his smile, his eyes, as he moved his to meet hers.  

“This doesn’t mean you get the free pass,” she started, and he could hear the irony dripping from her voice; somehow, the challenge her words issued made the message he wished to convey even clearer, easier.  “Go on,” she waited, pausing on an encouraging nudge of her head.  

“The necklace—” he started, with another shaky breath.  “It was, as I told you before, gifted from—”

“Your father to your mother—” she continued for him, seemingly deciding to help him out.

“Yes, a very special gift—” he confirmed.

“Given once they had gotten together?” she questioned, her confidence in the facts growing frail.  

“As a symbol,” he continued, releasing a final deep breath, even as he nodded to confirm her understanding.  “Of his…undying devotion.” 

With a subtle turn of his trajectory, he brought them to their arrival point:  his family’s cemetery plots, including the infamous empty grave.  This had been his plan all along:  to bring her here.  But even he could admit that a chill ran down his spine at the sight of the still-empty grave.  

If it hadn’t been for her, he probably would’ve occupied it long ago.  She gave him a reason to go on living.  He knew that.  He hoped that she knew that, but, with any hope, and if things went according to plan, she would certainly walk away from this conversation knowing it.  But that wasn’t the only reason he owed her—the only reason he had her to thank for the fact that the grave remained empty to this day; she had saved his life on numerous occasions, just as he had saved hers.  

It was a partnership.  He saved her; she saved him.  He adapted to meet her needs; she adapted to meet his needs.  That was why, despite the struggle he felt at putting these things to words, he would do it, because she deserved nothing less.  

When Lucy followed his eyeline and spotted the focal point of their destination, he didn’t miss her barely repressed gasp in reaction.  She released a shaky breath, her eyes locked on the gravesites.  

Through their still-connected hands, he guided her towards the fallen headstone—the one they had occupied on their last visit here—and eased them into a seated position.  He nestled in quite close to her; given what they were here to discuss, there was no reason to be coy about it, and, to be frank, the brushing of their knees brought him comfort in an uncomfortable setting.  He needed it, just like he knew she needed to hear what he had to say.  

“I know you’ve worried about me a bit in the past, Luce,” he started, his eyes glued to the empty grave—for now, anyway; he was determined to force himself to look at her, and soon.  “The last time we were here, I told you…” he trailed off, slowly finding the courage to force his eyes to run from the empty grave to meet hers.  “I mentioned that I—I sometimes feel like I don’t want to be left out:  like I’m missing something by not being here.

“In the time that has passed,” he continued, with another humorless laugh.  “I have come to realize how those words could be interpreted.  I want to make one thing abundantly clear,” he continued, his eyes locking onto hers with renewed intensity.  “Yes, I miss my family.  Do I wish they were here?  Of course.  Do I wish I was on the Other Side with them?”  He shook his head.  “As if two trips there wasn’t enough to inform my decision of just how much I do not wish to inhabit the Other Side just yet, there are, still, other factors.

“Maybe I did at one time,” he mused, his eyes wandering back to the empty grave, but only briefly.  “Before I met George, before I met you—and Holly, and even Kipps.”  He stopped, but only to scrunch his nose at his own sense of surprise at his words.  

“I miss my family,” he started again, his eyes coming back to hers, with nothing but resolve in them.  “But I have a family here, too:  you and me and George and Holly and Kipps, and even Flo, come to think of it.  You are all factors that make it impossible for me to wish for death.  

“I wish they could see us, in truth,” he paused, smiling.  “If they knew the things George did with that skull inside their house…” He paused, contemplating the exact reaction his parents would have to such news.  “It would be quite interesting, I’m sure.

“But above all else,” he continued, his tone becoming serious once more.  “I wish they could meet you.  You are my partner, Lucy—my family.  That’s why I gave you the necklace.”  He leaned in, his tone full of passion, his hand reaching for the object in question.  For the smallest of moments, he allowed his fingertips to play with the gem found at the end of the gold chain.  He thought he might’ve heard her react—just the smallest inhalation of breath—but it was gone before he could definitively prove that it had happened at all.  

“I want to reassure you, once and for all,” he continued, pulling back slightly, but his passion was still in his eyes—even he could feel it.  “I do not have a death wish.  The Fittes thing—it had to be done.  It had to be done,” he repeated, his eyes still locked on hers.  “Morally, it was the right thing to do.  Even if Marissa hadn’t killed my parents, she needed to be brought down.”

Lucy nodded but kept silent.  He barely withheld a broadening of his smile; it was the physical reassurance that he needed in that moment—it drove him on, pushing him forward with his confession.  

“But at no time was I looking to die pointlessly.  I would’ve died for you—I still would die for you,” he continued, only to pause; her horror was abundantly clear upon her face, and it needed to be addressed.  “I know that’s what worries you,” he smiled, unable to avoid acknowledging their common understanding.  

“But don’t you think that’s just part of it?” he asked.  “Part of what we’re doing here?  You say you worry about it:  about me being willing to die if it means I can save you.  But did you not go up the elevator to Marissa’s office all by yourself, specifically so you could try to save me?”

It was Lucy’s turn to smile; she looked away from him for the first time since he had started talking, but her sudden bashfulness only made him stare at her with a broadening sense of intensity.  He did not wish to corner her, but he needed to know.  

“That’s fair, I guess,” she conceded, if only partially.  He smiled at her tenacity, but he was not yet done.  

“If you had died up there,” he started—hesitated.  It hurt—it physically hurt to put words to this, but it needed to be done.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “If you had died up there, and I was left with nothing but a body to bury—here, next to my mother, my father, my sister…” he trailed off, but only for a moment; he needed to push through, or he wouldn’t have the stamina to see this through to the end.  

Next to him, even Lucy was visibly struggling with this; he could feel it, as she broke off eye contact and ran her hands repeatedly over the material of her leggings, almost as if she were desperate for something proactive to do.  “If I was left with nothing to do but to put your body in the empty grave, how do you think I would feel about that?”  

She nodded, and he knew she had seen the logic in his reasoning.  “I did have that thought,” she confessed, her eyes still avoiding his.  “When the pillars fell, and I had nowhere to go, and all I could do was run, and I found myself suddenly dumped back by the elevators, I thought…” she trailed off, her eyes now coming to the empty grave.  “I could do it:  I could go up the elevator and finish her off while you attended to Kipps.  If I was quick about it, you wouldn’t have to play any part in it,” she added, her eyes finally coming back to meet his.  

He smiled, but there was a flicker of frustration in his eyes; he could feel it.  “No more doing that, okay?  I think what I’ve learned, at least, from this whole ordeal is that we’re better when we fight together.  When I cleared the debris in the Hall of Pillars, and you weren’t there—”

She sighed, nodding again in understanding.  It seemed, to him, that she had perhaps not thought of that:  of the paralyzing fear he had experienced at not being able to find her, knowing there were ghosts littering the room, knowing that Marissa was just an elevator ride upstairs.  

“What can I say, Lockwood?” she started, turning back to him again.  He could see it there:  she knew he was right, but her tenacity was not thrilled at the prospect.  “Meeting that Fetch in the basement of Aickmere’s…” she trailed off, but only for a moment.  “It got in my head.  That ghost told me this was our future:  that you would sacrifice yourself to save me.”  

“I may still yet,” he interjected, armed with his charming smile.  

“Don’t kid—”

“I’m not,” he interrupted again, his tone now completely serious.  “Wouldn’t you do it for me?” he asked, abandoning his usual go-to smile for a plea for honesty.  

She seemed to consider this, but only for the smallest of seconds.  “Obviously.”

“Then, it’s settled,” he pulled back, his air of charm returning.  “Moving forward, we’re going to categorize this as a perfectly logical reaction to loving someone, not as an expression of a death wish.”  

It was the closest he had ever gotten to directly telling her he loved her.  He knew it, and judging by the expression on Lucy’s face, she knew it too.  He knew it needed to be said—he knew it, just like he knew it was a mountain he had yet to climb.  He felt it—felt it so strongly it physically hurt sometimes.  But saying it…that matter still remained challenging to him.  

He didn’t get the sense that Lucy had experienced an overly loving and affectionate childhood.  One of several sisters and born under a woman that seemed only interested in what her children could do for her, Lockwood had the feeling that, perhaps, Lucy had never actually been told that she was loved.  

This made his task—his purpose—here all the more important.  She deserved to hear it.    

“Because you know that, right, Lucy?” he asked, looking at her expectantly.  She didn’t appear to know, from what he could see written upon her face; it spurred him on.  “Our family is worth living for:  Holly, Kipps, George—and you.  You are worth living for.”  

This, at the very least, seemed to be a somewhat familiar concept to her.  She startled at it, assuredly, but she seemed to adapt to the idea with an ease that had not been present thus far in the conversation.  Still, the fact that she had been startled by this comment at all meant his job was not yet done.  

He had taken a gasp—prepared to push on—when she beat him to the punch.  “You are too, of course—even if you’re occasionally taken under the spell of some extremely promiscuous spirit, causing me to have to use a trapeze wire to fly through a theater and save you.”

This change in topic shocked him, to the point where all he could do verbally was release a humorless laugh.  He would’ve considered this topic done and dusted:  an old issue that was no longer a problem.  Her bringing it back up in this conversation, when no reference had been made to it thus far, told him otherwise.  She still needed some follow-up communication on this topic, and while he could see this now, he could admit privately that this oversight indicated that he still had a long way to go towards learning the best way to communicate with Lucy Carlyle.  

He knew what she was trying to do, of course—what was to be implied by the informality of her tone:  she wanted to imply that this was merely a joke.  But that was not truly the case, and he knew it; inadvertently or purposefully, she had exposed an insecurity here, and it needed to be addressed.  

Settling into the resolve of finding the best possible way of responding, he looked away from her, but only for a mere moment.  “I’ve apologized for this,” he shook his head, his smile beaming, but then he paused, and he screwed up his courage.  “You do know what happened there, don’t you?”

“Lockwood…” she trailed off, with a shake of her head.  

Immediately, he could see from the dread upon her face that she didn’t—no matter what she had perceived within that situation, and how she had perceived it, she did not have the accurate information at hand; this, too, needed to be rectified, and quickly.  

“I don’t know if I necessarily need to hear about your attraction to the creepy ghost girl that slept with everyone’s husbands,” she finished; she had beaten him to the punch again.  

No, this would not do.  Knowing there was no other option, he decided to call on both of their preferred methods of communication; the situation warranted it.  He swooped in, clenching both of her hands in his once more.  

“You didn’t see it?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief; his eyes were glued to hers once again.  “It looked like you.  It had your hair and your eyes.  It was still in a dress—she couldn’t let go of her dresses, apparently,” he paused, shaking his head, as if to shake off this entirely insignificant detail.  “But it was the color of blue you always wear,” he commented.  His eyes lowered to her arm, even as one hand moved to run a thumb over the sleeve of her blue jacket, before moving back to reclaim its assigned hand.  

“It even had that same stubborn look you always give me,” he continued, his eyes coming back to meet hers, as he felt his smile come back to pack a punch of its own.  “The one you always send my way when I tell you to stay back and let me run into the dangerous situation.” 

Lucy seemed to contemplate on this for a while.  She looked away, almost as if she were attempting to recall the specific details of that day.  He kept his eyes locked on hers; he knew she preferred logic and things she could see with her eyes—which was, unfortunately, impossible, given that they were discussing a tricky situation with an equally tricky ghost—but he just had to hope that she could find something in her memory that prompted her to believe him.  

Before long, she had turned back to him, her confidence back in her eyes.  “I didn’t know that,” she confessed, and even though relief was washing over him at her belief in his statement, he could admit that he was surprised to hear direct confirmation that she had not known.  “And…” she paused.  It was clear to Lockwood that she wanted to ask something, but she was in the process of mustering up some courage of her own.  He waited her out, nodding encouragingly to her in the process.  

Finally, with a sigh and a roll of her eyes, she seemed to resolve herself to posing her conundrum.  “So, you didn’t have a death wish at the time of that case.  So, then, I guess she didn’t go after you because you had a weak connection to life.” 

Her statement:  it was a statement, but it also wasn’t; there was a clear question implied in the way she asked in, in the anxiety he spotted in her eyes.  She was nervous—he could see it, clear as day, on her face.  He wasn’t certain what exactly could be making her nervous, but Lockwood had a feeling that if he just answered her question, maybe she’d answer his as well.  

“No—well, I don’t think so, anyway.  I don’t recall having a head cold at the time,” he carried on, his smile back in place.  “No, I believe Le Belle Dame sought me out because I fulfilled her other category,” he paused, his smile falling away once more, as he allowed the full severity of his confession to show upon his face.  “There’s a reason she looked like you to me, Luce.”  

He hadn’t stated it—not yet, but he was determined; he would get there, if it took all the courage he had at his disposal.  

With a sudden, sharp sigh, Lucy drew in his attention acutely.  She shifted, removing her hands from his grasp.  “If we’re getting confessional about the case of Le Belle Dame…” she trailed off, hesitating.  He could see her struggling, but he had no suspicions as to what precisely she could be struggling with; whatever was coming was quite important, but he had no preexisting knowledge to hint at what exactly was about to come.  “It’s my fault she went after you.  

“She got ahold of me…” she trailed off, her eyes losing focus.  “If George hadn’t been there, I would’ve been done for.  She got in my head; she rooted around for secrets, for ways to get to me.  And she found…” she trailed off again, and he found himself nearly hanging on the edge of the tombstone he had claimed as a seat; he needed to hear what came next.  “Well, you,” she finished, with a shrug, her eyes suddenly meeting his once more.  

Seeking a physical way to convey the severity of what he had to say, he reached in again; this time, his hands divided—one reached to reclaim one of her hands, while the other made its way up to cup one of her cheeks, drawing her in ever-so-slightly.  “You think it’s your fault.  I think it’s my fault.  You know who’s actually at fault?” he paused, his warm smile returning.  “The damn ghost.”  

“Well, with any hope, that’ll all be done soon.”  Lucy smiled, but it was different; her voice was hollow, breathless.  “But for now…” she trailed off, and, although she didn’t look away from his eyes, he knew she was referencing the change in the environment surrounding them.  

The sun had set; ghost fog had started to settle in amongst the tombstones.  They would need to return to Portland Row very soon, but that didn’t stop him from hesitating for just one more moment.  His eyes left his command, roaming her face at free will.  Still, he found them gravitating towards her lips.  

An intervening curl of ghost fog broke his trance.  “You’re right, of course,” he stated, his voice sounding more business-like than it had since they had settled in at the cemetery; he had a secondary goal within this conversation, and the journey back to Portland Row would serve as an extremely appropriate venue.  Keeping their hands connected, he eased her to her feet, and they started the trek back to Portland Row.  

“I do think you should reconsider my offer, Luce,” he started, admittedly—privately, at least—serving his ulterior motive.

“What offer?  You make several of them a day,” Lucy responded, with a sideway glance and a laugh.  “It can be hard to keep up, you know.”

“To move into the guest room, of course.  It would be nice to have you a little closer.”  

“What’s the matter?  Don’t like the idea of me living in your old bedroom?” Lucy asked, with another pointed laugh.  

“On the contrary, I’ve found that to be quite a comfort over the years,” he responded, his eyes sliding to meet hers.  “I merely mean to suggest that, if you should wish for it, I would not object to having you a little closer.”  

“Yeah, but Lockwood,” she started, with a sigh.  “Me?  In your sister’s room?  Wouldn’t that feel a little…” she trailed off, her nose scrunching in evidence of her discomfort.  “Morbid?  Inappropriate?”

“Oh, yes,” he started, his tone calm, cool, collected:  detached.  But his heart was hammering in his chest; this was the very precipice he had been hoping to navigate them to.  “You’re quite right.  That would be strange, wouldn’t it?  No, why don’t you just move into the big room?  With me?”  

She came to a stop, as he had anticipated she might.  Her grip on his hand slackened but maintained.  She stared at him, mouth agape, eyes wide; no effort was made to check her surprise.  

He, alternatively, painted a picture of calm intellect, as he always did.  His heart was still pounding in his chest, yes, but it was excitement that drove him on, not nerves.  

Lockwood couldn’t be entirely certain when this idea had occurred to him.  Perhaps it had been earlier, when he had been visiting her attic bedroom.  It was perfectly adequate, and he had not been lying; he had often found that he quite loved the idea that he was able to share his childhood bedroom with her.  It had created a sort of unspoken bond that had existed from the moment of their meeting, in a sense.  

The truth was, Lucy, much like Lockwood, had outgrown that room.  In his opinion, that room was a room of necessity—of acquaintance.  Kipps was worthy of that room, and Holly had long been worthy of at least that room, but Lucy…she deserved more, and as he had sworn to give her what she deserves, he intended to see that through, even on this particular point.  

“You—you want me to move in with you?” she stuttered.

“Oh, no, of course not,” Lockwood started, with a scoff and a dismissive wave of the hand she wasn’t holding.  “That would be silly, as you already live with me, and have for several years.  Come on, Luce.  I thought you’d at least know that.”

“Lockwood,” she started, taking a step to approach him; her voice was admonishing now, in that way it could be when George did something to really peeve her off.  “Now is not the time for jokes.  Tell me what you want.”  

He nodded, understanding.  It was as he suspected:  words were the method she sought as comfort, and it was his job now to seek to meet her needs in that area.  His grip on her hand tightened, as he noted she had never released it; she was working to meet his needs, and he owed her the same courtesy.  

“I want you to move into the master bedroom with me because I love you.  I have loved you since…” he trailed off, genuinely thinking through the progression of events they had experienced together.  “At least our first trip to the Other Side, if not earlier.  I do not know what I would do without you, and I have no interest in finding out.  Move in with me, please.”  

He let that last word hit and hit hard.  It wasn’t begging, per say; it was a deep, raw drive to be honest:  to honestly express just how much he wanted—no, needed—her companionship.  She was his partner, in every definition of the word, and he would have it no other way.  

He expected a fight.  He loved her because she was stubborn, not in spite of it.  He was not disappointed.  

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“We’ve known each other for two years.”

“But that’s hardly long, given our age—”

“Lucy, we’ve been to Hell together.  Twice.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t change our age—gray hairs, maybe, but not age.”

“I know it doesn’t.”  She gasped to interrupt him—to continue the bantering match—but he cut her off again.  “What it does impact is our relationship, which, I think you can agree, has been fundamentally changed by our time spent on the Other Side.  

“I could never be with anyone other than you,” he stated, his eyes refusing to stir from hers.  “That is an incontrovertible fact for me, because, while George and Kipps and Holly can understand that second trip, they can never grasp the consequences of the first:  the pure fear we felt at realizing where we were, the fight to survive, the closeness—physically and mentally and emotionally—prompted by the loss of your cape.”

He shook his head, recalling the pressing fear he had experienced on the Other Side with her, as if it had happened merely yesterday.  “That is an experience that I will only ever share with you—that only you will ever be able to understand.  I want someone sleeping next to me at night that can understand the horror—the misery—of that:  that might just understand when I wake up in a cold tremor in the middle of the night fearing a little girl—barely more than a child—in a blue dress.”  

She nodded, clearly recognizing the reference to the child they had seen on the Other Side, but said nothing else, as she paused for the smallest of moments.  Lucy seemed to be processing, and Lockwood did his best to simply follow the pounding of his heart.  The nearest ghost lamp flickered on; ironically, the light of it would be casting a shadow on the floor of the attic bedroom they were in the process of discussing.  It shed light on the room, unseen, but, for him, it also shed light on the missing part of this conversation. 

He released her hand, choosing, instead, to run both of his up to cup her chin.  Lockwood paused, as he more felt than saw her draw in a hissing breath.  Her eyes finally made their way up to meet his, and yet, still, he waited.  “Am I pressing too close?” he asked. 

It echoed.  It echoed around the empty street.  It echoed off the iron strips leading to the front door of 35 Portland Row.  It echoed off the window panes of the exact room in question.  

But more importantly, it echoed through his mind—to a time standing on the Other Side, to a time spent sharing a singular cape that was literally the only thing keeping them alive, to a time when he had asked if he was pressing too close, to a time when, internally, he begged that she wouldn’t say no, for he feared that he could not withstand the loss of her closeness, her warmth, her love.  

And, just as she had said then, she settled for a simple, but resolved, “no.”  

Audibly, the ghost lamp turned off, entering its dormant phase.  

Barely able to contain the pounding of his heart in his chest, he closed the distance between them.  His lips met hers.  

Lockwood did not often prioritize taking care of himself.  He took care of all others.  He sought to check in with others regularly, and if they needed anything, it was his job to get it for them.  

He had taken care of Lucy in this conversation.  He had finally—finally—told her he loved her.  He had seen to her needs—her preferences for communication.  

This, alternatively, was his preferred method of communication:  touch.  He craved contact with Lucy; it was why he always reached out for her, especially in the darkest of times.  

Lucy, for what it was worth, seemed to have perceived this.  Whether consciously or subconsciously, she seemed to have an appreciation for the fact that he had been the one to predominantly take the risks in this conversation; at every turn, it had been him initiating the broadening and deepening of their relationship.  Now, Lucy seemed to understand that it was her turn.  

Lockwood initiated the kiss, but she didn’t let it stagnate.  She pressed in closer, her arms moving to snake through the opening in his jacket and encircle his waist.  To his surprise, he heard his own verbal reaction to the move.  His fingers moved, weaving through the line of her hair at the base of her neck and pulling her in even closer.  

He had often daydreamed about sharing this very moment with Lucy, and he didn’t let a second pass unnoted.  He tilted his head, pulling on his height to deepen the kiss.  Lucy’s arms around his waist tightened their grip, pulling him in even tighter.  

This was how she told him she loved him.  Her resolve, her tenacity, her confidence—all those wonderful things she brought to a conversation with him:  it was all clear in this moment, with the ghost fog swirling around them, with the moonlight reflecting on the pavement, for once shining brighter than the dreaded nearby ghost lamp, which still lay dormant.  

Their lips parted, as they tried to catch their breath, but their foreheads sought to connect; he brought his to rest upon hers, and hers met his in the middle.  

“Okay,” she started, her voice sardonic—but he could hear it:  the irony.  “I’ll move in with you, I suppose.”  

“Good,” he responded, his smile returning.  “That was the correct answer.”  At her gasp to bicker, he sought to move quicker.  He reached down, interlinking their hands once more, before moving swiftly to approach the door to 35 Portland Row.  “Now, we can make all the necessary preparations tomorrow, of course.  Moving will be far easier by daylight, obviously.”  He spoke quickly, throwing his words over his shoulder at her.  “But for now, I think we’ll have enough to get by, don’t you?  Just go get changed, whatever you need to be comfortable for the evening, and I’ll wait up for you.”  

“Is that a request or an order?” she asked as they made their way through Portland Row’s front door and started to ascend the stairs, their hands still connected.  

“It’s neither, of course!”  He had the decency to sound indignant.  “It’s a suggestion, naturally.”  

Quick as a flash, he had gotten her up the stairs to reach the door to the attic.  “I’ll see you in a few?” he asked. 

Yes, he asked.  For all his confidence, for all his charm, for all his presumptions, for all his persuasion, he knew how to show his insecurities.  It was rare, and it was difficult to discern; this was intentionally done.  But when he needed to ask, he asked.  

And he was asking here, now.  Sure, he had presented the idea with nothing but confidence—and he was confident, to a certain degree.  But he didn’t want to take a step backward; he wanted to show her his vulnerability, in his own way, with his words—when he could and when he felt comfortable.  

This was that moment.  And, true to form, Lucy didn’t let him down.  

“I’ll be there in five minutes, assuming I don’t get lost on the harrowing journey down the stairs,” she answered, with a small smirk.  

###

He waited up for her, as he had promised.  And, just as she had promised, she was there within five minutes.  Still, he used each of those five minutes to the best of his ability.  He tidied his already extremely tidy room.  He made sure he was satisfied with the furnishings, fluffing any pillows, refolding already folded blankets, turning down the bed so that she knew she was well and truly welcomed here.  

He slipped into his pajamas:  a simple white shirt and pair of black fitted joggers.  He tucked his clothing from the day away in its assigned spots:  dirty clothes chucked in the hamper residing in the closet, new coat hanging from the bedpost, just as the previous one always had.  

He had found just enough time to complete three laps of pacing when she opened the door.  She didn’t knock; he liked that—it indicated this was now just as much her room as it was his.  

Suddenly, she was in the room, in the pajamas he had seen her wear on several occasions.  He released a deep sigh:  a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in as a result of his anxious awaiting of her arrival.  

“We should get to bed,” he stated, seeking a sense of normality.  He approached her, reaching for her hand yet again, and guided her toward the bed.  “You never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“Maybe the Problem will be over, suddenly and sharply.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he scoffed.  “Far more likely, yet another meeting with Barnes, during which he’ll beg us for more assistance,” he continued, slipping into bed.  Their connected hands led her to slip in behind him.  

When he turned to face her, she was settling in, shifting comfortably on her pillow.  “You’ll hold him off,” she said, with a scrunch of her nose indicating her confidence in his defiance.  “He can deal for a few days.  We’ve carried more than our fair share of weight for a while—earned a leave of absence, we have.”  

He smiled; he couldn’t help it.  Seeing her here, hearing her validate any and all of his feelings:  his heart was pounding painfully with the weight of the happiness of it all.  “Quite right.  Do you mind hitting the light behind you?” he asked, with a nod in the direction of the lamp on the nightstand behind her.  

Silently, she rolled over and did so.  Hoping he wasn’t pressing too close in an unwanted way, he slipped in before she could roll back over to face him.  Settling his arm around her waist and placing his head to share the same pillow that hers occupied, he waited, attempting to read her body language for any signs of displeasure at this move.  On the contrary, she settled in, easing back further into his chest.  The affirmation had impeccable impacts upon him; he breathed a sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to ease close.  

In the dark, she whispered, “I love you, Lockwood.”  

His eyes opened sharply, but his body did nothing to indicate his surprise; he made no movements:  he did not startle.  “I love you too, Lucy.”  

He allowed his eyes to ease close once more, the relief at having her here consuming him, and helping him drift off to the most peaceful sleep he had experienced since the death of his sister.  

His last thought, if he could even call it that, as it was not fully formed, was that she deserved this, but he deserved this too.  

A/N:  Thank you for taking the time to read this!  It means a lot to me!  If you liked my writing style, and if you’re looking for something to read in the fantasy/YA genre, please consider checking out my book! 

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

[scarletslippers]

standing in your cardigan

Gif by @pearlcaddy

Happy Birthday @tryalittlejoytomorrow!! Enjoy some soft Lockwood and Lucy 💜

Lucy knits Lockwood a jumper. Read on AO3

“Quill says you know how to knit.”

“How the hell does Kipps know that—never mind. That is correct. I know how to knit. Once I began trending less engineer and more weirdo, my mother started teaching me. I think she was trying to hone my analytical mind.” He grins. “She did, just not with the outcome she was hoping for.” 

“She didn't realize she was creating an insane researcher?” 

George shrugs, already heading back to his book. “No idea. I am however, as a result, an excellent knitter. It's rather methodical, really. Soothing, even.”

“So will you help me?”

He looks back up at her slowly, and takes a prolonged sip of his tea, pretending he doesn’t understand. “I failed to hear a clarification in your question. What exactly do you need help with?”

“I need you to teach me to knit.”

Read the rest

#lockwood & co #lockwood and co #locklyle #locklyle fic #locklyle fanfiction #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #my fic #lockwood and lucy #anyway they're just really soft and cute #wow I miss them

[wellgoslowly]

thinking abt my lockwood and co college au- there's just so much chaos.

everyone is queer, the dorm fire alarm goes off at 6am bc flo was hotboxing (based on an actual experience I had in my dorm), George is absolutely appalled that lucy isn't an avid K.C. Undercover watcher, lockwood and kipps are roommates, george is autistic (as per usual), lockwood does a lot of stupid shit (as per usual), the trio get into like 3 dangerous ghost encounters in areas where there should be no sources whatsoever before they can all agree that something is wrong, lucy asks if lockwood and flo are together and flo starts dry heaving, etc.

like it's so funny for no reason and I'm not even done plotting it

#renew lockwood and co #lockwood and lucy #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #locklyle #locklyle brainrot is real #george cubbins #george karim #flo bones #kat godwin #bobby vernon #quill kipps #fanfiction #fanfic #locklyle fanfiction #lockwood and co fanfiction

[fandomxgodess]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Lockwood & Co. (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood Characters: Lucy Carlyle, Anthony Lockwood, George Cubbins | George Karim, Montagu Barnes Additional Tags: 5+1 Things, Pet Names, Fluff and Angst, Mostly Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, if the writers would let me in the room it would be canon-typical cuteness, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Injury, No Book Spoilers, because I read the first fifty pages and then wrote this, all original names are somehow a doctor who reference, I am woefully american be patient with me, No beta we die like Skull Summary:

“‘Love?’”

Lockwood might actually blush at that.

“Too much? Sorry, you seemed like you needed an escape and I thought…”

“It’s not bad,” she starts cautiously, “I just thought you’d go for something a bit more...posh.”

His hesitant expression turns to one of unrestricted amusement as he playfully retorts, “‘Love’ isn’t a posh enough term of endearment for you?”

(Or, 5 times Lockwood calls Lucy a term of endearment, and 1 time he gets it right)

#lockwood and co #lockwood & co #locklyle #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #iron trio #locklyle fanfiction #my fanfiction

[paranorahjones]

New fic coming soon ;)

#my take on 'only one bed' #hehehehehehe #(yes it will be clean) #this one's been on the back burner for months and now it is COOKING #lockwood and co fanfic #lockwood and co fanfiction #locklyle #locklyle fanfiction #save l&co #savelockwoodandco #save lockwood and co

[solticeenery]

"Lockwood!" Lucy screams when a big grey, black and white ball of fur rolls down the stairs, kind of squeaks and rushes between her feet somewhere under the couch.

"What's wrong, Luce?" Anthony asks leaving his sister's room and closing the door behind him.

"What. Is. This?" she hisses pointing in direction of living room.

"What exactly?" Lockwood smiles cautiously not knowing what to expect. They are officially dating for a year now, but he's still confused and a bit scared, when Lucy is so angry. He slowly approaches her, keeping the distance between them. Just in case Lucy decides to throw something like she sometimes does when she's pissed. And she definitely looks like that right now. "If you... Specify the problem, we can come up with some kind of solution."

Lucy sighs heavily, trying to calm down, and reminds herself, that Lockwood isn't always the one and only reason of every single disaster happening here. George can be responsible for it not less than Anthony himself. Sometimes it's just Kipps with his concerning but harmless sense of humour. Maybe there's apocalypse coming, because Holly suddenly decided to make fun of them. There are variations of what exactly happened. That's why Lucy takes a deep breath and starts again.

"Anthony, my dear, why is there a raccoon in our house?" she definitely doesn't have any strength left to control the way she addresses Lockwood, when everyone is in the kitchen and can hear every single word. Excluding Holly, she's probably in the office sorting some papers.

"A what..?" Lockwood is obviously startled. "Luce, I'm not sure if I heard you loud and clear, could you please repeat?"

"Sure!" nervous laughter escapes her lungs. "There is a raccoon in our house and I'd like to know, why is it there. To be more specific, under the couch in living room."

"Nope, I heard everything right on first try, a raccoon, ha-ha, okay, whatever, w h a t. T h e. F u c k ?! I beg your pardon but I don't have other words right now?"

"Don't worry, hon, me too" Lucy smiles, relieved, that Lockwood has nothing to do with this incident, and comes to him just to snug in his arms for a second as an apology for shouting at the most precious person in her entire life. He holds her gently, buries his face against her neck and takes a slow deep breath, presumably processing the existence of raccoon on Portland Row 35. Not an easy type of acceptance, but they don't have a choice. First and foremost because Lucy can already guess, whose brilliant idea it was. Flo (please burn in hell) Bones.

No, she does like Flo when she is helpful, but otherwise Lucy prefers to avoid her as much as possible. Mostly because she doesn't like relic-men whoever they are and however useful they can be. She already learned that it's easier when relic-girl stays out of her sight and doesn't bother her with some stupid jokes and meaningful gazes. Lucy has had enough. The Skull overdid all possible norms in first months of her and Lockwood dating.

"So... Who are we interrogating now? George? Quill? Holly?" Lucy tilts her head and rests it on Lockwood's shoulder, admiring their perfect height difference.

"Uh... Whatever you wanna ask, I don't know anything?" sound of Holly's voice makes her shiver a bit and turn around. And see that their assistant just came to work. "Sorry, I know, I'm late, I..."

"It's alright, Holly," Lockwood says softly and calmingly squeezes Lucy's shoulder. "Just don't enter the living room until I allow it, okay?"

"Okay?" Holly is obviously confused and looks at the room uncertainly. "May I ask why?"

"There is a raccoon under the couch," Lucy answers and an expression of pure shock and disbelief on Holly's face is just adorable and worth every inch of this ball of fur.

"A what now? Raccoon?! How?!!"

"If only we knew. But I have an idea," Lockwood giggles and raises his voice. "George! Could you please come for a second."

The chatter in the kitchen suddenly stops and not long after George appears in the hallway with a mug of tea. Lucy can spot Kipps behind him, sipping his morning coffee and definitely eavesdropping.

"Morning," George yawns. "What has already happened?"

"A raccoon happened!" Holly answers instead of Lockwood. "Who left the backdoor opened? You? Or Quill?" Kipps freezes. They all once saw, how angry Holly can be and how dangerous for everyone else it is. Enough to say, that noone wanted to be the target of Holly's anger. It was scarier than all types of ghosts together in one room.

George blinks couple times. Looks at the couch. Frowns, when he hears some suspicious noises underneath it. And suddenly bursts into laughter.

"Oh, you mean Charcoal!" the noises stop, and a small black nose shows up between two blankets, sniffing. "Come here, boy, it's okay." The raccoon rushes into George's open arms, hides its fluffy head under his chin and silently cries. "Yeah, yeah, I know, she can be rude, don't blame her."

"I bet you won't survive the night," Quill shakes his head. "Either Holly or Lucy are gonna kill you."

"Nah, c'mon, Charcoal is too cute, who's gonna look after him, if I'm gone?"

"Flo," Kipps shrugs. "She brought this fur ball here 'till tomorrow morning, and I'm looking forward to her taking this monster away."

"So relic-girl it is," Holly sighs, rolls her eyes and goes to the kitchen to make some tea for them. And Lucy can already guess on that annoyed-angry look on Holly's face that neither Kipps nor George get their mugs refilled. Not as if it bothers them. Not as if Lucy or Lockwood want to disagree with their assistant.

"So... Are we done for now?" George asks burying his face in raccoon's fur.

"Ew, how can you do that?" Lucy grimaces. "He probably was digging in the trash lately. I wouldn't be surprised I mean, it's Flo we're talking about."

"I bathed him this morning! He's clean!"

"You know what, Lockwood," Holly says coming back to the doorway, "I'm cleaning your bathroom with bleach and vinegar today. Or better. George, you are making it, I don't want to know where this fluffy devil was and what could it bring on him."

"Agreed," Lockwood chuckles and turns to Lucy. "We have to meet the client today, don't you mind if I use your bathroom? I don't want to risk my pretty face getting peeled off after Charcoal's presence."

"Oh, sure," Lucy smiles. "I don't want you to risk it either."

She expects George to say something to it, something sarcastic and funny, but the silence is so loud and Lockwood's grin is so sly that it takes some time untill she understands what did her friends hear in these words.

"Yeah, take your time I suppose," George waves his hand. Lucy can see Kipps biting his lips in desperate attempt not to die from laughter. And Holly just sighs heavily.

"I expect both of you to get down to the front door at the noon. Maybe earlier if you manage it, but not later."

Lucy narrows her eyes ready to answer something sarcastic but Lockwood just pulls her upstairs, winking to the others. As soon as they close the door to her room, Lockwood throws his arms around her waist and gently pushes his forehead against hers.

"You can't kill them, Luce."

"Yeah, yeah, as if you would ever allow it."

"Or injure them in any way."

"Not even nudge someone?"

Lockwood frowns, thinking. "George. For the raccoon. He deserves it. But noone else."

Lucy wants to remind him, that he also doesn't like whenever their friends are joking about their relationship. But his soft warm lips meet hers, and in an instant the world stops existing. They won't be ready at the noon, of course Holly understood it.

The last thought Lucy can catch before loosing herself in Lockwood's arms is that maybe — just maybe — she should thank Flo for bringing Charcoal at their place. Because she definitely heard the most awaited words whispered against her lips.

"I think my last name suits you better."

And Lucy can deny it.

It surely does.

#lockwood and co #headcanon #locklyle #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #why is it so difficult to write in foreign language #my brain is broken sos #this grammar makes me crazy #yes it's a raccoon #i love raccoons #Flo is the main shipper in this house and you can't change my mind #fanfic #fanfiction #locklyle fanfiction

[amnesique]

i didn't know — anthony lockwood & lucy carlyle

pairing: anthony lockwood and lucy carlyle

summary: seizing the opportunity of a truly valuable mission that would also bring them the front page of the newspaper, lockwood & co decided to expand a little further, leaving the well-known streets and having to spend the night in a hotel because this mission was far from their home.

"remind me, why did we have to choose to come right here, out of all the possible missions?" george asked lockwood as they all made their way through the hotel's sliding doors, letting lucy enter first as she was the only girl on the team.

lockwood sighed theatrically, but lucy was somewhat amused by the situation, —more precisely by the fact that george and lockwood kept contradicting each other, not the fact that they had to sleep in a hotel room—, and he answered, "is it because this person is so important that," lockwood stopped in front of them, glaring at both of them, but more at george. "listen to me," he said to the curly headed boy and then repeated himself with the first word, "that, we could end up on the front page of the newspaper and have our capabilities recognized."

it was george's turn to sigh, and lucy, as if she started to think that it wasn't so funny anymore, walked past them with ease and headed towards the pretty receptionist who was smiling at them from behind the counter.

"good evening," lucy said politely to her, being followed by the boys. "we are lockwood and co and we would like to get three rooms, for one evening, namely, this evening."

being already aware of the accommodations made until the three got there, the receptionist gave them a sad smile and spoke to them in a sincere tone, "i'm sorry, but it seems that we don't have three available rooms."

"unbelievable!" muttered george from behind the girl, trying to be subtle and keep his disappointment to just the three of them.

as lockwood stepped forward, taking back his leadership role. "but what rooms do you have?" he asked, making sure to give the receptionist a smile, as if that would somehow change the situation.

she, passing with an all-knowing smile over his gesture, continued to remain polite and formal, "in fact, we only have one apartment left, but it's for 3 people."

george walked up to his teammates and whispered to both of them at the same time, "you won't see me sharing my personal space with any of you," then smirked as he resumed his seat as if nothing did happen.

before lucy could intervene in any way, driven by the fact that he couldn't give back because they were in an area they didn't know, lockwood spoke briefly and to the point without asking for any details, "we're taking it."

"wonderful!" exclaimed the receptionist and she quickly looked for the key, but because it was the last one, she immediately found it and handed it to them. "have a nice stay!" she added with her typical smile.

it was lockwood who took the key and thanked her, while george repeated his words, sarcastically, while going before them on the hall towards their apartment.

"so we're going to share a room?" lucy asks in a low tone, walking along with lockwood.

lockwood, due to the fact that no matter how much he denied it every time george or anyone else suggested it, he had a little crush on his so-called colleague, swallowed hard and cleared his throat before he answered. "i'm not so sure." but then, immediately, he turned to her and gave her a crooked smile. "don't worry, we'll figure it out somehow." he added and earned a smile from her.

"excuse me for interrupting your moment," george said as he suddenly stopped in front of them. "but i need the key," he continued and held out his hand to lockwood who was too busy gazing at lucy to realize they were in front of the door to the apartment where they would be spending the night.

george snapped his fingers in front of him, making him take a step back, flustered, and he motioned to the door first, then held out his hand in front of him again, waiting for the key.

lockwood took a second to process, looking down at the key in his hand and then to the door that had on the exact number that was on the key. "oh, right," he said after that second, handing the key to george, who could barely keep from laughing.

the boy hurried to unlock the door as lockwood and lucy watched him anxiously and when the door opened they realized they would indeed have to share a room. the apartment was small, for their budget —not that they had any other options left anyway—, but when they opened the door they had a single bed in front of them, and then a door to another room, and george had already made his point to them. that he doesn't want to share his space with anyone.

they put down their luggage, which wasn't much anyway, and after they were all inside, george locked the door and left the keys on the bedside table next to his bed. he threw himself into bed, quickly taking off his shoes and making himself comfortable.

"i really don't want to rush you, but some of us are really tired," he said with his hand on his heart, and immediately pulling the blanket over him and arranging his pillow.

lockwood and lucy had exchanged glances, aware that neither of them had made another move since relinquishing the luggage. lucy was the first to step towards the door of the bedroom and lockwood was throwing nasty looks at george behind her for all these subtle things that kept coming out of their friend's mouth, which the latter successfully ignored anyway, pretending to go to sleep.

being the last to enter the room, lockwood closed the door behind him and glanced around the room. a drawer, a bed, an armchair and... that was it. that was all the furniture in that room.

at least the bed was a double one. the only thing that was somehow good.

"i'm going to sleep on the couch," he offered immediately, seeing that lucy was still standing, not sure what her next move should be.

she blinked once, twice.

"how?" she asked barely audible.

"what do you mean 'how'?" lockwood asked and motioned for her to sit down and she did as he said but continued to look at him with a hint of disbelief.

she took a deep breath, which made him lose himself in thought. "it's uncomfortable to sleep in an armchair after a day full of research," she said, crossing her arms over her chest and he tried his best to pay attention only to her words and not to anything else.

"i'll handle it," he replied, not thinking his words through. because as much as he was paying attention to her words, he had come to study her lips far too closely. the way they curve every time she pronounce a letter, or the way...

he had to stop.

she rolled her eyes, ready to argue with him, but when she wanted to say something, he had the impression that she was going to scold him for the way he was studying her lips —when she hadn't even noticed—, so he had thrown himself into the armchair. "see?" he said, a big but fake smile on his lips. "like i said, i'll handle it."

lucy gave up for a moment and went to turn off the light, while lockwood tried to make himself comfortable in the place he had chosen. after that, she sat down in her own place.

it didn't seem right for her to sleep alone in such a big bed, while lockwood, who was also quite tall on top of that, tried to squeeze into that armchair. she didn't really have anything left to do to make him change his mind if he chose to be so stubborn, did she?

they both tried to sleep but couldn't because they were thinking about each other. lucy was thinking about how if he didn't feel at that moment, then he would for sure feel it the next day, because lockwood would be sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. as for him, lockwood couldn't get out of his head what an idiot he was for thinking of lucy as more than a simple colleague, hating to prove george right about those things about them had been saying over time.

"lockwood?" asked lucy in a whisper, when she had had enough of knowing him in that place, hoping he wasn't asleep yet. "are you sleeping?" she continued, so that if he had fallen asleep, at least he would've woken up to hear her.

he was looking at the ceiling, thinking whether or not he should answer her.

he had decided not to do it and when this happened and he was about to fall asleep, lucy's voice was heard when he least expected it.

"lockwood!" she shouted for the second time, even if it was a whispered shout, louder than lockwood would've expected.

so, immediately after her whispering shout, there was heard a loud bang and she quickly got out of bed, in fright, to turn on the light bulb. only to see the boy, lying on the floor, rubbing his head hard after making sudden contact with the floor.

lucy quickly fell down in front of him. "did you hurt yourself badly?" she asked, taking her role as the mother of the group —or maybe more— seriously and analyzing his head, shaking it from side to side.

he tried to nod, but his gesture was not noticed by the frightened girl. because even though lucy had stopped shaking his head, she continued to watch him carefully and be vigilant in case she noticed any kind of wound.

"i told you that it's not a good idea to sleep in the armchair!" she held him accountable, leaving without realizing her palm on his palm —which was helping him maintain his weight enough to keep his head up—.

he smiled, a very real smile this time, "you didn't really use those words, but yes, you told me so."

lucy pulled her hand back to slap him on the shoulder and she suddenly felt the lack of warmth of her body next to him, though the touch was barely perceptible. "don't try to act hurt," she said, guessing in advance that he was going to complain that the area where she hit him hurt, "i already saw that you are fine."

he sighed and before answering her, lucy stood up and with her hands on her hips and she told him, "get on the bed!", but he kept smiling like a fool at the way the girl was trying to be authoritative.

"i told you to get in bed, not smile like an idiot!" she continued, but he wasn't listening so she made a frustrated noise and turned the light bulb back off. "fine, have it your way." she said and got back into bed. "i don't care anymore."

this time she would actually try to fall asleep.

she was going to ignore any thoughts she might have had about lockwood because he was just a stubborn bastard who happened to be far too good looking— in fact, he was a bastard that only thought about himself— in fact, he was busy with other things that he didn't even notice her— in fact...

she had actually come to think of lockwood more than she had the first time, if that was even possible.

and she lied to herself that she would've managed to fall asleep, if she hadn't felt movement behind her when that much too good-looking bastard, who happened to be her colleague, had decided that neither the floor nor the armchair were comfortable enough for him.

"sorry if i pissed you off, luce" he whispered, but she pretended to be asleep, so he continued, "it's just..." maybe he wasn't thinking clearly then, but he kept talking. "it seems to me that you're much more beautiful when you boss me around."

"and there's a chance i'm a bit of a masochist when it comes to you," he added, laughing lightly, thinking of the times when he continued to hold on to her, just so she wouldn't give up on him.

upon hearing these confessions, lucy felt how the air stopped in her throat and how suddenly the room had heated up too much. she could've sworn that the fall caused some kind brain damage to lockwood.

"luce?" he repeated her name, checking once again if she was asleep, hoping he hadn't been heard. but she pretended again, letting him believe that she was in fact asleep.

and after that, him continuing to think he hadn't been heard and eventually falling asleep and she barely managing to fall asleep, knowing he was so close to her and knowing he'd admitted to her without realizing there was more between them than they'd lied to the othera that it was, in the morning george managed to enter their room. only for him to find the two, in a situation in which he would not have imagined, but deep down he would've hoped to find them.

though lucy had her back turned to lockwood, still trying to ignore his presence, even in her sleep, lockwood's arm was wrapped around her body, holding her so close to him.

those liars, george thought. colleagues my—

#lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #lockwood and co netflix #lockwood & co #lockwood & co fanfiction #lockwood & co netflix #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood fanfiction #anthony lockwood oneshot #anthony lockwood fluff #lucy carlyle #lucy carlyle fanfiction #lucy carlyle oneshot #lucy carlyle fluff #locklyle #locklyle fanfiction #Spotify

[twiilys]

Lucy watched the trick of light and shadows play across Anthony’s face. He gave her a small smile, the ‘Lucy special’, meant for her eyes only.

“How is my beautiful bride?”

First dance nerves and general wedding fluff. Come get your fluffiest feels everyone !

#twilys writes #locklyle fanfiction #lockwood & co fanfiction #lockwood & co #locklyle #fluff #work suck post fic

[givemea-dam-break]

that funny feeling (locklyle)

a/n: this is my first locklyle fic please by kind lmfao. convinced to write this by the amazing @neewtmas and @waitingforthesunrise, so i hope you all enjoy this - it was inspired by the locklyle angst playlist a bunch of us have going so be warned :) this also brings holly munro into the story, but don't worry if you haven't read the books because i don't mention her too much. it isn't too long since i'm just testing the waters for my locklyle stuff lol

warnings: big sad taglist: @wellgoslowly @galactidiot

part 2

The days were beginning to melt together.

How long had he been lying here, hoping, praying, for Lucy to come back? For her to walk through the front door, bags in hand, declaring that she was coming back? That she never meant to leave? A few weeks, maybe. Or was it months? He had lost track of time.

Her absence was a tangible thing, something that he could reach out and feel so acutely that its sharp, jagged edges sliced his fingertips and cut deep into his heart. But, even still, sometimes he'd forget. He'd make her a cup of tea in the morning, just how she liked it - more milk than he or George would take, sometimes with a spoonful of honey if she wanted a little sweetness - only for it to sit atop the counter, growing cold. Neither he nor George had the heart to empty it into the sink. Holly would arrive, expecting it, and dump it out, but Lockwood knew that it pained her to do so too.

Waiting was useless. There were things that needed to get done. Cases for Lockwood and Co were piling up after the antics of last November, and they were steadily gaining a reputation. He needed to focus on that. On the thing he had always wanted.

But what was it worth when the one person he wanted most wasn't there, right by his side?

Part of him hoped that Lucy would see his pictures in the newspaper. Maybe she'd miss him as much as he did her, maybe it would be the thing that made her realise that she didn't need to leave. That she could come back.

He still couldn't make sense of her sudden resignation. She was worried that she couldn't control her Talents well enough, that she'd put them all in danger. But how could she? When she was the very thing that had saved Lockwood time and time again?

So, there he lay, sprawled on the attic's bed. The bed she once lay in night after night for years now. It still smelled like her; of lavender and some nice soap he couldn't distinguish. His excuse? This room was once his, and he was feeling reminiscent. He missed looking out of the window onto the street behind Portland Row, down into the back garden where the apple trees stood tall. He missed the warmth that flooded the room during the day, and the calm, soothing cool at night.

Everyone knew better, and he knew that, too.

Sometimes he'd just lie there, thoughtless and quiet. Other times, he would talk as if Lucy was there in the room with him. He'd practice his speech, the one he'd use to finally get her back, gazing at the picture he kept on her nightstand - one of the two of them and George she'd taken on an old camera she'd found stuffed in the wardrobe. She'd run down the stairs excitedly, demanding a picture, and George was forced into it, which his half-smiling expression showed. If Lockwood looked close enough, he could see the faint green glow on the lower right side of all of their faces from Skull, who had been pulling horrid faces at them.

He loved that picture with his whole heart. Her smile, so radiant, was completely and entirely entrancing, and she just seemed so, so happy with her face pressed up against his. So what went wrong?

Heaving a sigh, he released the pillow he so often clung to desperately like a child, and sat up. There were things that needed to be done. Research for a case. Make some new salt bombs. Have a shower. Had he already had one? He couldn't very well remember.

He could hear George clattering around downstairs doing God knows what - he wasn't too fond of the idea of finding out, petrified at the thought of finding his best friend half-naked doing some sort of yoga again - and there was Holly just down the stairs, muttering something or other. She did that often now. He could never tell what it was she was saying, but he recognised the lost look in her eyes. She and Lucy may not have been on the best of terms, but she missed her. Badly.

This was always the worst part. Starting the day.

Without Lucy, the whole routine felt empty. Where was her smile, or her snarky comments directed at Skull, the same ones he often worried were actually for him? Where were those bright eyes that would look at him with such happiness when he paid her a - supposedly - mindless compliment? Or the moments where she'd put him in his place with just a few words? Oh, how he missed those dearly.

It always left a funny feeling in his chest, thinking about those times. A mixture of a strange grief, a mourning for someone who had not died but rather had left of their own volition, and of horrible loss, almost like losing a limb. Like losing a crucial part of himself. Because, really, that's what Lucy was to him. She was everything.

Even still, he dragged himself from her bed, lingering for a moment in the doorway of the bedroom like he always did, before trudging down, down, down to the kitchen.

Relieved to find George not in the midst of a horrific yoga demonstration, but rather shoving pots and pans into the cupboards, he brewed himself some tea.

He tried to ignore the way his hand hovered in front of Lucy's mug, which was stained from the tea they never seemed to be able to fully scrub away, and sat at the table, staring into the murky brown of his brew. Lucy always made it look so much more appealing.

No matter how hard he tried to disregard the little things, she seemed to be everywhere he looked. There was a sketch on the thinking cloth of Inspector Barnes as an elephant, tooting his trunk. And, there, the vase of flowers she'd set during their last meal together, a bundle of long-since-wilted lilacs she'd picked from the back garden. Over on the counter, there was a large circular ring where Skull would often reside, covered by a teatowel, and it was as if his evil had seeped from the silverglass and into the countertop, never to be removed.

Lockwood wondered if Skull, as crude as he was, was at least keeping Lucy company. He'd hate for her to be on her own.

"I don't know how Holly does this," George grumbled. He shoved another pan into the cupboard haphazardly. "It's impossible."

As if on cue, the pans toppled, crashing down around George and onto the floor. Holly appeared seconds later, scolding him as she easily slotted them in and shut the door.

Like every other day, there was a certain tension in the air that none of them seemed to be able to shake, no matter how hard they tried. Holly could bring all the almond-iced doughnuts she could carry; George could make the most absurd comments to ever have graced this earth to make them laugh; hell, Lockwood could smile and charm all he wanted, but it never amounted to anything. Not without Lucy.

He had been searching for a reason to get her back since the day he'd left her at that café, too frustrated and dejected to even try and continue the conversation. Were there any cases he could hire her for now that she was an independent agent? That seemed like the only logically sound way to get her to be with them again. To be with him. He couldn't just turn up to her new flat, so far away from Portland Row, and beg her to come home. No matter how badly he wished he could.

So, he picked up his newspaper and flicked through it, hoping to forget about her for just a moment.

But it was impossible. How could one simply forget about Lucy Carlyle? Lucy Carlyle and her jibes; Lucy Carlyle and her beautiful smile and eyes; Lucy Carlyle and the warmth she provided Lockwood with. Especially when her adverts were in the paper.

Lockwood could not forget about her for even a moment, something he had come to realise every single day since she'd left. Not after she'd allowed him to feel. To feel pure joy and humour and wonderful frustration and love.

That's perhaps what hurt the most about it all. Not her reasoning. Not the suddenness of it. Rather, the things she'd arisen inside of him, feelings he hadn't truly allowed since the deaths of his family. Letting people in was far too real, and he didn't want to permit them to the same fates as the other people he had loved and lost. But Lucy, oh, Lucy. She was supposed to be different. She was supposed to stay.

But she left, and he missed her more than should ever be possible. He knew he should've expected it, but he had allowed himself to hope. Lucy had sparked that hope inside of him, and even now it still lingered, waiting for her to return.

He was stupid for it, he knew. It was the only thing that kept him going - the notion that she may decide that she was wrong and come back to him. But it was unlikely to happen. So he had to come to terms with it, as would Holly and George.

And, so, her seat would stay vacant. Her mug would remain stained. Lockwood would creep into her room at night, falling asleep under the watchful eye of her photograph. All the while, she would sleep beneath a different roof, under the same sky, so, so far from him.

#locklyle #anthony lockwwood x lucy carlyle #lockwood x lucy #lockwood and co fanfiction #locklyle fanfiction #lockwood and co #lockwood and co netflix #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #george karim #george cubbins #holly munro #fanfiction #givemea-dam-break

[worldofkaeos]

I should totally start recommending fanfics before posting mine haha (it's not ready, will be in about 2+ weeks though when my exams are over!!)

Disclaimer: I do not own this fanfic!!

Summary:

The first time Anthony Lockwood has the passing thought that he’d like very much to kiss Lucy Carlyle is approximately three hours after he first met her.

Look, he’s not carved out of stone. It doesn’t matter that he already knows how pointless it is to chase after kites, crave an extra biscuit or an afternoon in the sun — a beautiful idea is still beautiful, and when a pretty girl walks into his flat, it’s going to cross his mind.

-

(A 'five times Lockwood wanted to kiss Lucy and one time he did' fic showing moments from Season 1 from Lockwood's perspective)

#anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #george karim #lucy carlyle #locklyle #lockwood #quill kipps #george cubbins #lockwood and lucy #anthony bloody lockwood #lockwood and co fanfic #locklyle fanfiction #fanfic #fluff #lockwood's head over heels for lucy

[daphnejane]

Finished just in time for @locklyle-week! 

For Locklyle Week, Day 7: Free Day. This fits the prompts of firsts, denial, love languages, and domesticity to varying degrees.

This is set post-series and there are mild spoilers events in later books. I tried to keep them deliberately obscure, but this is your warning.

Summary: A few years after the events of The Empty Grave, Lockwood & Co. have a new challenge to face: getting older and losing their Talents. What does that mean for the future of the agency? How will our favorite agents cope?

Rating: M 

Word count: 10.8k

Ship: Anthony Lockwood/Lucy Carlyle

Important tags: light angst, light smut, some fluff, some humor, a little hurt/comfort, platonic co-sleeping until it’s not

Because there are mild spoilers in the opening, I am putting the snippet below the cut.

I can't remember the last time I slept in my own bed. Or how exactly I'd ended up in Lockwood's.

It had taken a long time to get Thirty-five Portland Row back into a livable state—a lot of work. Sir Rupert Gale and Winkman's thugs had really done a number on our home. Now every room had a fresh coat of paint, new furnishings. If I hadn't done the work with my own hands, I wouldn't believe it was the same place. The only room that did look the same was my little room in the attic, but I didn't spend much time there anymore. I stopped checking in on the skull ages ago. He sat there still, perched on the windowsill, quiet as the day I brought him home from the bust up at Fittes House.

Since we put a stop to operations in the basement of the most respected agency in Britain, the Problem didn’t go away entirely, though things did seem to calm down. Almost two years on, Lockwood and Co. still had plenty to keep us busy. But there were new challenges.

George’s Talent started to fade first. Not surprising, given that his Talents were—I don't want to say weaker than ours. More like he relied on his Touch less than we did Sight and Listening. He didn’t seem too bothered, in any case. His true skills lie in research, and he didn’t need psychic abilities to sift through mountains of material at the archives. Since DEPRAC had seized the research of the Orpheus Society, goggles like the ones we had nicked and given to Kipps had become more readily available. Barnes made sure we got a pair, and George said his Sight was never better. And so we carried on.

But Lockwood… When he started to lose his Sight, he unleashed his fury and frustration so thoroughly upon our new Floating Joe that he had to be replaced again. Fresh from the shower, I stood in the kitchen, listening to the sounds of his rapier slashing the poor dummy, the chain swinging, Lockwood’s muffled grunts, a heavy thud. When all had gone quiet, I stole down the iron steps with a steaming cup of tea. I leaned against the desk, waiting. Finally he turned, chest heaving, his dark hair hanging limply over his forehead with sweat. He swiped his arm across his face to push it back. Flashed a grin.

“Alright, Luce?” Lockwood asked.

I looked beyond him to where Joe II no longer floated, sand spilling out across the floor. I raised a brow and held the mug out toward him.

He dipped his chin in a gesture of thanks. “Cheers.”

Lockwood set his rapier on the desk and leaned against it in that effortlessly cool way of his. Two could play that game. Our shoulders brushed as he lifted the mug to his lips. I waited.

“You were brilliant tonight, Luce. As always.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of white teeth. The ever-present shadows under his eyes. Tension radiated from his heated skin. Silence.

He sighed heavily. “I should have seen that Spectre. How could I have missed it?”

But of course he knew. Lockwood was well past twenty now. It was a wonder his Talent had held out this long. I gave him a sad smile.

Continue reading on AO3.

#locklyle week 2023 #locklye #fanfiction #locklyle fanfiction #rated m #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #mild spoilers #daphnejane

[patiencetakestyme]

The Betrothal in the Brothel, Chapter 1

A/N: I took the weekend off, but I'm back! This is my third fic in a series of three.  You can find the links to the other two in my profile, “What She Deserves,” and “A Fair Price to Pay.”  But you do not need to read the other two to read this one; it stands on its own.  

I saw a post theorizing what it would look like when Lucy, Lockwood, and George started to lose their Talents and were forced to retire.  Needless to say, it prompted a question that left me contemplating an answer.  This fic is my answer to that question, and it's my final happy ending for the Locklyle I have maintained throughout this series.  I hope you enjoy reading it!

Lockwood was the first to lose it.  His eyesight faded, eventually becoming so poor that he required yearly eye exams and glasses.  

Next was George.  He barely noticed it at first; towards the end of his days as an agent, he spent far more time in the archives than he spent in a haunted house.  

Last, surprisingly, was Lucy.  It was surprising, given that she was actually the oldest of the three; the difference in their ages was only a matter of a few months—so few that they could be counted on two hands—but, still, it felt noteworthy, especially to George and his curiosity, which, of course, knew no bounds.  

It took time—years, even, after the debacle at Fittes.  The Problem had, theoretically, been fixed.  The barriers in place on the Other Side had been removed, by none other than the agents at Lockwood & Co.  Lockwood had not trusted anyone else to do the job and do it well, and Barnes, in his desperate need for help, was not in a position to object or make a counteroffer.

Being uniquely and singularly qualified—as the only living agents to travel to the Other Side previously and live to tell the tale—they had finished the work and had been compensated nicely for their efforts.  Ghosts, for the most part, were now free to pass on to whatever awaited them after death.  

However, just as it had been prior to Marissa Fittes actively attempting to use the Other Side to prolong her life, sometimes, ghosts simply chose to remain behind; while there were far fewer ghosts plaguing London in the time after the Problem, it was still, in some ways, a problem.  

They continued serving as agents for as long as they could.  Lockwood was twenty-five when his Talent completely disappeared, several years older than Kipps had been when he had already completely lost his Talent.  Lockwood was never one to hesitate to remind them all of that.  Still, he only chose to issue this reminder once he actually started openly admitting to the fact that he was losing his Talent.  

He started noticing it around the time of his twenty-fourth birthday, but he kept quiet on the matter for quite some time.  At first, he told himself that he couldn’t be certain that he was losing his Talent—that that was truly what was happening—but, while he wanted to categorize this as a misunderstanding, he knew enough to call it what it was:  willful ignorance.  

His whole life had been built around being an agent.  He literally couldn’t remember a time prior to picking up a rapier.  

And worse yet, his relationship with Lucy had been, thus far, nearly completely defined by their status as agents.  They had always worked together:  fought together, protected each other.  What would happen when he was no longer able to carry his weight?  

He feared the impact it would have upon their relationship.  They had been together since the days that had followed the debacle involving Marissa Fittes—idly, an internal reminder went off in the back of his mind; their seven-year anniversary was approaching, and he needed to do something about it—but was that likely to change once she knew the truth:  once she knew he had lost his value to her as an agent?  

He dreaded telling her, but, ultimately, she reacted as he—well, not as he expected her to, but as he should’ve expected her to.  

One evening, upon returning home to Portland Row after a case, he decided the time was right to tell her.  The house was quiet; George, Holly, and Kipps were still out on an assignment, Kipps equipped with the goggles Lockwood himself would soon require to successfully carry out his duties.  

There had been a close call on this given night.  He had sensed a ghost—he could’ve sworn he had been able to feel it—but he couldn’t, for the life of him, see it.  He could sense when it moved, but he could not see the actual glow of the thing.  It was horrifying; it was as if he were seeing a movie on a several second delay, and he was constantly stuck a handful of frames behind the rest of the audience.  

Lucy had very nearly paid the price.  The ghost cornered her, and it was only through the directive actions of her trained eyes that he was able to position himself to make a counterattack.  

It was time to tell her, and he knew it.  There could be no more avoiding the matter.  

“Luce,” he called out to her as she exited the attached bathroom.  She had been sharing the master bedroom—his parents’ old room—with him for quite some time.  He could hardly remember a time, now, that she hadn’t called this room home.  Like every other evening they spent together, she emerged from the bathroom dressed in her pajamas and ready for bed.  

He was already tucked in, under the comforter, waiting for her to join him.  Already, from the tilt of her head and the quirk of her eyebrow, he got the sense that Lucy had questions.  It was uncommon for him to be in bed before she even got out of the bathroom, unless, of course, he was in a bit of an emotional state, which happened from time to time:  when he thought back on all the hardships they had faced, when he thought back on all the family members he had lost, when he thought back on their time spent on the Other Side.  Really, there were a plethora of options, when it came to their trauma.  Still, he wasn’t one to dwell, and, even if he was in such a state, he wasn’t one to show it often.

So, she probably knew to be concerned.  But did she suspect what he had to tell her?  It was hard to hazard a guess; Lucy could be a tough one to read.  

“Yeah?” she asked, pulling the covers back and crawling into bed so that they lay facing each other.  

His eyes trained on her face.  He loved her so very much.  The last thing he wanted to do in the world was disappoint her, and he feared he was about to do just that, but there was simply no other choice:  he was losing his Talent, and she deserved to know.  

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he started, knowing that apologies always helped ease the awkwardness of a situation.  “I…I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.”  

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her smile tugging at the corners of her lips.  “You came through when I needed you.”  

“That’s not—it wasn’t—” he stuttered:  yet another action that was unlike him.  He released a deep breath and attempted to start again.  “I’m losing my Talent, Lucy.  I couldn’t see the ghost—not fully.  It was barely a shadow to me, and I couldn’t follow its movements to save my life—or yours, apparently.”  

Even he could hear it:  the self-deprecating nature of his tone.  He hated himself in that moment, and in a way he only allowed himself to express in Lucy’s presence, he let the full-force of that dislike push through.  He trusted her in a way he didn’t trust anyone else; he allowed himself to be honest in front of her in a way he didn’t in front of anyone else.  

“I know,” she answered, her eyes not stirring from his.  She didn’t seem worried or judgmental or even angry that he had waited to tell her; she, honestly, just seemed as if she wanted to take some of the burden off of his shoulders.  “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”

“How long have you known?” he asked.  Abruptly, he moved to elevate his head so that he could see her better; he brought a hand up to cradle his head and used his elbow to prop it up.  

“Since…” she trailed off, her eyes squinting, as she seemed to try to remember the specifics.  “Maybe the Brixton Banshee case?  Although, I’m still not happy with the paper for assigning that particular name to that particular case,” she meandered, her eyes coming back to his.  “Just because the ghost was a wailing woman, crying over the loss of her children, doesn’t mean she deserved to be called a banshee.”

“You’ve come so far, Luce,” he started, and even he could hear the irony in his tone.  “From your screaming match with Holly in Aickmere’s.”  

“I’ve grown, truly.”  She saw his bit of irony, and undeniably raised him.  “Anyway, you didn’t hear her, which isn’t exactly uncommon for you, but I noticed that you missed a few easy jabs at her with your rapier, which is uncommon for you.

“I don’t think I walked away from that case knowing you were losing your Talent.  I can’t pinpoint an exact moment when I felt that way, if I ever felt that way,” she continued, shaking her head.  “But I just remember being concerned about you—about whether you were maybe sick or off your game.  And then, one day, it just…clicked.”  She paused; her eyes found their focus, as she seemed to return to the present—to the conversation at hand.  “Can you see them at all anymore?”

He nodded, but he could admit that he felt a lump developing in his throat.  “It’s exactly as Kipps used to tell us:  I can sense them, but I can’t see them, and that’s somehow even more terrifying.”  Pausing, he worked to gather his thoughts; he knew he had more to say on the matter, but it was almost as if it were evading him.  Ultimately, he knew his issue:  he feared being brutally honest about it.  

His inability to see ghosts rendered him pretty useless as a leader.  Lockwood had always been their leader.  To face down not being their leader…  He wasn’t sure what his next steps should be, and that was utterly terrifying.  

“Luce,” he started again, his eyes coming back to focus on her.  Seeing her there, laying in front of him, in the bed they had shared for nearly seven years at this point, he started berating himself:  if he couldn’t be honest with her, who the hell could he be honest with?  “If I can’t see ghosts, I can’t be the leader.  I can’t lead us properly when we’re out on a job.  I can’t do anything.  My purpose, my entire life, has been about fighting ghosts.  If I can’t fight them, what am I to do now?”

She shrugged, her expression as casual as ever.  “Retire.”

“Retire?” he asked; his tone was dripping with indignation.  “Lucy, that’s—”

“I mean it,” she cut him off.  The lack of irony in her tone had him hesitating.  “We’ve worked hard, Lockwood.  We’ve done our fair share.”

He continued to hesitate.  There was an implicit conclusion to be drawn from her statement, but he was nearly afraid to ask for verification.  Knowing he had no other choice—he needed to know—he found his courage.  “We?”

She shrugged, again.  He found that he was beginning to hate the maneuver; it was far too casual to competently convey the complexities of the current conversation.  “I’ll retire with you,” she stated, as if it were obvious.  “I’m certainly not going out and looking for another agency to join.”

“Certainly, your loyalty to me has rendered you unwilling and unable to join another agency—” he started, with a fresh batch of irony.

“Oh, I suppose,” she interrupted, with a feigned and dramatic sigh, and he found himself marveling at just how well she was able to top him in packing a punch in a conversation.  “But truly,” she continued, imitating his posh accent—badly; at the very least, it appeared he was not the only one to struggle with mimicking accents.  “What if this hypothetical other agency employs a supervisor?”  She scrunched her nose and shook her head in distaste.

He laughed, temporarily unable to resist the pull of the conversation.  “Of course.  That would truly be the worst of fates,” he responded, doing his best to simply focus on her use of irony and neglect the fact that he had, on some level, been looking for some genuine promise of loyalty in this conversation.  

It was strange; he almost felt as if he had fallen ill.  His inability to see ghosts left him feeling vulnerable, and when he felt vulnerable, he locked things down; he wanted his friends—his family—nearby, closer than ever before.  He had been looking for a reassurance of her loyalty in this conversation, but he understood that Lucy, by nature, tended to avoid that sort of sentiment.  She would listen to him while he expressed his emotions, and she could even express her own on occasion, but she did tend to go for diffusion over compassion.  

He knew this, of course—knew her well enough to know to expect it.  But he could still lament the loss of that reassurance he so desperately needed.  Regardless, he had no choice; he would proceed with the conversation, because that was what he must do.  “And becoming a supervisor,” he carried on, trying to find his footing in this conversation once more.  “The next natural progression in our careers—”

“Isn’t something I’d even consider,” she finished for him.  “Sending kids into death traps, monitoring safely from a distance…” she shook her head, her eyes going out of focus, but only for a moment, as she visibly cringed.  “I could never do it.”  

He nodded, agreeing whole-heartedly.  

“Besides, to do either of those things, I’d have to leave Portland Row—leave during the day…or night, whatever—and go work somewhere else,” she started again, shrugging once more.  Her eyes ran to take in the whole of the room before coming back to meet his, which had snapped up to meet hers sharply.  Was it possible his dose of compassion was forthcoming after all?  “Leaving you and George?” she asked, with another shake of her head.  “I left once.  I’m never doing it again.  No, it isn’t in the cards for me.  So, yeah, if you’re ready to retire, I’m retiring too.”  

He didn’t know how Lucy managed it, but she always did come through in the end.  She’d lead him astray in a conversation, and he’d think he was done for—that he wasn’t going to hear just what he needed to hear, or that she wasn’t going to reach out and grab his hand at just the moment he needed it.  And, somehow, she’d come through at the eleventh hour; she’d say just the right thing and reach for him just at the right moment.

He knew, partially, that this evasive behavior was simply a product of her poor childhood.  She had never properly learned to experience and express her emotions.  He had no real room to talk in that area, but he did consider himself at least advanced in the awareness he had with his emotions.  It was expressing his emotions—particularly when it involved people other than Lucy—that was the bother for him.  Either way, they both had something to learn here, and they were both working on learning it—together.  

“We have the money,” he started again, mirroring her preferred method of expression in this conversation:  a shrug.  “Barnes paid well, considering we ended the Problem, and all.  And we’ve been quite frugal.  With all of our successes over the years, we have quite a bit saved up.”

“Enough to account for George’s monthly Arif’s budget?”

Lockwood winced.  “George may have to restrain himself, but only slightly.  After all, we’ll all have to make some changes.  That’s what one does when they retire.”  

He smiled, but it was false—misleading.  He spoke with confidence, with charm—as he always did.  But what did he know?  His parents had never lived to see retirement.  Hell, he had never anticipated living long enough to see retirement.  He was doing nothing if not playing a guessing game.  But, alas, did he ever do anything different?  As long as he appeared to have everything under control, he knew those around him would follow.  He had to keep strong—for them.  

“We will be fine,” he continued, as much for his benefit as for hers.  “If all else fails, we can always engage in some freelance work.  We do have the best Listener in the country, after all,” he continued, his irony returning to the conversation.

But she didn’t seem to be having it; she shook her head, the severity of the subject matter still clear upon her face.  “If you’re done, I’m done.  I’m not working without you.”  

He wouldn’t exactly say that he had been baiting her with his comment, but, if he had, and if it had been a test, she would have passed with flying colors.  

He loved her in that moment.  He loved her in a lot of moments—they were, after all, in love.  But especially in that moment, he loved her.  

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