#Chelsea townhouses

[bostonrealtors]

61 Broadway Unit 1. A renovated 2 bed, 1.5 apartment for rent in a historic brick row house circa 1860

[the-home]

[nyandreasphotography]

Clement Clarke Moore Park (snow day tricycle) - Chelsea, New York City by Andreas Komodromos

[groysinjapan]

Bathroom Powder Room An image of a modern powder room with a vessel sink and gray walls

[honeyjars-sims]

Part 2 1.01 A Big Splash

It's a typical Saturday morning, and as usual, I slept in. As hard as it is to drag myself out of bed, I know I have things to do today, so into the shower I go.

While I'm getting ready, I can't help but reflect on my recent birthday. It's hard to believe how much has happened over my lifetime, or even just in the past 10 years. In a lot of ways, I still feel like that same kid who thought he knew everything but had so much to learn. If I could go back and tell him what was about to happen in his life, I don't think he'd believe me. Sometimes, I still don’t believe it.

As I head downstairs, I hear the familiar sound of Paul stirring something in a bowl and briefly wonder what he's making before chuckling to myself. I already know it's pancakes. It's always pancakes, but I can't complain about the predictability when I know they're going to be delicious. 

I make it downstairs and the girls are so busy helping that they don't even notice I've come down.

Well, Rachel is helping, at least. She has her own bowl and is standing on the footstool at the island stirring away. Chelsea, however, can't be trusted with anything that we plan to eat unless I'm there to supervise. Otherwise we run the risk of having a secret ingredient–toddler slobber or animal hair or whatever else has ended up on her grubby little hands. 

I sneak up behind her and give her a little tickle. She turns around. “Dada!” she squeals, as I scoop her up and give her a squeeze.

“Good morning, my loves,” I say.

“Dada, we’re making pancakes!” Rachel tells me, as though I should be surprised by this revelation. 

“I see that. I can’t wait to try them.” 

“What are you in the mood for this morning?” Paul asks me. “We’re out of bananas, but we have plenty of blueberries and strawberries.”

I come up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I'm in the mood for some of this,” I say, and he turns his head to meet my lips.

 “Lucky for you, there’s always plenty of that.”

Rachel and Paul finish the pancakes and we all scarf them down. It’s times like this when I wish we had more space. There’s not enough room for a dining table in our townhouse.

Chelsea insists she doesn’t need a high chair but can’t reach the barstools, so she ends up having most of her meals on the couch. Which is why the pillows smell like maple syrup and feel sticky.

Once we’ve finished breakfast, Rachel has a request. “Can we go to the splash pad? Please?

“Yeah, Dada, pwease?” Chelsea echoes. How can I say no to that?

The splash pad isn’t far but we have to drive, which means packing up everything we need and getting the kids secured in their seats. And of course, they want our dog Tucker to come with us.

Once we arrive, though, it’s worth all the effort. The girls love splashing around in the water...and yeah, so do Paul and I. 

“This was a good idea,” I tell Paul once we take a little break from the water.

“Yeah, it’s a beautiful day. We should do this more often, especially now that Chelsea’s getting older.”

“True, it’s a lot easier going out now that she’s not a baby anymore. Although…”

Paul sighs. “John,” he warns. He knows exactly what I’m hinting at.

“I’m just saying, she’s getting so big. I miss having a baby around.”

“So do I, but it would be much harder to have days like this with a newborn. Besides, we barely have space in the house for the four of us.”

“Exactly. We’re already outgrowing the house, so we might as well upgrade to something bigger and fill it with more babies.”

I gesture over to a lot across from the splash pad. “Look how close the Hopewell Commons expansion is. They have bigger units there. If we lived there we could just walk to the splash pad. Imagine how much the kids would love that.”

“Well, there has to be a unit available first,” Paul points out. “But I suppose we can let Gail and Ellie know we’re interested so they can let us know when something opens up.”

“Cool. So baby time?”

“I’m not saying no, but can we think about it a little more?”

“Yeah sure,” I agree. Sometimes Paul’s need to consider every possible angle before making a decision can be a bit frustrating, but I have to admit it’s helpful to have someone to reel me in sometimes. It’s a nice balance–a little chaotic, a little structured, and a lot of fun. 

Once again my thoughts turn to the past. Paul and I have been together for almost 10 years now. When I turned 20, I had no idea that my roommate would end up being my husband. That was certainly a year of discovery for me. And with a new home and a new baby possibly on the horizon, year 30 is shaping up to be quite an adventure as well. 

Previous | Beginning of story | Beginning of chapter | Next

Bonus pics below!

[idontplaytrack]

City of dreams

Janis ‘Imi’ike x fem! reader(+ big sis Regina)

Warnings: some coarse language, fluff, mentions of sex

Read other parts here!

“Hehe, congrats.” Regina grinned.

You gasped dramatically, “You knew, didn’t you?!”

“Knew? I helped her plan it. The whole gang did.”

Janis propped her phone up on the coffee table, getting up to get a snack from the pantry. “Pita chips? Or pretzels?”

“Pita chips.” You answered, eyes staying focused on the phone screen. “How is it that I had zero clue?”

“Which was good, no? You were really surprised.” Regina added on.

“I was sobbing like a baby by the time she kneeled down in front of me. I’m just lucky no one else was there to take a photo of my ridiculous face at the moment.”

“Oh, there are still photos. Even a video, actually.” Janis informed you, “There is no way I didn’t want to immortalise that moment.”

You sigh, “Very well then.” You turned to look at Janis, squinting. Through the FaceTime call, Cady and Regina were laughing. “It was something worth capturing, honey.” Janis soothed, sitting down next to you again as she opened up the bag of cinnamon pita chips. Gretchen said you guys could help yourselves to anything, by the way

“How’ve you been?” You asked.

“Same. The same, nothing’s changed.” Regina replied, “Quit being so worried, alright? Everything is going perfectly fine.”

“Can’t help it.” You admitted.

“The doctor said so.” Cady quipped.

“It’s natural for me to worry. I just— but yeah, I hear you though.

“Enjoy the alone time.” Regina smirked.

“Yeah, yeah.” You rolled your eyes jokingly, “Don’t have to worry about that part.”

Regina’s eyes went wide for a moment, “Finally answering a little differently, are we?”

“Trust me, she’s not as shy as you think she is.” Janis remarked. You smacked her shoulder, “Hey!”

Janis giggled, “You love me.”

“Yes, I do.” You sulked.

“You’re so cute when you do that.” Janis snuck a kiss to your cheek.

“You guys are too cute.” Regina sighs.

“Oh?” Janis grins. “That’s good to know.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m used to this PDA, ‘Imi’ike.”

Janis scoffs, “Oh, look who’s talking.”

“Shut up.” Regina said with a laugh.

“You shut up.” Janis retorted, pulling you onto her lap. You huffed, “What—”

“You’re mineeee.” Janis jokingly threatened, chomping your shoulder.

You couldn’t help it but laugh, “Are you okay?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Janis rests her chin on your shoulder, bringing a pita chip to your lip. You took a bite and held the piece between your teeth. “So…how’s everything?”

“Uh, well. Everything’s fine with the baby but I’m not feeling too hot. Having to pee so much, my feet hurt, my back aches. Fun.”

“Regina.” Cady chided.

“Well, she asked me.” Regina shot the redhead a look.

“I did.” You said to Cady, “It’s fine. And I’m sorry you’re so uncomfortable but.”

“Yeah, we’re getting closer.” She smiled at the thought. “How’s the trip going?”

“It’s noon and we’re still at home so…” Janis says, her voice trailing off.

“Okay, message received.” Regina snorted, “Glad you’re having some good sex.”

“Oh God.” Cady facepalmed.

“Wow, haven’t I heard that before.” The blonde lets out a breathy laugh. “This is a sex-positive house, Cady.”

“Mm, sure. Okay, so any fun plans today? Sex aside?” Cady interjected.

“We’re seeing a Broadway show tonight.” You beamed.

“That we are. The Lion King, maybe The Notebook tomorrow.” Janis chimed in.

“I want a bagel.” You glanced at Janis.

“Then we’ll go get you a bagel.” Janis booped your nose.

You giggled, “Janis.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you guys any longer. Go have fun.” Regina chortled, “Enjoy your bagel. I want pictures.”

“Okay, Reg.” You agreed, “Will send to the group.”

————

It was always nice for you and Janis to get to experience a little bit of life together, just the two of you. The Wiener family’s Chelsea townhouse was the dream residence for the both of you, if you guys were being completely honest. But of course, you and Janis were in a completely different tax bracket. You were no longer relying on your parents for money, and you haven’t been since junior year of high school. Though you’ve always just had Regina’s help with it even prior to that, so you were pretty fortunate. Being in this house just felt right, but it could never be a permanent thing. This wasn’t your house.

“What ya thinking about?” Janis asks, joining you at the bay window.

“Nothing much.” You sighed, chin resting on your palm as you sat cross legged and looking at the fall leaves outside. “Or at least trying not to think of anything much.”

“You can talk about it if you’re ready to.” She judged gently, “I’m all ears.”

“Well…Regina is right. What they’re going through now? That’s what our future’s gonna be like.” You began, “And I’m not sure if I’m ready for the heartbreak that is a failed IVF attempt, or worse— a miscarriage. That scares me half to death. Like— what if we do everything right but we still lose the baby?”

Janis just quietly listens, a hand on your back, letting her presence be known to you.

“That’s gonna fuck me up. So bad, and how will our bodies change? Our minds? Our lives? But…despite those questions it will also kill me to not have tried, to not be able to have a child of our own that…that’s an extension of our love. And I — I don’t know what to do, Jan. I’m scared, I don’t have a clear answer. I don’t want to make the wrong choice. But as terrible as it sounds, what if I regret my choice? What if I’m not a good mom?”

“We won’t know for sure what the aftermath of our decisions will be like. But what I do know for sure, is that…with you. No matter where life takes us, whether or not we have kids…it’ll still be the best life we can live. We did our best, and sometimes, some things maybe just aren’t for us in this lifetime.” Janis says after a few seconds, rubbing your back when you sniffled. “But that shouldn’t stop us from doing the best we can to fight for what we want. It’s hard, yes. But sometimes the hardest decisions are the biggest lessons. They teach us to be strong…or to be stronger because there’s still a lot in store for us.”

You just stayed silent, taking in a deep breath.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be an incredible mother.”

“No.” You disagreed, chuckling tearfully, “I’m still afraid I’d end up like my mother.”

“If you’re afraid, you’re aware. You won’t be like her. You, y/n…you’re your own person. You might not trust yourself in some moments, and that’s okay. We’re human. But, trust me. I see you everyday the way I see you. And I know you. So…believe me when I tell you that.”

You looked at her, still teary eyed but the crying had just begun. Pulling her into a hug, she kisses your cheek on the way. “We got this, okay? Promise. We’ll go through it all, together. Just like we are now, and just like we have been.”

You nodded firmly, drying your tears. But Janis pulls you right back in for a longer hug.

After you and Janis have arrived back in Chicago, you two were picked up by Cady. “Hi, sweetheart.” Cady hugged you first.

“Hey.” You gave her a smile.

“Hi, Janis.” Cady hugged her too.

“What’s up?” The brunette chuckles, “Good to be back.”

“I did not wanna leave.” You laughed at the thought as the three of you headed to the parking structure for the car.

“That’s true.” Janis confirmed.

“Well, it is very nice over there so, I get it.” Cady hummed, “Alrighty, get in the car and let’s go home.”

Regina was beyond thrilled to see you again after your two-week absence. “I’ve missed you too, Reg.” You were kind of stood frozen thanks to her sudden affection. Yeah, you still were not top used to this side of her yet.

“Hey, G.” Janis bit back a laugh, “How are ya?”

“Meh, you guys know how it’s been so I’m not gonna repeat it.” Regina answered.

“You have an appointment tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, I do. You actually remembered?”

“Of course.” You nodded swiftly.

“Anyway, how are you two doing with wedding planning? Started yet?” Regina asked.

“Not yet.” You sighed.

“Okay, did something happen…?” Regina squinted at you.

“No.” You quickly lied. You weren’t about to tell your pregnant sister about the breakdown you had over your own future and the possibility of wanting to be pregnant. Or not. You still didn’t know for sure. “I’m gonna take a shower. You wanna come with me, Jan?”

“Uh, sure!” The girl narrowed her eyes at you, slightly worried by your avoidance of that question from Regina. She knew your sister would definitely press you for answers. But she was more concerned about you.

While you were taking out a set of clothes from the wardrobe, you hear Janis walking up behind you. You know what was coming, and you did not want to talk about it again. You knew this was on you to work through. And you knew you had a great support system, but as always…some days will be harder than others. Well, the past couple of days have been ‘some days’. You’ve given your future a lot of thought, but the matter of starting a family was still a big question mark.

“Hey, deep breaths, honey.” She had a hand on your shoulder, “Everything’s okay. Listen to me— everything is okay. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying.” You sighed, “I’m trying. Why is it bothering me so much? Oh my God.”

She hugs you, “We’ll make it through just fine. Right now, just focus on your shower, put on your favourite playlist and get freshened up. Hm?”

You nodded firmly, determined to get out of this little ‘mood’. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She pecks your cheek, “And after you’re done, we’re gonna make some dinner together, yeah? Let’s do something.”

“Sounds good.” You agreed, giving her a kiss in return before you disappeared into the bathroom.

Janis exits the bedroom once she hears the tap being turned on, and the beat of your favourite song. “Is she okay?”

“She will be, don’t worry about that. She’s got it.”

“Make sure she goes to her therapy appointments.” Regina says with a nod.

“Always.” Janis answered seriously, “Alright— any requests for dinner?”

“Um, anything honestly is great when you cook.”

“Way to flatter me.” Janis bursts out laughing, “You wanna suggest a cuisine at least?”

“Please, you can make a salad taste good.” Regina scoffed, “Cook whatever you want. But if you insist, use only what we have in the fridge and pantry right now.”

“That works too,” Janis chuckles, walking towards the kitchen, “Let’s see what we end up with, eh?”

“Looking forward to it.” Regina smirked.

“Do you trust your sister in the kitchen?”

“What?” Regina looks at the brunette, bewildered, “Course I do.”

“Kidding.” Janis quickly chimed in. “Just saying…”

“She can cook together with you, alright? She’s perfectly capable of that.” Regina laughs, pulling a face at the Hawaiian. By the time Janis finished setting up everything, you were fresh out of the shower. “Hi, love.” Janis’ face lit up.

“Hey.” Your smile mirrored hers. “What are you cooking tonight?”

“G, how are you with salmon?” Asked Janis.

“I’m fine, I can eat it now.” Regina confirmed.

“Great!” Janis says, “and y/n, I know. No fish for you.”

You smiled, “Are we doing rice or something else?”

“Yeah, rice.” Janis nodded, “2 cups. That small one in the bag.”

“Okay.” You went ahead with that task while she got started on hers.

“Tofu or chicken, baby?” She asks.

You decided on the former, “Tofu.”

While you and Janis worked in the kitchen, your eyes wandered over to Cady and Regina on the couch. You watched them watching a movie together, cuddled up comfortably as Cady’s hand rested on Regina’s bump. Your heart melted, that was sweet. Janis soon saw what you were looking at, too. “I know.” Janis whispered, “Cute.”

Focusing on making dinner took your mind off of the worrying. Janis always knew what to do when you didn’t. “Thanks for…um making sure I don’t keep staying in that state of mind.”

“Always gonna be here for you.” She answered simply while seasoning the salmon fillets. Turning the stove on, she waited until the pan was warm enough before dropping some butter onto it. Eventually, the teriyaki sauce-seasoned meat was sizzling in the pan and if you were being completely honest? It smelled amazing, but you just did not dare to eat fish ever again after an incident.

Janis used an entirely different pan for your tofu, just to give you a peace of mind. She’s never made a big deal out of it, it came naturally to her to do this. You didn’t even think she was aware of why you refused to eat any sort of fish, but apparently she was. After dinner, Regina said good night to you all and headed to bed. Cady helped wash and dry the dishes, while you and Janis cleaned up the kitchen. It wasn’t long before you two were in your bedroom, laptop open with a notebook and some pens in your laps.

“Let’s start with dates…gather a few then slowly narrow them down?” Janis began.

“How about a summer wedding?”

“Lovely.”

“Actually, I have an idea for the date.”

“Yeah, shoot.” Janis nodded, looking at you attentively.

“June 26th? Honestly I thought of Stitch, you know experiment 626. But anyway.” You laughed, “‘Ohana means family. Stitch reminds me of that quote, and if we’re gonna go with a summer wedding. How’s Hawai’i?’

“That is adorable.”

“Sure.” You laughed it off, “But is it good? Like, actually, would a wedding there work out cost wise?”

“I don’t think it would cost much, or at all to do a wedding on the beach.” Janis assured, “I think this is it. This is perfect. Our family will be there. My mom, Keani…I didn’t think it’d be this easy, I guess this is what we were meant to choose. It just fell into our laps, you know? It wasn’t a hard decision.”

You agreed with a nod, noting that down on an open document on your laptop. “Also, for food and beverages, my aunts and uncles can help.”

“Please don’t tell me that they’re doing that for free. We need to pay them.”

“They’re gonna insist, but we’re gonna insist harder. Maybe work it out to a discount rate instead of completely FOC.” Janis says, “I know.”

“About the whole pr—”

“Baby, we already talked about this. One thing at a time. We still have a lot to look forward to first before we get ahead of ourselves. We can think about it, we can discuss it but we shouldn’t let it take over our minds.”

With your lips pursed, you gave her a nod, “Okay.”

“Whatever we decide, nothing will change between us. Okay? Nothing bad. It’s always going to be us versus the obstacles, not each other.”

You pondered over her words, heart rate slowing down and you let go of the corner of your shirt that you were grabbing onto. “Let’s lay down, go to bed for the night.” Janis pulls you closer. “Okay? It’s time for bed.”

“Yeah, okay.” You laid down.

And, that was the end of the conversation. For now. It will come up again, just much later, and when the time is right— when you were both ready. “Good night, ipo.”

You went to sleep with a smile on your face, calm too, “Good night.”

Feeling a kiss to the side of your head, you began to drift off to sleep while you both held each other.

Were you dreaming too big about wanting to start a family? Maybe, considering the costs and efforts you two had to put into it compared to say, a more traditional means. But you knew for sure that you’ll be fine no matter how things pan out. You had Janis, and you had the rest of your little family right next to you to get through this life together. It wasn’t impossible, you just had to work hard. But most importantly, you would be alright. And you were so proud of yourself for how far you’ve come. You never thought this would happen for you…

You were getting married, to the love of your life. And you couldn’t be any happier.

🏷️Tag list:

@ashecampos @auliisflower @cheesysoup-arlo @frogs00 @ludoesartandstuff @pda128

💭A/N:

Cadina are welcoming the baby in the next chapter, then it’s time for the wedding in Hawai’i😙

[theseptembersim]

Wisteria London Townhouse

Wisteria covered London/Chelsea inspired townhouse converted into student housing for your Britechester sims. Currently decorated for 4 students: fashion, art, literature and music.

This is the sister lot to my previous London Townhouse which you can find here

MOO and debug used Bed: 4 Bath: 5 World: Britechester Type: Residential

Full List of packs used on the Gallery

No CC used in this build Origin ID is TheSeptemberSim

If you would like to download this build please use the links below. Although all my builds are no CC, I use a custom thumbnail so make sure 'modded' is checked to see this in your game.

NO ADS DOWNLOAD (sfs) DOWNLOAD (Gallery)

If you would like to support me, consider buying me a coffee ❤️

[wanderingnewyork]

Townhouses in #Chelsea, #Manhattan.

[indigosunsetao3]

Some of My Headcanons

While my stories may not mix together all the characters still have the same little quirks in all of them. Just a fun little thing to list out and honestly help myself remember them all. I'll add to this as I think of things or remember them.

Alex Keller

Coffee - His favorite coffee flavor is blueberry. Everyone on the team thinks it's disgusting and tastes like burnt blueberries but Alex gets it whenever he can.

Computers - Alex can figure his way into just about anything. Give him a computer and reliable internet he'll find what he needs, even if that means some illegal hacking or questionable methods.

Language - Alex learns languages easily. He may not be able to write them all but he can read and interpret quite a few. If it's a new language he doesn't know yet give him enough time he'll be able to speak enough for basic communication.

Rules - Everyone thinks that Price is the rule breaker of the group and no one suspects the polite American boy. That's to their own detriment. Alex will break any and all rules if he thinks they are wrong. To the point Price has had to reign him in or throw him on the sidelines when they work together.

Singing - Alex can sing. He never did it seriously, like joining a band or singing in the school choir but he definitely has the talent. It's just something he likes to do and came naturally to him. He does it mostly when he thinks no one is listening because he's not confident in it despite what people tell him.

John "Soap" MacTavish

Artist - Despite Horrible handwriting Soap can draw extremely well. It started as a pastime as a kid that turned into a coping mechanism and hobby as an adult. He doesn't often share his works with others so when he does, consider yourself lucky.

Handwriting - His penmanship is chicken scratch that over time the team has learned to read but good luck to anyone else.

Notebook - He has stacks of notebooks full of his old sketches and field notes. None of them are ever tossed, just packed away somewhere in his townhouse. All the books are different but what always stays the same is the worn out leather cover that he uses to protect the current one he's using. He looks at it as his good luck charm since it's always on him and he always comes home. It was a gift from his mother.

Touch - Soap is a person that shows attention, affection or support by physical touch. It can be a simple pat on the shoulder, leg brush under the table, hug or even hair ruffle. No one is excluded from this, even Price. Ghost took a while to get used to it and would swat or shove him away but he's accustomed to it now.

John Price

Body Language - Price is always careful with his words, knows what to say and when to say it. But his body doesn't get that message, you can always tell the his mood by how he carries himself; good or bad.

Football - He owns season tickets to Chelsea but he works so much he barely goes. Yet, he can't quite give them up either. He tells himself one day he'll be home enough to enjoy the game.

Sleep - He goes from one extreme to the other. He will either find a chair, corner of a room or a vaguely quiet spot for a nap as often as possible because he's just so exhausted all the time. Or he goes weeks with barely sleeping a handful of hours a night, but functions just fine. There is no in between.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Clothes - Gaz will look for an excuse to dress up. He loves a good suit, cufflinks with matching tie clip, pocket squares and shined shoes. If he's not dressing up you can still expect his look to be coordinated and impeccable, nothing out of place and always sharp.

Dancing - Gaz took dancing lessons as a kid with his sister that he continued through as a teenager. He danced competitively in ballroom and swing placing in a few championships.

Football Fan - He and Price bond over their love of football. He and his sister go to games whenever he is on leave at home since her husband is not a fan.

Smoking - He's tried to quit multiple times but it's just a habit he can't shake. He doesn't smoke as much as he used to, tired of Ghost riding his ass about it. But if he's stressed or needs to clear his head he'll sneak away for a quick smoke.

Snoring - Gaz snores. It’s not the cute kind and it’s definitely not quiet. Everyone hates being bunkmates with him because he’ll keep you up or wake you up. It’s been this way since he was a teenager, his mother even took him to the doctor but they found nothing medically wrong. Mans just loud.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Alarm Clock - Ghost has an internal alarm clock that wakes him up the same time every day. Whether he went to bed eight hours ago or two.

Patterns - Ghost is ridiculously good at spotting patterns. No one likes watching movies with him because he guesses the ending ten minutes in. But he's also the first one to sense something is wrong or feels off because humans follow a pattern by nature even if they don't realize it; Simon does .

Reading - Ghost reads. A lot. But it's all non-fiction. He always wants to learn and will pick up just about any book he finds, sometimes nicking them from others barracks, before replacing them a few days later when he's done with them.

Smoking - He hates smoking. He rides the teams ass for it. In the early days he'd punish the Sergeant's with running laps if he caught them but now he just yells. He doesn't get on Price but that's only because he's the Captain.

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[leibal]

Chelsea Brut is a minimalist townhouse located in London, United Kingdom, designed by Pricegore. The house, originally part of a 1960s residential block, was purchased by enthusiasts of the style in 2020. They became the second owners and chose Pricegore to renovate and reconfigure the five-bedroom structure into a more spacious three-bedroom residence, better suited for modern family living.

[bostonrealtors]

250 Congress Ave Unit 10 is a Chelsea Townhouse For Sale!

[the-home]

[nyandreasphotography]

In the city (townhouses) - Chelsea, New York City by Andreas Komodromos

[ladybugsimblr]

spice district townhouses, san myshuno

big girl room updates for bailey's "nieces" esmerelda (esmie), charli & chelsea. fun fact: the twins' room used to be b's old room. this was her first apartment with her girls. og apartment tour 1 | 2

[thecrownnetflixuk]

Remember When William, Kate & Harry Were Still a "Happy Royal Trio"?

The Crown Season 6 will soon be taking us back to the noughties!

Ed McVey (Prince William), Meg Bellamy (Kate Middleton) and Luther Ford (Prince Harry) made their debut at the Vogue TV BAFTA's party in the Beaverbrook Townhouse, Chelsea, last night.

With filming having officially wrapped, the newcomers are set to be the breakout stars of The Crown's final Season. New episodes are expected to premiere on Netflix later in 2023.

Images: Courtesy of Netflix Queue | @megkbellamy & @ed_mcvey_