#agent poltergeist

[agent-thorn]

@the-roanoke-society

TASKMASTER 16x01 • The Natural Friends

[wildcardaces]

@agent-a-cpfancomic "yeah that's not what's going on" edition!

Where Shawn no--

Quil: wow look at you! Trying to get Romantic with all these candles

Shawn: First of all im about to sacrifice you--

Quil knew Shawn wasn't going to be normal about this so he decided that it'd be funnier to purposely misunderstand what's happening.

Shawn is also joking he's just lighting candles for the sake of it XD

Shawn: I love wearing sunglasses! Nobody can tell what I'm looking at.

Very subtle, Shawn.

Anna is absolutely probably laughing off screen!

Quil: How did you make that noise with your mouth?

Clay loves throwing his voice and it confuses everyone around him when he does it

Clover, She/Her

Violet, They/Them

Takumi, Fuck/Off

Takumi just likes being there to support everyone and he'll fight if somebody disrespects his friends

And the finale!

Poltergeist: a Fuel rat? Really?

Kilanova: I like helping people!

The two brothers of 4014! Kilanova is a Fuel rat, a penguin who flies around delivering fuel to space crafts in need. Meanwhile, poltergeist is part of the EPF as one of their Ace pilots!

[inkquillery]

👻 self-preservation is a property of jams and jellies 🌪️

~ presumed dead ~ everyone needs a hug ~ poltergeist shenanigans ft. daisy ~ maydaisy ~ team as a family ~ fluff and angst and light crack ~

Summary:

ghorbulous: adj. (of a person or creature) behaving like that of a ghost or other paranormal entity.

OR:

In which Daisy has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever to speak of, but a totally unprecedented aspect of her powers saves her life — and leaves her an unwilling witness to the heartbreak left in her wake.

[chronal-anomaly]

Softly, with lots of energy:

It's so interesting to think about the time she was Lost and how the blame shifted around so much. How some days she'd kick the dirt, curse herself, her hubris, she'd glance around in the rubble of her sanity and see the wings still dripping with wax next to her. It's not about the time travel but how she really thought she could be the one who conquered it, this kid from the streets of post-war London. Who did she think she was?

And the other days where her soul burned with the need to stay alive, selecting people seeming at random to befell this justified rage at. Winston. Jack. The host of top scientists who dreamt up the project. The careful hands that crafted the Slipstream for her. Each one of them had their days, her voice screeching against the ether until vocal folds crack and shrivel.

When she is 'between doorways' which is more of a noncorporal state, she can peer into the windows of the multiverse. And sometimes, when she's lucky, she'll end up right back at her time, where she watches friends and family go about their business as Lena slowly loses her mind in space. And in very specific circumstances, she'll be just on the other side of the veil, close enough to touch but far enough to watch her own fingers pass through the person harmless. Objects, though, can be sometimes manipulated with sheer force of rage, which she has in spades. Don't forget her, she screams, don't leave her behind.

[taskforcedistortion]

Thoughts on cheese?

[Video ID: "PLEASE NO MORE CHEESE IN THE FACE!"

"Jess chill, no more cheese will be coming though. Though I'm pretty sure Poltergeist just stopped some cheese rain from coming though..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

End of ID]

Really though, could you not throw cheese at people? I think we had enough cheese here.

-Agent Soul

[pinkie-quinns]

(posting some old twitter threads here for posterity's sake)

rocker eddie actor steve fame au p1 | p2 p3 p4 p5 interlude p6

Steve follows Eddie out to LA. Indiana’s home, sure, but Eddie’s got dreams bigger than the both of them. And Steve loves him, wants to be there with him the whole way through.

He does odd jobs to pass the time, nannies a lot, works on sets. Extra work pays the best, quick easy cash, so he dances to click tracks in cut scenes of teen shows and pays for their groceries. 

A producer on one of the bigger jobs picks him out on set, tells him he has a good screen presence. He gives him a contact for a proper agent. Steve books the third thing he tries out for.

It's a small role on a pilot that hasn't been picked up yet. He's excited but doesn't think much of it. Mostly he’s just happy for the paycheck. Corroded Coffin's really struggling to break through. They just got dropped from their tiny indie label and Eddie's really bummed.

And Steve uses some of the money from his big, SAG-approved paycheck to try to cheer Eddie up. Make him feel better about the whole thing. But it does the opposite. Eddie keeps acting resentful. 

It only gets worse when Steve's show does get picked up.

Turns out he tested really well with audiences. So the writers rewrote him into the main cast, extended his two episode arc into the whole season. And Steve's really grateful for it, figures they both should be. Eddie's not really working and they need the money.

Corroded coffin is still labelless and basically broken up by the time the show comes out. 

It's a smash hit. Steve's character is a fan favourite. Overnight, he finds himself within the throes of fame. He gets a manager and a PR team and a personal assistant.

He's away from home a lot, doing the media circuit to promote the show. People start prodding into his personal life. His manager, his team, and the network all advise him to appear single and available. 

Eddie makes it easy for him. He leaves without saying a word.

Years down the road, Steve is settled into his fame. He's done a couple movies (some hits, most misses). His show is heading into its final season. He's dated a lot, mostly other celebrities.

Then he walks into a CVS on Venice & sees a name he's been trying to forget for 7 years.

Right on the cover of NME. Eddie had gone to London, apparently. Finally broke through there. Was releasing his debut album later this month. 

At least that's what Steve could tell from looking at it. He doesn’t buy the magazine. He hops into his car and drives til he’s out of gas.

He used to do that back in Indiana. When everything got too loud. Used to do that with Eddie, once they finally got their shit together. Just drive until the tank is near empty & then pull up to some blinking gas station. Head home.

Steve strands himself in Santa Barbara instead.

He sleepwalks through the next few months. The town is buzzing around the impending arrival of Eddie Munson. His album, Penitence, debuted to solid numbers & has only been gaining traction since. He's promoted it in London, New York, done Glastonbury & the late festival circuit.

It's gotten to the point where it's big enough that its hit single is even terrorizing Steve's local grocery store. He knows the first three notes really well. Knows cause that's his cue to leave. 

He hasn't listened to the album. He hasn't read any of the interviews.

In his head it's a good kind of revenge. Eddie left without a trace. Steve should respect his wishes, right? That's what Eddie wanted so badly that he couldn't even call. 

He should respect that too, be staying dead instead of haunting every busboard like a poltergeist.

But he's Eddie so of course he doesn't. So instead Steve spends all his free time thinking about when he'll inevitably run into him. Will it be the VMA afterparty? Will it be the CBS lot? Will it be the whole foods he keeps running into Michelle Pfeiffer at? (Probably not that)

In the end, it's a knock at his door.

Eddie came straight from the airport. Big duffel at his feet. He looks a decade older but his eyes are the same. He doesn't say I'm sorry, or I fucked up. Doesn't get down on his knees & beg. He just asks:

"Did you listen to the album?"

There's a part of Steve that wants to throw a fit. Be big and loud and start lobbing things at Eddie. He'd seen a movie star do that on set once. Over a PA bringing him the wrong brand of flavored water. But he's not Wahlberg, so he invites Eddie inside. 

And they sit and listen to Penitence.

It's an apology. A long one. Fifteen tracks though Eddie always used to be a real asshole about albums that were longer than twelve. 

And it covers everything. All the regret and resentment and the ego that clouded him when fame happened for Steve and not for him. When Steve didn't even want it. It's sorry over and over and over again. It's I fucked up and please take me back. It's ego death. It's disgust and guilt and self-flagellation. 

And when it's over, it dawns on Steve, who feels just as heartbroken as ever, that it's not enough.

[booksandabeer]

Celebrating 10 Years of CA:TWS — A Stucky Rec List

Rec list for the CA:TWS 10th Anniversary Event @catws-anniversary (thank you so much for organizing this event! 💙) | Prompt: Memories

10 years, huh? 10 years of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. 10 years of what many—myself included—still consider to be the best MCU movie ever made.

But also 10 years of post-TWS fanfiction. 10 years of Bucky Barnes Recovering and Steve Rogers' Sadness Errands; of Up All Night to Get Bucky and Revenge Road Trips; of Winter Soldier Trauma Umbrellas and Everybody Needing A Goddamn Hug; of Good Bros and Soft Epilogues. 10 years and tens of thousands of Steve/Bucky fics later, here we are.

So, to mark the occasion, let's take a trip down memory lane and celebrate the movie and the stories it inspired: One fic from each year since it all began:

There's really only one rule here: All fics are set before, during, or after the events of CA:TWS and/or reimagine its plot in interesting ways. Naturally, many of the fics on this list are post-TWS canon divergent, but I tried to go for a nice variety of length, genre, and popularity to keep it interesting. Speaking of popularity, this is very much not intended as a round-up of ‘most popular fics of each year’ because—and I say this with all the love and respect in my heart for those stories and their authors—nobody needs a rec list for that, and I believe in spreading the love. Here we go:

Poltergeists by enemyofrome | 17K, T

Author's summary: When the helicarriers blow up and the Winter Soldier goes on the run, he takes Steve with him. He's got a name written in Morse code on the inside of his arm, a ton of questions he doesn't know how to ask, and now, a new handler with absolutely zero sense of self-preservation to contend with. Life is hard. In which Bucky tries to figure out whether he's a human being, Steve does everything he can to keep from losing him again, and there are lots of explosions.

Starting off with one of the best versions of the 'Bucky didn't leave Steve, he took him with him after the Potomac' fics that were (and still are!) so popular post-TWS. This one stands out because of its fantastic beginning, its interesting take on how Bucky was broken and remade into the Winter Soldier, and because it allows both characters to be messy. It's a popular fanon trope that it's Steve who brings out a ruthless, almost vicious streak in Bucky, but here it's emphasized that this is very much a mutual thing. Just like Bucky, who's often afforded the "excuse" of still figuring out how to be a person again, Steve gets to be difficult here—without ever turning him into a stubborn asshole. They're both traumatized, and they're both allowed to show it and to lash out, including at each other. Also, this fic will give you capital-F Feelings about morse codes and apples. Believe me.

sleepwalk back to the battle site by ftmsteverogers | 22K, T

Author's summary: “I’m going to track down every HYDRA agent that’s left,” Bucky says, buckling his gun deftly to his belt. “And then I’m going to kill them.” “Oh,” Steve says. “Come with me?” Bucky asks, dangerous hands tucked into his pockets.

A classic post-TWS fic that picks up right after the movie ends. Equal parts Revenge Roadtrip, Bucky Barnes recovering, and Steve Rogers being in urgent need of a good hug. This starts out intensely melancholic—Steve's despair and helplessness are palpable and there's a scene involving a drinking glass that still brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. Halfway through, the story changes pace and becomes much more action-heavy, but it still manages to allow space for the quiet, intimate moments between Steve and Bucky. They have both become sharp and deadly men, but they're also allowed to be soft with each other. Their coming together feels sweet and inevitable. I also really enjoyed the Steve characterization here. His absolute conviction that Bucky is still Bucky at his very core and always will be, but also his emotional and intellectual flexibility to adapt to this still-new-to-him, changed version of Bucky rang very true to me.   

Surveillance by Sproings, 7K in 2 parts, G

Author's summary: If there are ears everywhere, that means it's somebody's job to listen. I hate my job.

Do you ever think about how SHIELD bugged Steves DC apartment and how horrible that was, but also...you're kind of curious what they might have overheard? Do you ever wonder about the people who listened in on his sad, lonely life? Well, here you go. An outsider POV fic told "through the ears" of an unnamed SHIELD agent assigned to spy on the private life of a man who doesn't really have much of one. The story begins just before IM3 and takes us all the way through the events of CA:TWS and beyond. It's clever, original and told with great empathy for both the subject under surveillance and the person carrying out that surveillance—who increasingly questions its purpose. Here's a small snippet to give you an idea of the fic's style:

He got a phone call, once. He put it on speaker, too, which was very exciting for me at the time. It was from an archivist at the Smithsonian. They seemed really surprised that he answered his own phone calls. The two of them talked for a long time about an exhibit the museum was planning. A very long time. As if one of them was starstruck, and the other was desperate for any kind of human interaction.

What Gets You Through by velleities | 12K, M

Author's summary: For Steve, getting through each day is a process – one he’s currently failing at spectacularly. Feeling out of place in this brave new world, he hopes to find a home in Bucky, and looks for him with everything he’s got. But Bucky doesn’t want to be found, and when he does touch base with Steve, he never sticks around for long. Bucky has embraced the modern age, leaving Steve lagging behind – or so Steve believes, until Bucky shows him otherwise.

This post-TWS fic revolves around five encounters in liminal spaces, and each time Bucky has pieced himself back together again just a little more. Despite their increasingly longer and more honest conversations, and Bucky's incremental progress, he always disappears again, leaving Steve to grapple with his heartbreak. There are quietly gorgeous moments in this fic (the bus and the church in particular were my personal favorites) as well as wonderfully crafted characterizations. Bucky is initially portrayed as somewhat feral in some ways yet surprisingly well-adjusted in others, and I love that Steve can't help but be a little annoyed at that. However, it quickly becomes clear that, in good old Bucky Barnes fashion, much of it is really just a front put up for Steve's benefit...

A Real Boy by itsnotbleak | 5K, T

Author's summary: It took the Winter Soldier three weeks to remember that human beings needed to sleep and eat. It took Steve far too long to realise the Winter Soldier was sleeping in his bed.

A wonderful, short-but-doesn't-feel-like-it fic (in the very best way) set immediately after CA:TWS, in which Bucky secretly and then soon not so secretly visits Steve in his apartment. Follow along as Bucky Barnes argues with his brain about sandwich toppings, the importance of a good night's sleep, and the necessity of personal hygiene. Also: how to best go about becoming a real boy (again). And who the hell is that Bucky guy anway? This is as soft and sweet a Bucky recovery fic as you're ever going to find. It's funny but not silly; sad in a way that all of these stories inherently are—because, well, these are some tragic boys—but not super angsty or depressing. A beautiful story with a lovely, hopeful ending.

Savage God by PottersPink | 36K, M

Author's summary (abbr.): Past, present, future, Steve knows Bucky Barnes. It’s why he recognized him when he found him in that alley in April of 1942, even though Bucky was older, stronger, wearier; he called himself The Asset, and had a metal fucking arm. He flinched when Steve tried to touch him, and when Steve told him he loved him, his first response was to ask why. Seventy years later, Steve wakes up in the twenty-first century, and he doesn’t know whether to be heartbroken or hopeful when some of the things Bucky revealed to him in 1942 start falling into place.

An absolutely riveting AU that will have you on the edge of your seat the whole time. I'm itching to talk about it more but I cannot since it would mean spoiling the hell out of it. What I can say is that it's a very intriguing and clever exploration of what would happen if Steve knew about the future but without really knowing any of the details. How would it change the events of CA:TFA and CA:TWS, and how would it change Steve himself? I so very much appreciate this characterization of Steve as smart, competent, and unwavering with a hefty dose of no fucks left to give. This fic features some really nifty time travel and plotting, great action sequences and a very satisfying ending where certain people get their much-deserved comeuppance. Plus: Bonus Shrinkyclinks (kind of)!

Charlie Lock by seapigeon | 105K, M (hard M)

Author's summary (abbr.): The Winter Soldier knows that sometimes, in order to make the kill, you must destroy what the Target lives for. Steve Rogers knows that he can't fight his captors. If he fights, they'll kill Bucky. But the price of his life is steep. Tony Stark has nothing left to live for, but he's needed. So all these miserable motherfuckers better stay alive, too. Clint Barton never expected to be a leader. But a leader he is, and no one else is going to die on his watch. --- A story in which the first wave of Project Insight succeeds, and the Avengers must pick up the pieces and find a way to stop Hydra from completing its work with Zola's algorithm.

This is not only the longest fic on this list, but also the angstiest one—by a mile, so please heed the tags. It's dark, disturbing, and brutal. However, it is neither relentless misery porn nor is it shocking for shock's sake, where everything is magically forgotten and/or healed the moment Steve and Bucky start kissing. Instead, the author puts these characters into an absolutely horrifying situation and then slowly, gently guides them out of it and into the light.

It's a Stucky fic but it's also a multi-POV ensemble piece featuring all the Avengers and other familiar faces. If you are someone who'll always be a little bitter about the unfulfilled promise of an Avengers found family, then this is for you. In this AU, they do not only fight together, but grow together in every way. They truly become a team, not just co-workers barely tolerating each other. The story takes its time exploring the characters and the group dynamics. Steve and Bucky are definitely at the center of the narrative but there is space here for every member of the team to grieve and adjust to the new reality and to find at least some measure of healing. It's a story about the meaning and the consequences of revenge, about hope and resilience, and about love in all its many forms. It also has one of the most satisfying title drops that will have you pump your fist in triumph when it happens. It's a tough read, but ultimately a very rewarding one.

SPELEVINK by Ginny_Potter | 10K, G

Author's summary: Bucky’s back. He’s leaving me messages through IKEA plushies, Steve texts Sam. jesus christ, rogers, Sam texts back. Or, Bucky lives in an IKEA Tiny Apartment, Steve is a dancing monkey once again, and somehow they find their way back to each other.

This is an absolute DELIGHT of a fic that will have you alternately laughing out loud and crying quietly into your SVARTFIBBLA blanket (super-soft, recycled polyester, 47x63"). It's ‘crack treated seriously’ at its very best and a clear homage to the fandom classic Infinite Coffee… (that’s not a dig or a spoiler, the author says so in the author’s note).

Now if you know me, you’ll know that angst o’clock is my happy hour and I’m usually not very into these heavy-on the-humor quasi-absurdist fics (because I’m super special and not like all the other girls, obviously). But. I LOVED this story so, so much. It’s such a fun read—even when it makes you cry—and it really became one of those ‘huh, I guess I’m into this after all’ moments of joyful (self)discovery via fanfic for me. I never thought a pair of oven mitts could move me like that, and I'll never be able to walk into an IKEA again without muttering "F******!" under my breath (iykyk). Absolutely fantastic.

a handful of dust by RecoveringTheSatellites | 20K, M

Author's summary: Steve looks for Bucky for a long time. But the thing is that Bucky doesn't get found, Bucky finds. Bucky always finds Steve. This takes a hard left after the Potomac and stumbles through the dark a lot after. Take a bit of running, the occasional synaptic misfire, the resurfacing of old memories, a dash or two of PTSD, and (eventually) a nice dose of action, stir, and serve over some unresolved issues.

Honestly, the second paragraph up there perfectly sums up the story. It's a good ol' fashioned Bucky recovery fic with some angst, some action, and a whole lot of healing and devotion. Steve and Bucky get to be very sappy about each other, but also extremely Badass Battle Boyfriends™ when somebody threatens their hard-won happiness. Both are allowed to be messy, unstable, and very co-dependent.

This was the first time this author played in the Stucky sandbox and I mean it 100% as a compliment when I say that you can tell. This is someone with "fresh legs" diving headfirst and very deep into the Stucky trope pool and they're doing it with great relish and enthusiam. The result is a story that rejects some of the tried and true conventions of the post-TWS fanfic canon and lovingly embraces others, but that is definitely aware of and in dialogue with the body of work that came before it. Also, it's just a really fun read that gives these two the very soft ending they deserve.

Everybody is Supposed to be Dead by pollutedstar | 22K, M

Author's summary: In 1944, Bucky Barnes falls off a train into the Alps, missing and presumed dead. Months later, Steve Rogers nosedives a plane into the arctic. In 2010, the Winter Soldier project is uncovered by S.H.I.E.L.D., and Bucky Barnes is found alive. Three years later, Steve Rogers’ frozen body is found in the ocean.

A really interesting AU and a fascinating exploration of what could’ve been; the impact it would’ve had on the events and characters if Bucky had been the one to be “found” first. How would it affect Steve to come back into a world where he isn’t quite so lonely and adrift, and where he does have the relief and reassurance of having Bucky by his side and at his back? How would that have changed the way he acted and reacted to this strange new world and the people and organizations trying to recruit him to their cause even though the ice hasn't even completely melted off his body yet?

There are a lot of astute and precise observations about characters like Tony, Natasha, and Clint in this story, and on top of that, it offers up some very compelling insights into Steve's conflicted and difficult relationship with his role as Captain America.

it's never over (hey orpheus) by romcommie | 12K WIP, 2/?, M

Author's summary: He remembers a song first and then everything else follows, burying him below. Or, Bucky Barnes pieces a life back together with a few choice verses, some duct tape and seventy years worth of spite. Steve Rogers tries very hard to relearn there's a life to be lived in the first place.

Ok, listen up, people! This is a WIP and there are only 2 chapters posted so far, but I haven't felt this absolutely bonkers excited about a post-CA:TWS fic in a long while. We're talking frothing at the mouth here. I have such a massive crush on this fic, it's a bit embarrassing, really. It's one of those fics where you know after just a few paragraphs that you're in very good, very competent hands. The wealth of historical and cultural detail; the way the story shifts/flips/flickers back and forth between time, perspective and narrative levels; the Bucky voice—it's all so well done! I'm so insanely excited to see where the author takes this!

ENJOY!

[aziraphale-is-a-cat]

Okay okay okay I know I'm on a bit of a sad kick but danny turning into a literal phantom.

Something happens at school, maybe the GIW shoots him in science after he finally got to passing, and it's the straw that breaks the camel's back, danny just snaps and goes full poltergeist. Transformation sequence, fucking magical girl's his way to a new, hellish form.

He takes over the school, no in or out and just starts attacking anybody trying to "free" the students. In his head he's just trying to keep them safe from outside harm but to everyone else this is a hostage situation from a new, extremely violent ghost.

Everyone on the outside is desperately trying to find phantom and get the kids out while everyone on the inside is trying to calm danny down because he is having a panic attack.

Eventually after an hour the justice league gets called and they try to handle the situation but ghosts are made of emotion to some extent, and Danny's having a lot of them which powers him up while being extremely erratic he's not easy to control or even keep track of for long. His intangibility and invisibility ads a new, untouchable layer to an otherwise already kinda op powerset that the league haven't ever had to fight All at once before.

While the justice league is busy trying to neutralize Danny, the students have banded together to try to break through the barrier and calm danny down. They go through Danny's backpack for scraps of fenton tech and fucking just straight up mug the GIW agents, and tucker Jerry rigs something to deactivate the force field.

During a lull in the fighting, when Danny's got the JL on the defensive, they flood out the front door and crowd danny while he desperately tries to mother hen them away from the justice league who he still blindly perceives as a threat. The JL freak out at the civillian to threat contact but slowly come to a horrifying realization as danny calms down with his friends and classmates that they've been trying to beat up a teen hero in a mental crisis and he shifts back into phantom and eventually human danny while sobbing about how he just wanted to keep everyone safe.

[g1rld1ary]

just blurry ; anthony lockwood x reader

➻ synopsis: you accidentally get lockwood drunk and have to walk him home from the pub where his drunk rambles disguise real feelings

➻ word count: 1264

➻ warnings: getting drunk

➻ had my first uni orientation today!! made a friend :)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Since you and the rest of Lockwood & Co had turned eighteen, you all loved a good drink after a case. It eased all sorts of pain inflicted during your missions — physical and emotional. Whilst you mostly drank together at home because of the bizarre hours you usually worked, when it was appropriate you’d all taken to a quaint little pub named The King’s Court. It was only a few blocks from Portland Row which was ideal for getting home in the middle of the night, and almost always had a table for the four of you. Plus, you were pretty sure George had a crush on one of the bartenders, but you couldn’t be certain.

Tonight was one of the nights you’d wrapped up a case early enough for you to get a seat, but that didn’t mean it was an easy fight. It was a particularly aggressive poltergeist, your personal least favourite ghost to face. Invisible and aggressive, someone almost always ended up getting hurt. Tonight was no exception. Lucy had been gifted a rather long — but thankfully shallow — cut all the way up her arm, and the rest of you were physically exhausted from fighting. Yet when Lockwood cheerfully suggested the pub, no one had the heart to disagree with him.

You’d all had a bit to drink, which made Lockwood giggly, George loud and Lucy tired. You personally felt fine, not having had quite as much as the others. One of you had to be able to get the key into the front door, you figured.

George and Lucy left first, George becoming transfixed on her injury despite her protests, and wouldn’t rest until he was allowed to bandage it up. You’d stayed with Lockwood after he’d whined about wanting to stay out later, in a way not unlike a petulant child. You didn’t mind though, he was always fun to talk to — even more when he was drunk and giggly.

You gossiped for a while, Lockwood telling you stories of adventures the company had been on before meeting you, and in turn you told him about growing up in your own small town and the small group of friends you had out there. Lockwood, on top of his perfect eloquence, was also a great listener. You found yourself spilling secrets without even meaning to, spurred on by his eyes locked on yours, slightly glazed over with admiration as you spoke.

Without realising it the two of you had stayed until closing, and the last bartender working waved you out apologetically, a sympathetic glance to you as you supported Lockwood’s weight. You apologised for the both of you staying so late and tried to coax Lockwood into working with you, dragging his stumbling frame down the street. You really should have cut him off a few drinks ago.

While the rest of his body worked at half speed, Lockwood’s mouth was running at a million miles a minute. He blabbered on about whatever came to mind; the weather, what he might have for breakfast, an argument he was having with George before. You listened dutifully — there wasn’t much else to do while you struggled under his weight.

Taking a break you pushed Lockwood up against a ghost lamp, two hands on his shoulders both to pin him upright and take the pressure off your poor legs. Usually when you were carrying an injured agent you had assistance, and Lockwood was rather tall and gangly, making for a very awkward trip. However comfortable the position was for you, it did put your faces very close together.

You and Lockwood were inadvertently gazing into each other’s eyes as you caught your breath, and he suddenly noticed all the variation of shades in your irises. He looked down at you in utter amazement, all the minuscule details he’d never had the chance to see before coming into focus.

“You’re really pretty,” He breathed, a moment of tense silence hung between you, the only sound the faint buzzing of the lamps. And then Lockwood giggled, light and airy and ridiculous enough to dissolve whatever moment between you had been beginning.

“Alright, it’s time we get home,” You said, disregarding his previous statement, but Lockwood wasn’t having it. As you both stumbled home he couldn’t be silenced.

“No, I really mean it! You’re so pretty. Your eyes and your hair and your face, when you stick your tongue out to concentrate…” You didn’t know anyone noticed that. “Plus, you’re so funny. And nice. And you always put up with my stupidity. You’re so great.” If you didn’t know better you could have sworn you’d seen little hearts floating above his head.

“You’re really drunk right now,” You settled on replying, “I don’t think you’re gonna remember any of this tomorrow.”

“I’m not drunk at all! You’re just blurry.” Without even looking at Lockwood you knew exactly what expression he had on. Seeing the charming, lopsided grin would only heighten your own feelings further and so you locked your gaze down the street, where Portland Row seemed both so close and yet so far. You entertained his gushing until you made it to the doorstep, where you were grateful for the excuse to put distance between you. You weren’t sure how much longer you could resist him when he was saying such sweet things while pressed up to your side.

You finally sent him up to his bedroom with a promise to go tuck him in in a minute (you weren’t sure if he was joking or just got really honest when drunk), and headed off to the kitchen, fetching him a glass of water and some painkillers.

Knocking lightly on his door you found Lockwood sitting cross legged on his bed, absolutely adorable in his worn out pyjamas. He looked up at you again with those eyes and you imagined that was what a younger, more innocent Lockwood might have looked like all the time. Your heart ached for a moment when you thought about it, a quick yearning for a time when the both of you could have been just kids. You shook the thought off as soon as it came, aware of Lockwood watching and analysing your expressions.

“Well, come on then, get in bed,” You said, and Lockwood clambered under the sheets in a way that made you laugh softly. “If I only knew it would be this easy to get you to go to sleep, I would have gotten you pissed a lot sooner.” Lockwood only smiled, shaking his head.

“If you want me to go to sleep you just have to ask, I’ll do anything for you.” You hesitated for a moment at his confession, but wrote it off as drunk ramblings. You needed it to not mean anything to push back the warmth glowing inside your chest.

“Goodnight, Lockwood. Come get me if you need anything.” You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before you could talk yourself out of it. The second your face retracted from his Lockwood’s hand was touching his cheek, a dumb smile creeping onto his lips.

You were out the door before he could respond, but standing outside to regain your composure, you could definitely hear his inebriated giggle through the door and smiled softly. He might be a drunk idiot, but you guessed he was pretty cute like that.

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

When the bones are good

My third fic for @painlandweek is partially a belated fill for the domestic AU prompt, with a hint of a case fic. You can find it here on AO3 or read it below!

Prompt: Domestic AU/Casefic

Words: Approx. 3K

Rating: M

Warnings: none

Summary: Agents Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland of the Ministry of Supernatural Investigations have been sent to a quaint suburb to investigate a potential witch snatching little girls. It would be a straightforward undercover assignment, if only Edwin weren’t battling his entirely unprofessional feelings for his partner and friend.

***

In his nearly a decade working for the Ministry of Supernatural Investigations, Agent Edwin Payne has been led to all manner of unsavory places by cases: vampire dens, run-down old castles overrun with poltergeists, decadent Fae courts where human captives were treated as circus animals, slaughterhouses where it wasn’t just pigs and cows hanging from the hooks. Somehow, none of those gruesome cases left him feeling half as off-kilter as this one.

Director Nurse had told him that it would practically be a vacation. After all, Port Townsend, the quaint seaside town where little girls have been going missing for decades, is charming, as is the house where he’s staying with his partner. In the month he’s been undercover here, no one has tried to kill him once. It probably is the closest thing to a vacation Edwin has taken in years.

But he’s never had a case where he had to pretend to be married to Charles Rowland before and he’s finding that more terrifying than ravenous vampires or poltergeists.

“Love, I’m home!” Charles’s voice echoes from downstairs.

“Up here!” Edwin doesn’t know why Charles insists on keeping up the act when it’s just the two of them alone in the house. He says he’s just keeping in character, making sure their facade doesn’t slip when they’re in public. Edwin is wondering if Director Nurse has finally grown tired of him and if this is part of some kind of prolonged psychological torture.

He doesn’t turn around as he hears Charles’s footsteps striding into the office, watching the house across the street through the lens of a camera. Esther Finch—possible serial killer, probable witch, and definite piece of work—stands on her front porch, smoking her pipe and surveying the street with the lazy interest of a housecat deciding if it’s worth leaving its patch of sun to stalk an unsuspecting songbird. The Aspens’ little girl, Becky, is playing in her front yard, and Edwin doesn’t think he’s imagining how often Esther’s attention strays to her.

“Anything of interest happen today, mate?” Charles props his hips on the edge of the desk, leaning into Edwin’s space.

Edwin can’t help but look up at him. His partner looks every bit the part of Charles Raymond, a blissfully happy newlywed in his mid-to-late twenties with the kind of ordinary office job that does not involve investigating supernatural crimes. His tie is undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and he’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his button-up shirt, giving him a rakish look that is far more affecting than it should be. He looks perfectly at ease here, as if he was born for this life.

Remembering that Charles asked him a question, Edwin clears his throat. “She has unfortunately not erected a gingerbread house in her front yard or taken to the skies on her broomstick. We need to get into that house, Charles. That’s the only way we’re going to prove she’s behind the disappearances.”

The Finches’ front door opens and Monty, Esther’s son, sticks his head outside. The two exchange words before Esther waves Monty away like one would an errant fly. With an eye roll, he vanishes back into the house.

“Monty asked me if I wanted to get coffee sometime,” Edwin adds. “Perhaps I can get him to invite me into his house afterwards.”

“He did what?” Far from being relieved at a potential breakthrough,  Charles looks outraged.

“Coffee, Charles,” Edwin says. “It is a brown beverage one can consume if they can ignore the taste. If I remember correctly, you’re overly fond of it.”

His partner isn’t mollified. “Doesn’t he know you’re married?”

“We aren’t actually married.”

“But he doesn’t know that, does he? Cheeky little prat.” Charles shakes his head. “No, you shouldn’t go anywhere alone with him. For all you know, he’s in on whatever Esther’s doing to those girls.”

“We don’t know if Monty knows of Esther’s activities.” Edwin rather likes Monty, who is sweet, even if his interest in astrology is a bit fanciful for his tastes. He has trouble picturing him as an accessory to multiple murders. Besides, he can’t be older than his early twenties, so the disappearances started decades before he was born.

“Can’t imagine he hasn’t noticed her ritually murdering little girls in the living room.”

“We don’t know for certain if she’s ritually murdering little girls at all. And if she is, it might not be in her house.” Edwin sighs, exasperated. “Besides, I’m not a girl under the age of twelve. I’m far from Esther’s usual victim, so I should be quite safe.”

“I’d rather not take any chances, yeah?”

Edwin rolls his eyes at the ceiling. Most of the time, he finds Charles’s protective nature charming. Occasionally, it’s infuriating. “Then you’ll need to find another way into Esther’s house, because I am at a loss.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Charles reaches down to squeeze his shoulders. “We always do, don’t we?”

Edwin resists the urge to lean into the touch. He and Charles have always made a good team, ever since the first case they were assigned together, only a few years before. Before Charles, Edwin consistently had trouble keeping a partner. He’d been through so many that Director Nurse was threatening to saddle him with a lifetime of desk duty. He didn’t expect the cheery, doe-eyed rookie agent to be any different, but Charles instantly proved him wrong.

The problem was that Edwin was always an odd duck, even before he was dragged into another dimension for nearly a century of torture and escaped into a strange new world without having aged a day. He has never been particularly good with people, has never been able to build the effortless rapport with strangers and colleagues alike that people like Charles are so adept with. But strangely enough, Charles has always seemed to find his prickly nature and sharp tongue charming rather than irritating. He’s become not just Edwin’s partner at the MSI, but the best friend he’s ever had.

Now, if only Edwin wouldn’t threaten it all with his inconvenient, childish feelings.

His eyes travel down to the thin gold band on his left ring finger. Of course, Charles made a big production of slipping it onto Edwin’s finger in the middle of the MSI offices while down on one knee, drawing claps and cheers from the watching agents, especially Crystal and Niko. Afterwards, Director Nurse gave them a sharp talking to about taking the case seriously, but even that hadn’t been able to dull the grin on Charles’s face.

“We should get a dog,” Charles says.

Edwin puts down the camera. “Why on earth would we do that?”

“Would give us an excuse to walk around the neighborhood, right? And we could, like, train it to run into Esther’s yard so we could chase it and poke around a bit.”

“Yes,” Edwin says slowly. “That all sounds much easier than me going out to coffee with Monty. We should certainly hinge the success of the mission on whether Fido listens to us and goes into Esther’s yard, or is distracted by a squirrel.”

“Come on, mate.” Charles grins that devastating grin of his, the smile that makes witnesses want to talk and puts frightened victims at ease. “Getting a dog is the kind of thing newlyweds do, isn’t it? We have to sell it.”

“We’re living together, wearing wedding rings, and introducing ourselves as husbands. I believe we’re selling it, as you say.” Not that Edwin knows what it’s like to sell a marriage. Two men couldn’t even get married before his kidnapping; he’d always assumed either a loveless marriage or a life of loneliness was his future, if he even survived the Great War.

However, Charles is constantly preoccupied with successfully convincing their neighbors that they’re a married couple. From Edwin’s observations, he doesn’t think any of their married neighbors are half as openly affectionate with each other as Charles is with him. But perhaps Charles knows what Edwin does—that no one will truly believe that beautiful, kind, charismatic Charles belongs with prickly, bookish, awkward Edwin. Maybe that’s why he’s so concerned with whether their neighbors buy them as Charles and Edwin Raymond, a blissfully married couple.

Charles’s smile widens, growing truly heart-stopping. He should need a permit for it, Edwin thinks grimly. Surely it counts as a compulsion of some kind.

Edwin sighs. “We can discuss the dog after I see if I can ingratiate myself with Monty. If that fails, Fido can be Plan B.”

“Cheers, mate.” Charles squeezes his shoulder, his thumb brushing Edwin’s collarbone in a way that makes his insides feel fluttery. “How do you feel about curry for dinner?”

***

As usual, Charles manages to dirty every pan in the kitchen while preparing dinner, but Edwin can’t really complain, because his curry is exceptional. Edwin cleans the kitchen while Charles plays the music from the 1980s he’s so fond of. It’s the kind of warm, domestic scene Edwin never had as a child. When he was brought down from the nursery to join his parents for dinner, he was expected to sit silently while his parents conversed. There was no easy conversation, no laughter, no squabbling over the last piece of naan.

Edwin doesn’t know for sure, but he doubts this was the kind of dinner Charles had growing up either. Charles doesn’t like to talk about his life before coming to the MSI, beyond vague allusions to his father not having been a particularly warm, loving presence in his life. But Edwin has seen the scars on his back, the ones that look like they were left there by a belt. He can fill in the rest of the details. Perhaps that’s why Charles has thrown himself into this lie with such gusto, to give himself the illusion of the quiet, domestic life he never had.

Over the running water, he can hear Charles singing along to the music, loud and off-key. It fills Edwin’s chest with something warm and unbearably tender. It would be so easy to let himself sink into the fantasy that this is their real home and that it’s his real husband butchering Bohemian Rhapsody in the other room. But if Edwin gets too comfortable, he could lose the only person who has ever truly loved him. He can’t risk that.

A hand touches his hip and he startles, sloshing soapy water all over the counter. “Charles!”

“Sorry, love.” Charles loops his arm around Edwin’s waist, nuzzling the back of his neck in a way that makes Edwin’s knees feel a bit wobbly. “We’ve got an audience.”

While he puts a pan in the dish drainer, Edwin flicks his gaze out the big window in the breakfast nook. Across the street, Esther Finch’s house is lit up bright, like she’s turned on every single light. He can see the shape of her standing in her bay window, her blond hair glowing gold. She’s facing the street and while Edwin can’t make out her features from here, he can’t shake the disconcerting feeling that she’s staring right at them.

A shudder travels up his spine and Charles’s grip tightens on his waist. “I see.”

“Dance with me,” Charles says in his ear as the song changes to something low and crooning.

“I’m cleaning up.”

“The dishes can wait. Dance with me, love. Got to sell it, don’t we?”

Of course they do. Reluctantly, Edwin turns off the water, takes off his rubber gloves, and turns to face Charles. His partner is smiling softly at him, looking warm and far too touchable in the soft lights of the kitchen. It makes Edwin shiver for a whole new reason. He steps into Charles’s arms, putting his hands on his shoulders, and sways with him.

Edwin didn’t particularly care for dancing before he was taken, but this is nothing like the dancing he learned as a child. Instead of rigid steps and rules, it’s just bodies moving together, his cheek pressed to Charles’s and Charles’s arms around him, holding him close like he’s something precious. Edwin closes his eyes and gives into the fantasy for one, blissful moment. 

This is real. His name is Edwin Raymond, Charles is his husband, and they met three years ago on the tube when Charles asked him what he was reading, then fumbled his way through pretending he’d read it too, making such an ass of himself that Edwin was charmed despite his better judgment. Charles knew right away it was love, while Edwin didn’t realize the depth of his feelings for months. They eloped in the spring, a small ceremony with just them and their officiant.

“Edwin,” Charles whispers and Edwin opens his eyes, feeling almost drunk on the dream of this being real. “She’s still watching.”

Right, because they’re doing this for a reason. Edwin blinks and nods. Slowly, Charles turns them, so that his body is between Edwin’s and the window. It’s such a small, instinctual moment of protectiveness that it makes Edwin’s throat feel a little tight. Charles never seems to think twice about putting himself between Edwin and potential danger. He has no doubt that if he’d had Charles Rowland in his life in 1916, he’d never have been dragged off by an abomination that fed on his pain and terror for decades.

“Still watching?” Charles asks in a low voice and Edwin flicks a glance over his shoulder to see Esther still standing at the window.

He nods into Charles’s shoulder. “Do you think she suspects something?”

“Don’t know how she could. She might just be being creepy. Seems to do that a lot, doesn’t she?” Charles presses a feather-light kiss to the corner of Edwin’s mouth. “I have a plan.”

“And what’s—” But Edwin is cut off when Charles kisses him, full on the mouth. They’ve kissed a handful of times during this charade, dry, chaste brushes of lips when Edwin says goodbye to Charles in the morning. There’s nothing chaste about this kiss; it’s all lips, tongue, and hunger. Edwin can count on one hand the number of times he’s been kissed before and none of those times have been like this, like the other person would sooner stop breathing than stop kissing him. 

There’s a soft, moaning noise and Edwin realizes belatedly that he’s the one making it. He should pull away, but instead his hands are fisting in the front of Charles’s shirt, pulling him closer, and Charles’s hands are running over his shoulders, down his chest and arms, like he wants to memorize every inch of Edwin. There are quite a few inches of Edwin that desperately want Charles’s hands on them; the front of Edwin’s trousers is becoming painfully tight.

“Edwin,” Charles whispers against his mouth and somehow, it’s the sound of his name that jerks Edwin back to reality.

This is not real. This is an undercover assignment, and Edwin is seconds away from climbing his partner—his friend—like a tree.

His eyes snap open and he finds the window across the street empty, Esther Finch nowhere to be found.

Edwin pulls back, breathing heavily. “She’s gone.”

Charles blinks at him, mouth puffy and red and eyes hazy with something that Edwin wishes was want. “What?”

“Esther Finch.” With every ounce of self-control Edwin has, he steps back, out of Charles’s embrace. “She’s no longer watching. Excellent plan, Charles.”

Charles blinks several times, then his usual irrepressible grin spreads across his face. “Right, aces. Think we really sold it.”

“I would say.” Edwin smooths down the front of his shirt. “That was very… convincing.”

Charles nods. “Course it was. We’re professionals, aren’t we?”

“Entirely professional.” Edwin clears his throat. “Which is really why I should finish cleaning this kitchen. I cannot leave it like this overnight.”

“You know Nursie’s not going to show up and check to make sure we’re making our beds and keeping our desks tidy?”

With an exasperated huff, Edwin turns back to the sink, hoping Charles hasn’t noticed the continuing tightness of his pants. He’s not a horny teenager making out with Thomas King in the file room; he needs to get a hold of himself.

“Right,” Charles says. “I’m going to go… yeah.”

Edwin hears his footsteps retreat, a shade too quickly to be casual. He stands at the sink, heart still pounding and face still flushed. He’s imagined kissing Charles a thousand times and that was everything he ever hoped for and more. And it was all so they could convince their possibly homicidal neighbor that they're nothing but a canoodling couple in love.

Charles is an excellent agent, one of MSI’s best. He gives every case his all. Of course this case wouldn’t be any different. If Edwin is getting tangled up in his own feelings, that’s entirely his fault, not Charles’s.

They’ll wrap up this case. If Esther Finch is the one who has been kidnapping and most likely killing little girls, they’ll bring her to justice. If they’re wrong and there’s another culprit, they’ll find them. And then, they’ll leave this house to go back to their real lives in London and this will just be a funny story that they tell in the future. The time Charles and Edwin pretended to be a married couple for a month and Edwin was certainly able to not lose his head about it.

Because Charles is right, they’re professionals. Edwin can be professional, even if it bloody kills him.

***

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving comments and/or kudos on AO3! I'm considering turning this into an expanded fic where these boys finally get their shit together if there's enough interest.

[wildcardaces]

@ruby-static "movie quote ammo" edition!

Where oh god anna you shouldn't have told shawn your puffles name XD

Shawn: wait your puffle is called goose!?

Anna: yes?

Anna: wait why are you so excited about that?

Shawn, doing a top gun voice impression: talk to me, Goose.

Anna: Bruh.

Anna probably doesnt understand why shawn is so excited until he begins to start quoting movie lines to goose. Much to her dismay.

This is revenge for all the times you yelled "SHAAAWWWN" anna *WHEEZE*

Shawn: yo this wood is so soft i can eat it.

Anna: are you a fucking beaver??

Shawn back on his bullshit again and confusing everyone!

Suddenly future party boys again!

Gary: oh my, he reminds me of someone.

Kilanova: names kilanova!

Gary: hello! Welcome to the EPF.

When kilanova joined the EPF, Gary absolutely saw him first and went "oh this guy is going to bring some familiar moments to this place"

And the finale! Fullbodies of the two future dudes. Starting with kilanova himself.

He is basically the Dan of his time! (Which honestly is even more funny considering he is a descendant of him) He is partially melanistic and has a blackhole stomach. Put somthing infront of him in terms of food and its gone. His markings resemble a star!

And poltergeist!

He is named after one of the first exoplanets ever discovered which orbits a pulsar star. He definitely has a sibling called phobetar to complete the checklist of the first two exoplanets discovered ever.

I like to think that penguins in the future have the most weirdest names but with kilanova being named after the explosion caused by two neutron stars colliding and poltergeist being named after a super irradiated zombie planet? They got some cool names!

[blindbatalex]

I hung out with @k-ky all day and she literally activated the sleeper carraville agent that lives inside my brain at all times. I really and truly do not have time to start on a whole new WIP right now, so please enjoy this little 1k teaser in the meanwhile.

By the time Jamie parked the car and trudged to the house, the front door was already open with Gary looming behind.  Between the dusk falling quietly outside and the hallway light he had not bothered to turn on, the way he would not meet Jamie’s eyes, he resembled a ghost.  Jamie ignored the raw spot the thought touched in his chest—the still too fresh panic a call from the hospital saying that your friend collapsed tends to inspire.

“Traffic was mad.”  He chuckled as he walked in.  It sounded strained and echoed ominously in Gary’s minimalist, unpleasant house.  “I should have honestly taken the train.”

Honestly, if Gary had died and come back as a ghost, he would be a poltergeist.  An annoying, self-righteous, argumentative poltergeist that drives property values down by his sheer potential to drive any people unfortunate enough to buy the house up the wall.  Neither did he bother to so much as crane his neck to look at Jamie as he led them into the bowels of the house.

“Thought you’d changed your mind.”

Jamie rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, well, it was a close thing,” he huffed, and regretted it instantly when Gary’s step faltered.  It was a fucking joke.  After everything they have been through, did he, could he think–

And while he meant no disrespect to the witches, Jamie struggled to understand why they had to drag him into the curse they rightfully wanted to cast upon Gary.  Bloody hell.  “But if you died, who would I rib after every time United bottle yet another game?”

With that they reached the living room.  Gary sat down on the sofa and for the first time since Jamie came in, deigned to meet his eyes.  It wasn’t just the light, he definitely looked haggard.  His ugly face pale and with deep bruises under his eyes.  He wasn’t happy either, judging by the thin line of his mouth.

If anything I am shocked that it took you this long to get yourself cursed, the way you carry on, was what Jamie wanted to say but someone needed to be the adult in the room so he held his tongue, choosing to plop himself down on the sofa next to Gary instead.  He wrapped a firm arm around Gary’s shoulder and popped his feet on the coffee table.

“Get your feet down,” was all the thanks Gary could be bothered to give, alongside a vicious poke at his ankle with his big toe.

“No, you get your feet up.”

“I don’t know how you live in Bootle, but we for one have standards here–”

“No, you idiot, we ought to maximise the surface area, innit?”

“You mean–?”

“Press our legs together, yeah.”

Whatever little colour there was in Gary’s face drained at Jamie’s words.  It was daft—it was so mind-bogglingly daft that Jamie had no words for it—but then again, they were ex-footballers for God’s sake.  They had spent 30-odd years watching their teammates strut around naked in the showers, getting pulled into hugs and shoving and, in Gary’s case, cuddling up with Beckham to watch telly.  Sure the two of them did not hug, and Jamie did not cuddle with blokes, but given they were where they were, neither was there any reason for—this.  To act like petulant children.  Or prisoners on death row.

Jamie glared at him, withdrawing his arm.

“I’m sorry, do you want to die?”

Not really, but I want to cuddle with you even less, the dark look that crossed Gary’s face seemed to say. 

The git. He just had to be so stubborn about everything, make life as difficult as possible for whoever was trying to give him a hand.

Jamie closed his eyes, breathing through his nose to try and get a lid on the anger he felt burning in every cell of his body.  Honestly, who in their right mind would pick an argument for example with a coven of witches on the definition of what constituted witchcraft in the first place?  

But when he explained the curse, and what seemed to keep Gary alive, his mum had smiled and said– he is lucky to have a friend like you then, isn’t he?  And Beckham, who for some reason felt he had the right to give Jamie a call, let alone to order him around, had said– cut him some slack will you, it’s a bit awkward for him.  And yeah, if Jamie put himself in Gary’s shoes, he could see why having to–

“Look,” he said through gritted teeth, his eyes still shut.  “I don’t like this either but you are my friend and I happen to care about you.  You scared the hell out of me, Gary.  And if this is what we have to do to manage until we find a way to break the curse, I’d–” His voice betrayed him, crushed under the weight of a singular truth.  Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at Gary.  “I’d do anything, alright?  And I think you’d do the same for me, if our places were swapped.  So.”

Gary nodded, very faintly.  Is it so awful, Jamie wondered, having to cuddle with me that you made me say all of that out loud?  Even at the hospital, when he was quite out of it, he had tried to protest, to push him away.  Said, I can’t.  

“Take off your shoes.”

Cut him some slack.  Yeah.

Jamie did as he was told.  Besides, for one of the few times in his life, he wasn’t sure he had any more words in him left.  Gary was already taking off his own.  

When he was done he put his feet up on the coffee table and Jamie followed suit, shifting closer towards him to bring their bodies flush against one another.  With one hand he turned the telly on while the other arm he wrapped around Gary’s shoulder again.  Gary for his part even made a tiny effort to lean into the touch this time, whether from guilt or self-preservation, Jamie could not tell.

All these years they’d known each other—and Jamie could count the number of times they hugged on one hand.  In Valencia, after that defeat, once.  Once when Jamie had been hammered out of his mind in London—though that was more Gary taking on his weight as he half-carried Jamie back to the hotel than anything else.  He’d been warm beside him then, too, like he was now, strong, a little soft, just—good.  

The two of them fit.  There was no use thinking about that.  They certainly did not fit in this way.  He could smell Gary’s aftershave, feel his shoulders rise and fall with each breath.  It felt awful--a force threatening to rip apart the walls of his cells.

No wonder, he thought, no fucking wonder.

Next time, he would make sure to get laid before coming over, so his body would not mistake affection, at once mechanical and friendly, for genuine desire.

For Gary N.eville?

Come on.

[helloooofandoms]

You Talk Too Much

Reader is an old friend of Lockwood's and they run into ine another during a case.

You were beginning to think that you were unlucky. This was the 5th job this week, and the 3rd one you were stuck babysitting some inexperienced or under qualified agent on. You couldn't fathom why the academy kept sending out these half baked nitwits with little to no actual experience other than a few measly type ones.

It was your regular dilapidated, cobweb infested house on the corner, but you could feel the shift in air as you got closer. Hear the whispering of unidentified voices before you saw yourself standing directly in front of it. You could hear the yells and screams of whatever agents were inside. Sounds like they were doing quite alright. As you started to pick up your feet to walk past you heard a familiar name being shouted.

"Lockwood!"

You couldn't catch a break could you? Sure you hadn't seen the arrogant stringbean in a while but you had assumed maybe he left town. Who were you kidding he would never leave this place. It was you that had relocated, which made it difficult to meet one another, or have overlapping missions every now and then. The two of you were quite a duo back in the day but like they said all good things must come to an end. You needed a better paycheck as you had been an individual hunter on your own before the two of you met. You were what they called a triple threat, you had the talent of touch, listening, and sight. However, you mainly kept your talent of listening under wraps. Last thing you needed was to go famous and end up six feet under due to the amount of work they'd throw at you. You also had no interests in being in a tug of war between Fittes and Rotwell. It was too pompous for the normal lifestyle you were hoping to achieve even with this crazy profession.

Right, enough inner monologue time to see if your old friend needed help.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making your way up the stairs your head was spinning as you could hear voices in almost every direction. You had already deduced that the main floor was empty given the screaming which sounded like it was coming from the floor above you and all.

The noises growing ever so loud made you push open a door with enough force that it slammed into the wall. The noises stopped for a moment. The three figures looking your way. Lockwood who was armed with his Rapier inches away from slashing it through the ghost. A girl that was lying on the ground visibly exhausted and terrified. Lastly the ghost. A nasty looking one at that. Half of its face looked as if it was melting and you couldn't stop yourself from thinking it resembled two-face.

It didn't give you any time to speak as it vanished temporarily only for you to spin on your heel and slash the blade of your iron kusarigama into the poltergeist. It unleashed a guttural scream that made you swear. "Fuck off!" You ran the second blade through its body once more before it disappeared. Frowning you turned around fully to look at Lockwood. Your arm hurt a bit and maybe you were getting too old for this huh?

"You know for someone with their own agency and all maybe it wouldn't kill you to train your employees." You gestured to the blonde girl still.om the floor. "Who am I kidding? You're the epitome of 'don't think just do'." You huffed making your way over to them. Lockwood had already assisted his partner off the floor and his lips quirked up as soon as he saw you.

"My my look what the cat dragged in." Lockwood smirked.

"Cat is correct. That's exactly what it sounded like from outside. Between the ghosts and the two of you I couldn't tell who was in danger." You said with an eye roll before wrapping an arm around both of their waists and taking a step back resulting in the two of them being pulled towards you. A ghost appeared in the exact same spot you had moved them from and she just stared at you. It was a little girl. She looked sad as she held her teddy bear. Then she looked at the blonde girl beside you and pointed to the left.

You watched as Lockwood's employee listened to the young girl. "Book is in the closet." She said before vanishing.

"I knew there were three ghosts here but I couldn't imagine one was friendly." You hummed as you followed behind Lockwood whom had already began moving to the closet where he saw her point. He couldn't hear them like you and the other girl could but he did read body language which was just as important.

"You're a listener as well?" The girl asked a bit shocked.

Tilting your head left and right with a scrunched face, you spoke "More or less."

"Aha!" Lockwood cried as he retrieved the book and dusted it off. "Time to get out of here." He grumbled.

"Yeah before ghost number three traps you." The girl beside you looked up at the ghost that was on the ceiling and quickly descending.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you walk together down the road. Lockwood and the girl you came to find out who's name was Lucy look a bit worse for wear compared to you with not a single scratch or hair out of place.

Smiling to yourself you looked over at Lockwood and playfully nudged him with your shoulder. "Say Tony you come here often?"

Lockwood only shook his head with a grin before responding. "No but if it means I'll see you I think I can make some arrangements."

He was still a smooth talker. Deciding not to make the atmosphere too intense you looked over at Lucy. "You know Locky never told me he actually hired someone better than him."

Glancing at you from the corner of her eye she laughed. "I'd reckon he's simply shy." Lucy played along.

Placing a finger under your chin, you feigned being lost in thought. "He has always been rather bashful hasn't he?" What a bold lie.

Lockwood glared at the two of you. You knew it was utter regret by the way he crossed his arms and let out a sigh. "Lucy has been with us at Lockwood and co with us for some time now. I guess you'd both be bound to meet at some point."

"That's right. I may have to save your ass much more in the future!" You had a sickeningly wide grin when you clasped your hands together.

"How scandalous of you. To think you'd be checking me out on the job." Lockwood draped an arm over your shoulder. "As much as we would love to see you again George isn't quite fond of animals."

You resisted the urge to bring your hands up and shake him by the shoulders. "You know I'd choke you but I think you'd enjoy that too much." You mumbled under your breath. "Hey Luce how do you live with this utter nightmare?" You preferred her more relaxed personality over Lockwood's cocky behavior right now.

Lucy looked between the two of you a smile playing on her lips and a knowing look in her eye. "I simply don't encourage his foolery." She shrugged before climbing the steps to open the door.

"Wha- Lucy we're supposed to be friends." You whined to no avail as the girl simply sauntered inside and made her way up the staircase to what you can only assume is her room.

Sighing you turn to face Lockwood. He didn't have much of a look on his face and you wondered if he was feeling okay. Without a second thought you placed the back of your hand on his forehead you scanned his body over with your eyes. "You don't feel sick."

The heat spreading on his face made him cough lightly and push your hand away. "Maybe I've just got a bit of a temperature." He waved his hand dismissively.

You two stood there for what felt like an eternity. Neither wanting to move but not knowing what to say. It was him who broke the silence in the end.

"Let's catch up more often." He said genuinely. A softer look on his face that you just couldn't help but tease.

"Do you miss me or something?" You snickered but he didn't react much.

"Of course." It was simple and boy was it effective. The way he looked at you like it was impossible to look at any thing else. The reflection of light dancing in his eyes from the hanging porch light above you two. Not to mention the way he glanced at the door as if he was planning his escape. He didn't say much but he didn't have to. He wore his heart on his sleeve when it came to the ones he cared about. The showboat facade died out quickly after getting to see the real Lockwood.

All of a sudden those intrusive, deep, and buried feelings of crushing on your old friend resurfaced. It was your turn to flush as you pushed him through the doorway and turned your back towards him. "I have a feeling I will be seeing you soon." You stepped down. Something stopped you from walking away.

Whipping around you went back up the steps. Your arms snaking their way under his and around his back. "In the case we don't meet for a while I figured it's only professional of me to leave you with a small token of my memory." You told him before pulling away.

He hadn't even hugged you back the ingrate! As you retreated and looked up at him you could see he was more preoccupied on looking at anything else but you. A faint blush covering his cheeks as you could even notice the color staining the tips of his ears.

Not wishing to stand out in the cold any longer you left his doorstep this time for real. "Hey y/n next time you see me the hug will be a minute for every week we haven't seen one another!" Lockwood yelled from his doorstep.

It had been about half a year since the last time you saw him. He always had a knack for occupying your brain. Holding up a thumbs up you kept walking. If your calculations were correct that hug would last 182 days. Maybe you should push it to not seeing him for whole year?

You turned for the last time on your feet to see Lockwood still a ways away standing by the door, watching you walk off. Cupping your hands around your mouth you yelled. "Tell George I said hi and that I'll see him next year!"

[rogueddie]

Ghost Steddie Fics

Important: READ THE TAGS! Also, leave a comment and kudos! These fics are amazing and I love them and I hope y'all do too 👻

That's one romantic poltergeist.

Appledagger

t's been three weeks. Everybody in Hawkins is coping in their own way and Steve Harrington is no exception. But coping might not be the word that describes what he is doing.

"Steve, do you believe in ghosts?"

Words : 94,643 Chapters : 17/17 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

Sometimes You Scare me (but I Come around to You)

Capriciously_Terminal

Steve Harrington clearly had a thing about this abandoned mall. Which, like, fair. Most people probably had a thing about this mall. That was why the two of them were in said mall (let in by the real estate agent who spiked to camera each time they asked her cursory questions about if she’d seen anything or how many people had come in to poke around) poking trashcans and looking for ghosts.

Eddie’s looking for ghosts for the cash and the chance to take a photo with one to show Wayne. It would be the kind of thing Eddie would keep in his wallet (which was mostly empty because as it turned out ghost-hunting wasn’t great for cash).

Steve Harrington, meanwhile, is an enigma wrapped in tight little polos.

Words : 2,189 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

Ever get the feeling that you're never all alone

Anonymous

When Steve goes to the old moldy girls bathroom everyone avoids to summon a ghost, he is hoping for a supernatural solution that will help him get over his ex.

The plan was NOT to fall in love with said ghost instead. Fuck.

Words : 9,041 Chapters : 4/4 Rating : General Audiences

AO3 : x

the ghost of you

MentallyUndone

Eddie has been seeing ghosts for a while now and there's one ghost in particular that has been incessant in seeking him out. It's almost like they think he's the answer to all of their problems, but you really can't bring someone back from the dead (even though they're always asking for the miracle itself).

Words : 2,272 Chapters : 2/2 Rating : Not Rated

AO3 : x

i met your ghost (he followed me)

hexiewrites

Steve Harrington was losing his mind.

At least, he's pretty sure that’s what was happening, considering he kept seeing the ghost of a boy he let die, and it was starting to drive him actually crazy, in the Pennhurst kind of way.

Except.

Except he’d also always been a little bit gullible, always willing to jump into danger, to look at a situation that probably would be crazy and instead of turning and running, to drive right in. So instead of dealing with the ghost the way one probably should (which is to ignore it and maybe buy some holy water) Steve does the opposite.

And Eddie Munson, who is pretty sure he is not a ghost, is, as always, really fucking glad he does.

Words : 30,267 Chapters : 7/7 Rating : Explicit

AO3 : x

A Ghost In Your Mirror Is Worth Two On Your Couch

ForevermoreNevermore

Steve has the unmitigated gall to not only haunt Eddie, but look pretty handsome doing it. He also maybe fills him on on the unimaginable terrors occupying the small town of Hawkins, but that's besides the point.

Words : 4,780 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

Ghosts of Music Past

kissmejusttokissme

There is a ghost living in Dustin’s Garage and only Steve can see him.

Words : 1,714 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Teen and Up Audiences

AO3 : x

love is like ghosts

kkpwnall

They stand at the base of a short flight of stairs leading up to the old university library. From everything Steve’s read, it’s one of the most haunted places in Indiana… within a tank of gas’ drive… that would let them in after hours.

“It’s the witching hour,” Eddie says spookily. He’s come up behind Steve, pressing close and wiggling his fingers on Steve’s shoulders.

Steve huffs a laugh and starts double checking his pockets for his share of the gear. Something to focus on that’s not the way Eddie’s breath ruffles his hair and skims over his cheek, raising goosebumps in its wake.

It’s not like he doesn’t like the attention, the closeness, the physicality of Eddie. He does. Probably too much. Especially since they’re just friends. Steve knows he’s not special to be on the receiving end, it’s how Eddie is with everyone.

Words : 7,780 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

scar-crossed lovers.

througheden

He knows Steve won’t hear him, and imagines that he won’t feel him, but he hops down from the roof and stands in front of him anyways, directly between Steve and their friends looking on, and wraps translucent arms around his shoulders. He hugs him the best he can, the way he should’ve when they split up for the battle that would eventually kill him.

“I’m so sorry, Steve. I’m so, so sorry.”

He doesn’t feel the warmth he knows he would’ve had he stuck to the plan and been brave enough to hug Steve in victory, rather than in mourning.

Words : 3,571 Chapters : 1/1 Rating : Mature

AO3 : x

[thegreathuxton]

Partner in Crime

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

Inspired by "Partner in Crime" by Madilyn Mei.

Summary: You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS - Follows book 5 (I've read the books lol). Friends to lovers. Angsty teens, but they find a resolution at the end. Lucy and Lockwood are JUST FRIENDS. Underage drinking. Swearing. Barnes is a huge cockblock. Fluff to angst to fluff. Insinuated height difference (Lockwood is taller than reader).

A/N: NOT BETA RED WE DIE LIKE MEN!! RAHHHH... I went a little Cuckoo Crazy for this one, guys. I'm guesstimating it's between 6k and 9k words. Who knows!

1.

The first time you met him, you were sitting on a bench in Scotland Yard. He was still quite young. Years younger than how you knew him now. He had a bloody nose and sat alone. You had a broken arm and sat alone as well, on a bench opposite of him, all the while filling out some paperwork with your one good hand. Your penmanship was undeniably horrendous, being it was coming from your non-dominant hand.

You felt him staring at you. A little too hard, you must admit. You got through half your case report before you got fed up. You were already agitated because filling out this paperwork was taking twice as long as it should have. You'd be done and gone if it weren't for that stupid, bloody poltergeist and your stupid broken arm.

"Can I help you?" You snapped.

He wasn't slow at giving you a faint smile. Even while holding a tissue to his cherry-red nose in quite an unattractive manner, his charm hit you in waves.

"Quite the opposite, actually," he said so softly. Your wall of anger cracked like an eggshell. "I was hoping I could help you out."

You looked down, partly because you didn't want him to see the blush of frustration blossoming on your cheeks and partly because if you stared at him any longer, your angry act might just crumble all together.

"I'm fine," you muttered.

"You don't look fine..."

The silence engulfed the hall. The ringing telephones were merely echoes, and the voices of people were quiet. It was three in the morning, after all. The only people who would be up at this hour would be the dead, and kids stupid enough, like you, to make the choice to become an agent.

You go back to your chicken scratch. It's a slow and miserable process. There really is no nice way to describe how you had a safe hurl towards you at lighting speed and pin your arm against the wall, snapping it in three places, when the pen you're using is bleeding all over the page and is very well-bound determined to empty itself all over the white paper.

You sat your pen down again out of frustration. You took a deep breath.

You suddenly felt someone draw close, and the clipboard you had been using was lifted out of your lap.

"I don't quite like asking for help, either, you know," he said, picking up the pen and crossing his legs. "But we all have to learn how to do so, eventually. I'll let you off this time."

He was smiling as he read over what you had written. He had shoved a tissue up his nostril to ease the bleeding for the time without having to use his hands. Quite frankly, he looked as stupid as he was exhausted. His hair was messed up. His clean dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and his tie was undone, hanging limply around his neck and shoulders.

He said your name, and you snapped to attention. He was still smiling and looking at the paper.

"Beautiful name," he murmured. "Too bad it's the only thing I can read on this piece of paper."

"It's not that bad!" You scoffed, taking offense.

"I beg your pardon?" He chortled, then held out the clipboard. He pointed to what looked like a sentence. It was more of just a blob where you had pressed down on the pen too hard. "What does that say?"

You were silent.

"Can't tell, can you?" He said, his eyebrows raised and the twinkle in his eye agitating you beyond belief. "Neither can I, and I'm sure Inspector Barnes won't be able to decipher this hodgepodge, either. So, let's start over."

He takes the paper you had spent thirty minutes on off the clipboard and crumples it in his hand. There's a fresh, new page beneath it. He then turns to you, grinning.

"Anthony Lockwood, professional scribe and interpreter at your service," he feigned a salute in an attempt to make you smile. Begrudgingly, you let him have that small win. He sat up straight and pretended to push up an imaginary pair of glasses on his nose. He spoke in a hoity-toity voice, like a stuck-up therapist. "What kind of visitor did you have this evening, ma'am?"

To be completely frank, it was hard to resist smiling. He was trying to cheer you up, and, admittedly, it was working.

"Poltergeist," you muttered, hunched over and looking at the floor. He scribbled on the paper.

"And is that what hurt your arm, or is the cast and sling merely a fashion statement?"

You shot him a look. He was still smiling, and he looked at you through long eyelashes. He looked like a dopey, single-tusked walrus with the way his tissue had been so stuffed up his nostril. You looked away again. If you looked at him any longer, your smile would break free. You then felt him gently touch the cast. His fingers merely grazed it. When you looked at him again, his eyes were still on yours, as if he knew you'd look again.

"How'd it happen?" He spoke oh so softly once more.

You sighed.

"It was a situation at the bank on Baker Street. A team had gone in and done away with one visitor and called DEPRAC to come help with the rest and disposal. I show up and go in by myself. The place didn't feel right to begin with, even with the visitor eliminated by a team of agents. I started scattering salt, and all of a sudden..." When you spoke, you used your good hand to help visualize. "A safe just launched out from the wall and pinned my arm there. I was lucky it was just that, but I'm going to be stuck in this cast for a while."

Anthony nodded along and rubbed his chin.

"Are you a sensitive?" He asked and started scribbling on the page again.

You nodded. "They employed me here at Scotland Yard to go on cases and provide extra security to our adult team."

He slowly set the pen down. "I bet working here is such a drag," he said rather slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, what's the adventure in working for Scotland Yard. You must have amazing skill for them to employ you. You could be an agent, I'm sure..." He casually started to tap the pen against the clipboard. "And, you know, I've been looking for a sensitive in my agency. I'd be happy to interview you."

You scoffed and smiled. "I'm good. Thanks for the offer."

"Oh, come on," he half-whined. "What do they have here that I haven't?

"Free room and board, all on top of good pay."

He was instantly stumped.

"Ah," he swallowed, looking away and slumping back against the bench. "I see."

He wrote a little more on the paper and then cleared his throat. He set the clipboard down but still held the pen intently. He looked at your cast then up at you.

"May I?"

You thought about it for a moment. Again, you decided to let him have this small win.

He helped you gently remove your arm from the sling and rested it on his lap while he signed your cast. He had the faintest smile on his face, and his eyes were so focused on writing as neatly as he could. When he was finished, he put the pen on the clipboard. You looked down to see what he had written. It was a phone number and his name. You wanted to scoff again but held it back. Inspector Barnes had just stepped out of his office and pointed at Lockwood before eyeing you.

"He troubling you?" The Inspector asked.

"Not at all," you muttered back, putting your cast back in the sling. "He helped me finish my paperwork."

Barnes hummed, and Anthony stood.

"Take that bloody tissue out of your nose, Lockwood," Barnes muttered. Lockwood was fast to cooperate. "Follow me."

Barnes disappeared into his office again. Anthony looked back at you. His gaze was soft and his smile softer.

"Stay out of trouble and away from haunted banks, won't you?" He beamed. "I'd quite like to meet again."

"Lockwood!" Barnes barked from his office and made you both jump before you could respond.

"You better go," you murmured. "He often gets quiet cranky when four o'clock hits."

You watched his chest rise and fall with a deep breath.

"Noted," he murmured back. He gazed at you for a heartbeat longer, then turned and disappeared into Barnes's office.

2.

You and Lockwood became good friends over the following months. You would see him on many cases and occasionally went out to lunch or breakfast with him and his associate, George Karim. He would make excuses to come to Scotland Yard to see you if he wasn't on a case. If he was on a case, or if he was pulled to the building by Barnes, he would go out of his way to find you and see you while he was there. You came over to Portland Row, his agency, more often than not. Sometimes, you'd even spend the night because you'd stay after supper for a cup of tea and get to talking into the late hours of the night. He's told you many things. He's told you about his sister. He's told you about his parents. George had even noticed that you'd become more trusted by Lockwood than he was.

What locked and sealed your bond was when he showed you the family graveyard, where his parents and sister had been buried. It was something even George knew nothing about.

An incredibly close companionship started there. When Barnes noticed, he warned you about the trouble that came with Anthony Lockwood, but you didn't listen, and that is what became your downfall.

"He throws caution into the wind at every chance," Barnes scolded you after you turned up late one evening after spending the night at Portland Row. "You'll get yourself killed."

Again, you refused to listen to his harping.

It was one winter, a year after you'd first met Lockwood, the last year you'd laid eyes on him, when cases spiked all over London. The London Underground had suddenly been infested with clusters of visitors. Many agents had already died by the time you had been brought in. You were assigned as a monitor/supervisor. The rest of Scotland Yard's supervisors were all scared shitless to go anywhere near the Tube, so they sent you instead, since you still had Talent.

Three teams from three different agencies were brought in that night. Fittes, Rotwell, and last, but not least, A.J. Lockwood and Company. That last one made you giddy and nervous all at once.

The clock had struck ten, and all the teams were gathered around in the station in little pockets of groups. Lockwood had a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder, regaling you and George on a story. George couldn't have been less interested. He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. You, on the other hand, were enthralled. It had been days since you'd last seen him, then. Just having him close to you was a great pleasure.

It was a quarter until eleven when you all decided to start moving deeper into the underground. One of the sensitives from Fittes claimed to have heard a scream echoing. You were too enraptured in Lockwood's words, so you hadn't really been alert enough to confirm what she had heard.

All three agencies, plus one (you), moved deeper into the tunnel. Each team took their own readings but continued to come up with nothing but rubbish. Lockwood stuck right by your side with one hand on his rapier and his other hovering just above your lower back.

"I missed you," he muttered into your ear. You grinned.

"You're just saying that, so I'll tell Barnes to up your pay," you joked.

"No, really," he said. His thumb ran a tender line down your spine, distracting you from the skittering noise that your ears had just picked up that came from down the tunnel. "You'd be surprised by just how hard it is to get you off my mind after I've seen you. I still wish you'd quit this lousy job and come be with me... Us, I mean." He corrected himself and cleared his throat when George looked his way.

"You know good and well that there's no room for me in that shoddy house," you chortle and mindlessly check your thermometer. You unconsciously register the slight temperature drop, the deeper you travel into the tunnel.

"There's plenty of room!" Scoffed Lockwood. "The attic is always available. Or, you know, you could always stay with me in mine." He wiggled his eyebrows at you. You elbowed him in response.

You all walked about half a mile into the tunnel when you heard something that the others didn't and stopped. Lockwood was the first to notice. You listened for a moment longer. Those who were also sensitive to sound started picking up what you were getting as well.

"Flashlights off," Lockwood ordered for you without you having to say anything at all.

You couldn't help but cringe when overhearing another agent mutter the words "kiss ass" beneath their breath. It wasn't the time to get snippy, though. Something was coming. You could hear it, but the fact that you couldn't see it unsettled you. The long and dark tunnel before you made your hastily grasp the handle of your rapier.

It was a very faint clicking and hissing sound at first. It wasn't until it got just the faintest hint louder that you realized what it was. The air itself seemed to start shaking, and the ground trembled beneath your feet.

"Everyone get to the side!" You screamed. Lockwood pulled you to him, then pressed the two of you flush against the wall of the tunnel, and all three teams divided unevenly on either side of the tracks. Not but a few seconds later, the air screamed past you and rattled everyone's equipment. The rush of a speeding train made everyone's ears pop, and the wail of the dead came with it. There was no visual. Just a foul smell and a sharp, piercing scream. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, then abruptly stopped. The clicking and hissing and a faint whistle of a train died away.

"Ghost train," you grumbled. "Lovely."

Lockwood was the first to open his eyes. You were next. Your heart dropped.

One by one, visitors of all kinds started to morph out of thin air. Not a single one of them were recognizably human. The reimagined corpses were singed flesh in bone. You could actually smell the burning, and it made your eyes water.

"I read that there was a crash down here in 1980," said George suddenly, loud enough for everyone to hear as you all brought out your rapiers and salt bombs. "Fittes documents say that it's been taken care of... but I guess it wasn't taken care of well enough."

The Fittes agents had no time for witty retorts. More and more visitors started forming, and their sorrowful wailing was becoming too much to bear.

"Is it even possible for sources to reappear?" Lockwood mumbled.

"No clue. That, or Fittes didn't take care of it properly in the first place," you mumbled back. "I don't see anything that could be considered a source. There's no wreckage or bones or anything. Not even a stuffed animal. They probably just scattered salt and called it good..."

You looked down. The railroad tracks were rusted over and stained from ectoplasm burns. You had a feeling your theory was correct.

"There's too many," said one of the Rotwell agents.

"You all were assigned this job for a reason. You get it done, or you don't receive pay," you said. Later, you cursed yourself for this. You had spent too much time with Lockwood and started to pick up on his reckless habits. He still stood next to you as if personal space didn't matter.

You took a step forward, much to Lockwood's chagrin. The closest visitor, a tar-black skeleton with a dangling jaw and a few wisps of charred hair clinging to the dead scalp, raised its head and reared back. Orange fire engulfed it as it screamed and drew the rest of the visitors to attention. It charged, and you readied your rapier.

A salt bomb exploded behind you and sent your flying forward before you got the chance to swing. You missed the visitor by the meekest of scrapes. You scrambled to your feet. The sleeve of your coat steamed from the slightest touch of ectoplasm. A Rotwell agent was ghost locked, standing in the middle of the tracks. The visitor was still charging, now heading towards the agent on the tracks.

"Move!" Someone screamed, trying to get the agent's attention, but it was too late. Another Rotwell agent threw a bomb but sorely missed. The panic had turned the lot completely stupid. It exploded against the wall and blinded everyone in proximity, including you.

You covered your eyes for just a second. Your ears were ringing, and your vision was blurry when you looked again. There lied the Rotwell agent, flat on their back, jaw dropped and eyes a pure, milky white. Their body twitched and spasmed, then fell still.

Someone screamed. The rest of the visitors followed and started charging. You sat there and watched the body, feeling entirely numb, until someone grabbed your hand and pulled you free from the state of shock you were in. It was Lockwood, of course. He had his rapier drawn and protected you with his life, swinging at visitors with the passion and excellence you were so used to.

Fittes agents joined him in his fight and held their magnesium flares high, but the visitors were fast to reform, and there were too many to look for a mass source.

Out of bombs, flares, and steaming with ectoplasm, you all had retreated. The visitors still screamed in their agony. Lockwood, ever the gentleman, still held your hand and held it tight. He didn't let go until you were back at the station.

3.

Everything passed like a blur. The Ghost-Touched Rotwell agent had been left on the tracks. The team would go and retrieve the body in the morning when it was safe.

DEPRAC was called and brought in. Inspector Barnes came to you first, and it wasn't a pretty sight. He went rumbling right past everyone else, straight to you. Lockwood had been consoling you before he'd seen Barnes, and the color left his already pale face. Barnes screamed at you for your reckless abandon. The fact that a Rotwell agent had been killed only made it that much worse.

Lockwood tried to interject, but Barnes quickly had him pushed away.

"You were supposed to supervise!"

"I was! It's just that--"

"There are no excuses. You had one job, and you blew it. Now we have another dead agent, and another mountain of paperwork to fill out before this section can be cleared!" Barnes didn't want excuses. When he looked at you, you crumpled. Your self-worth lowered with every searing second.

"She was doing her job, Inspector," Lockwood came back and cut in again. He tried to get close to you, but Barnes quickly cut him off.

"You," Barnes seethed. "If it hadn't been for you, she would have been fine."

"Don't blame this on him!" You interjected. "He didn't do anything!"

"He did plenty," barked Barnes. "He's been distracting you and knocking you off course for the past few months. And I speculate that he's been doing it on purpose, too." He switched and looked to Lockwood. Lockwood had a sudden stillness about him. He was stiff and quiet, neither denying nor agreeing with Barnes's statement. Barnes's eyes narrowed.

"You've been trying to get me to fire her, haven't you, you little shit?"

Barnes using such foul was virtually unheard of to you. You wanted to get Barnes to stop, but once he was going, there was no stopping him.

"Just so you could add her to your own grubby crew, huh? Is that what you want?"

"I have to say, it's been quite tempting," Lockwood said very quietly. He still did not move. "She's quite an agent, sir. And I believe she deserves to be with us, rather than waste her time in a place like Scotland Yard."

Barnes's eyes went wide with anger and shock. Without turning to look at you, he spoke to you.

"I'm transferring you to the Liverpool sector."

"What? You can't just--"

"Yes, I can," said Barnes. His word was final. "Until you can get whatever this little twat has done to you out of your head, you will be working with the DEPRAC stationed in Liverpool. End. Of. Discussion."

You stood there, frozen. It felt like your world just shattered into a million and one pieces. Lockwood was calling your name, but it all seemed like an echo. You felt warm hands on your cheeks. Your vision came back into focus. Lockwood had his forehead pressed against yours, getting your attention so abruptly.

"He doesn't mean it. He couldn't possibly," he muttered relentlessly. You said nothing because his words weren't registering in your mind, and the tears stung your eyes.

If there was anything you had learned about Barnes over the years you worked with him, it is that he never went back on his word.

"It's over, Anthony," you muttered and squeezed your eyes shut.

"What?" He whispered, brushing back your hair. You could feel his breath fanning your face. "No, no. You can't be serious. He's not serious at all. You are NOT leaving. That's not how this is going to go. That's not right."

"You can't decide how the world works," you said. You reached up and placed your hands over his, slowly getting him to lower them. "If that were true, all this wouldn't be happening in the first place."

You opened your eyes again and wanted to do nothing but start crying. His big, brown eyes searched yours so desperately. Every time you tried to lean back, he'd chase after you and keep you right up against him.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"I don't think I have a choice."

"I need you here," he wrapped his arms around your waist. "I need you to stay with me. Stay forever."

"Lockwood, I--"

"Please..." He buried his face into your shoulder and held you tighter. "I can't lose you. I need to be around you. I swear, I'll go crazy if I can't see you."

His hands shot up to hold your face in his hands again. His thumbs gently brushed over your cheeks, and his lips seemed impossibly close to yours. Too close. You had to break free. If he got any closer, you knew you'd quit your job just to stay with him. Stay there in London. God, the longer it repeated in your head, the more irresistible it seemed to be. He was driving you crazy.

"I have to go," you whispered.

"I won't let you."

"You have to."

"I don't, and you know it."

He kept getting closer, and he spoke more breathily. His lips barely touched yours. They ghosted, then finally pushed fully against yours. His lips were soft and sweet. His kiss wasn't demanding. It was full of something you've never felt before, on top of need and desperation. You had to yank yourself away because you could feel yourself slipping. You actually had to shove him because every time you tried to peel yourself away, he would follow and keep you with him.

He stumbled, and his hands fell to his sides. His cheeks were pink, and his eyes were wide and wild. His lips still moved like a fish out of water, gasping for air. His shoulders, heavy with the burden of running an agency and the guilt brought on by past, rose and fell with heavy breaths. You just stared at him, unable to define whether he was an image of beauty or longing.

You then turned away before he could speak again and call you back like a siren. You had to cover your ears. Even as you rushed out of the station, you could hear him calling your name.

4.

Years had passed since then. You hadn't seen Lockwood since the morning he escorted you to the train station. Even then, that was filled with silence and his longing glances. Getting on the train was the hardest part. He would have followed you up the stairs if the conductor hadn't stopped him.

For months, you exchanged letters with him until he stopped replying. It made your heart ache. You waited weeks for a reply, but it never came. You gave up on waiting after a year. Barnes also checked in with you and constantly made sure you kept busy. You wanted to thank him for it. You managed to forget all about sometimes, thanks to the shit-ton of work he had provided you.

On your spare time, you would buy copies of The Times. More often than not, you'd find Lockwood somewhere inside. Pictures of him from yet another successful case. Then, there was suddenly the mention of another girl that had joined his team. A sensitive by the name of Lucy Carlyle. True, your jealousy festered and bubbled, but you didn't let it explode. Instead, you stopped buying copies of The Times and focused on your work.

Well, that all lasted until news of the death of Penelope Fittes and the collapse of the Fittes agency altogether came into light. And Lockwood was at the center of it all.

You'd never bought a train ticket so fast.

5.

You swept off the last traces of dirt from your clothes and pocketed your gloves, since they were dirty as well.

On the train ride, you'd read all about Lockwood's excursions. You'd read how many times he's been shot and stabbed. It made you sick to your stomach, just how much this boy had gone out of his way to get himself killed.

And now here you were, just outside of Portland Row, about to face him for the first time in years. It was obvious from each tabloid you'd read that someone needed to put him in place. If Barnes, George, or this Lucy Carlyle girl wasn't going to do it, then you would.

The first knock on the door sends an electric bolt right down your spine. There was once a time, you remember, when knocking wasn't even necessary when you came to Portland Row.

A dark skinned girl in a navy pinafore dress answers the door. You're a little taken aback, but if that shows on your face, the girl doesn't express it.

"Do you have an appointment?" The girl asked curtly.

"I need to speak with Anthony Lockwood."

"Many people want to speak with him, but with the recent collapse of the Kingdom's biggest agencies, he is kept occupied. Please, make an appointment and come back then," she moves to close the door, but a hand that isn't yours stops it. A familiar face is at once at the door, and it puts you at ease.

George replaces the girl in the door. He gives you one look, then moves to clean his glasses on his shirt. Once he fixes them back on his face, he motions for you to come inside, and you enter Portland Row in a split second.

While the girl closes the door after you've come in, you are met with an unexpected and grappling hug from George Karim himself. It sends you into a shock. You give him an awkward hug back, so unsure of what all that was for.

"Thank you for coming back," George mutters. He fixes his glasses once he pulls away from you. "I'd given up all hope of your return months ago, and I'm sorry for being so straightforward, but..." His eyes flicker from side to side. "Now that you're here, I can't help but think that Lockwood might go back to normal."

"Back to normal?" You scoff quietly. "He was always reckless, but from what I've read, he's way past that. He's suicidal!"

"He's mopey and hung up, is what he is. And I've only known him for a few months at best," the girl suddenly mutters. Her arms were folded.

"That's Holly, by the way," mutters George. "She's... our assistant. And you haven't met Lucy yet. I think you might like her. She almost got Lockwood out of his spunk, but not quite."

He shuffles around on his feet for a moment.

"He's out with Lucy right now, by the way. Got called for another interview. I don't know when they'll be back..."

You take time to look around the home. It's changed so much. What catches your eye most is the door on the landing. It is wide open. The house no longer smells of burnt toast but of fresh paint and new carpet. Everything smells new. There was no death glow beaming down the stairs. There is nothing. Just an empty room where the paint continues to dry.

"Where's Jess?" You whisper, and George joins you in looking up the stairs at the swinging door.

"He's managed to move on from some things," mumbles George. He fixes his glasses. "Just some things, though."

George then turns and goes into the kitchen. You and Holly follow. George starts the kettle and takes a seat at the kitchen, as do you and Holly.

"How's Liverpool? Last time I heard from you, you said it was quite drab," asks George, trying to make some nice conversation.

"It still is," you chortle and poke at the new thinking cloth on the table. It made you sad. Out of all the things you thought would remain the same, you didn't think the thinking cloth would be an item to go. "It's not as bad as London is, most of the time..." Your thumb rubs over an ink blob that contains Lockwood's handwriting. You stared at the same handwriting on all the letters he sent you for months, and for many more, you wished you could see more of it.

You and George continue to speak quietly. You learned more about Holly as she started warming up to you, too. George fixed your tea, making it just the way you liked it. It touches you that he remembered.

You try not to focus on the time and instead hone in on the conversation at hand. Before you knew it, it started getting late. Really late.

You glance at the clock on the stove. It reads 7:45 PM. When you look, so does George and Holly. The room falls silent.

"You could... spend the night. I know Lockwood won't mind," says George.

Suddenly, you all shift. The front door unlocks and swings open. Three voices enter the house. You all stand. First George, then Holly, then you.

"I'm fine, I told you. Don't touch me! Let me go!"

You recognize that voice all too well.

"Lucy, do you think you can get him upstairs?"

"I don't think so. He's too heavy."

"Lemme go, you bloody idiots," Lockwood grumbles. There was rumbling, and things were knocked over. A glass breaks. "Ach, bloody hell... who the fuck put that there?"

"Aaaand there he goes," one of the voices you didn't recognize sighs. George steps into the hall, and so does Holly. It was too crowded to see much.

"What happened?" Mutters George.

"He got asked a question that was a little too sensitive. Took it too hard and got something to drink because of it. A little too much to drink," says a female voice. "I asked Quill to help me get him home. He kept smacking me away every time I tried to take away the bottle of whiskey away from him."

You step into the hall, finally. Heads raise.

"Who's she?"

The heads turn. You recognize Quill Kipps, an agent who also frequented the pages of The Times. You also recognize Lucy Carlyle. You look down. Long legs in dress pants are slipping and sliding on the tile floors, trying to stand. You look away, back up at the eyes staring at you with curiosity.

"Hi," you murmur and introduce yourself. "Pleasure to meet you all."

"Who the hell..." More things rattle. Your heart races as you watch him stand. He swipes his hair back, eyes closed, and a cocky, drunk smile on his face. His eyes open slowly, and they then focus on you and stop. His smile wavers.

"Here we go," mutters George.

Your eyes burn with tears, and you stand straight as he stumbles slowly forward. He shoves Kipps and George out of the way when they try to steady him. Nothing stops him from reaching you.

Lockwood's long arms wrap around your waist, and his nose buries into the crook of your neck. You feel him breathing you in and starting to melt against you. It's all silent. He starts to shake, and you hold him to you, afraid he might fall and actually hurt himself.

"I missed you so much, my sweet girl..." He whispers. His breath is hot and shaky against your skin. You feel hot wet tears streak along your skin as he nuzzles himself deeper.

You put your hands on his shoulders and try to push him away so you can see his face. He allows only that. His brown eyes search yours. His pupils are blown, and his pink lips are slightly agape. He goes to push his forehead against yours. His lips are so close to yours again. You can smell the whiskey on his breath.

"I waited for you for so long," he whispers and leans in.

Before he can get too close, your instincts kick in.

You smack him across the face so hard his body tilts to the side. The sound echos through the hall. He stumbles again and has to put his hand on the wall to catch himself. He raises his hand to touch his stinging cheek. It's bright red, and he immediately flinches as soon as his hand comes into the slightest contact with it.

George suddenly grabs Lucy's sleeve and starts dragging her away. Kipps and Holly follow as well, a little too quickly. You and Lockwood are then alone.

6.

"That wasn't very nice..." mutters Lockwood, pouting like a petulant baby as he puts himself back together.

"I hoped it wasn't," you mutter, wiping the tears from your face. "Maybe it'll fucking sober you up so I can finally tell you what a piece of shit you are and have the chance you'll listen to me for once."

He actually chuckles and leans his back against the wall. He rubs his cheek and looks at you, as if he still can't believe you're here. He's smiling, and the tears are still present in his eyes. You stand there, unable to look at him and rocking on your heels. You keep rubbing away the tears, then fold your arms, trying to quiet your sniffling.

"The fuck is your problem, Anthony?" You hiss again.

"Don't believe I've got one, sweet girl," he chuckles again, tilting his head and taking his hand off his smarting cheek. "But we could make one. Me aaaand you. In my beeeed."

He slowly tilts himself forward and stands up straight. He glides across the hall in one long step. You're tempted to slap him again. Instead, you just shoulder-check him and head straight to the door. You shrug on your coat and open the front door.

"I've got something to show you," you say to him and point to the road outside. "So get your sorry ass out of the house, and you better sober up a little before I smack you again and make you."

Lockwood looks at you, his lips pursed. He wipes his mouth and blows a raspberry. He looks at the ground, rubbing his shoe on the new entrance rug.

"Whatever you want, sweet girl. You know I'd die for you."

7.

"Aha, I think I know where you're taking me!" Lockwood beams and grunts as he pulls himself up over the ledge of the small graveyard. He drops down and dusts himself off. He still has that dorky, drunk smile on his face as he looks up at you, and he puts his hands in his pockets. You have to turn away and walk deeper into the tiny cemetery, shuffling through knee-high grass and over abandoned tombstones.

"You know, if you wanted me to cry out all the booze I drank, you could have just hugged me back when we were at the house," he chortles, but once he came upon his family's graves, he stops. There is a freshly dug grave sitting right next to his sister's. The shovel is sticking up from the mound of dirt beside it. His smile drops as soon as he sees this. You see it, and as soon as he sees you see it, it pops right back up like nothing has changed.

"What is all this? Certainly not the... homecoming gift I was hoping for..." He says, breath lost and choked up. He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

"Pardon?" He stutters.

"Get," you point again, "in."

"Why?"

"Well, you've obviously had a death wish since I've left. You made England's biggest agency collapse and nearly died doing that, too. You've been shot and stabbed I don't know how many times, and it's driving me insane that you keep doing this. You keep getting hurt, and it's not by ghosts. You're getting yourself into shit that I don't know about and I'm so afraid that, one day, I'll pick up a fucking paper and your obituary is going to be the first thing I see," you tried to keep yourself from yelling. "So you wanna die so fucking bad!? Then die then! Get in the grave and see what it's like! Show me what I came all the way from fucking Liverpool to see!"

He just stares at you, almost in disbelief.

"This is a nice joke," he laughs. He raises his hands and beams. "You got me! I'm sober! I'm good!"

"I'm not joking."

You storm back around the grave to face him.

"Get in the grave, Lockwood."

He scoffs and laughs. His eyes roll and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. His tongue clicks and he leans forward, getting face to face with you.

"No."

Oh. His smile makes you want to slap him twice as hard. You purse your lips, and your jaw ticks from side to side. Upon your silence, his smile keeps growing.

"This was nice, but now it's time to go back home and get something to eat--"

You grab him by his collar and shove him toward the foot of the grave. He spins, his arms flailing wildly to try to catch his balance. He gets his footing, just as his heels teeter right at the very edge. His arms still whirl around like windmills. His look of panic transforms into flushed embarrassment. He smiles again. God, that smile.

You pick up a rock and chuck it at him. Unfortunately, that's the one thing to send him over the edge.

Your eyes go wide as he yells out and comically falls backward into the grave. You heard him land with an 'oof' and loud thud.

8.

You run up to the edge, get on your knees, and look down. You are worried at first, but slowly feel that worry ebb away.

He is lying on his back, legs up in the air. His navy blue socks, covered in a sailboat pattern, are now covered in dirt and dust. You huff and glare at him as his legs fell to the ground. Another cloud of dust plumes at his theatrics. He coughs a little bit, trying to catch his breath after the fall. You watch him take a deep breath and huff.

"Did it hurt?" You ask.

"When I fell from heaven? Not really, but I scraped my knee pretty bad crawling my way out of hell--"

You throw another rock, and it pings right off his chest. He yelps and croons. He curls himself into a little ball, as if that will shield him from being pelted further by rocks.

"Okay! Okay, I get it. No jokes. All serious," he let's out another deep breath but remains in his protective ball formation. "Yes. It hurt quite a bit."

"Good. And you deserved it too, since your the biggest twat I've met on this side of the world."

"You've met other twats like me?" He teases.

"Sure. Never as big as you, though."

You sit there in silence for some time. There are so many questions running through your brain, but your mouth runs dry, and you don't want to ask any of them. You force yourself, though. If you were going back to Liverpool the next morning, you'd be going back with long awaited answers.

"Why did you stop writing back to me?" You ask.

He sighs. He doesn't respond. You clump up a wad of dirt in your palms and throw it at him.

"Hey, will you cut that out!?" He barks, looking up at you. You throw another wad of dirt and hit him square in the face. It knocks him back onto his back. He's spluttering and snarling at the same time.

"Are you gonna answer my God damn questions? Or am I going to have to keep throwing dirt at you? I could do either, honestly. Seeing you look this pathetic makes me feel powerful."

"Oh? Does my misery turn you on?" He mutters, wiping dirt from his cheek.

"Shut up and answer me."

He sits up and tries to shrug off the rest of the dirt on him. He clicks his tongue and leans his back against the wall of the grave.

"Barnes found out I was contacting you," he says softly. "And told me to quit."

"And you listened?" You scoff.

"Not initially, no," he says in defense. "But I had to, eventually. One day, he just showed up at our doorstep and told me if I sent one more letter, I'd be fined."

"That sounds like bullshit," you say, folding your arms. You take a seat at the edge of the grave and let your legs dangle.

"I thought so too," he laughs, "until he hand delivered me a blue slip saying I owed one hundred pounds for an obstruction of privacy between a privately employed agent, and an employed agent of federal law. I still thought it sounded like absolute rubbish and sent another, but in came just another fine. Then, I was two hundred pounds in debt. I actually just got that paid off, by the way. There was a time when I tried to send another, but George nearly lost his marbles when I attempted it. Another hundred added to our debt was the last thing he wanted. That bloody bastard wrestled the envelope from my hands. He's actually much stronger than what he lets on."

You smile. The thought of George actually initiating physical contact with Lockwood amused you. You look up at the setting sun. The sky is a beautiful salmon and orange color. You sigh.

"So when you stopped talking to me, it wasn't intentional?"

"Of course it wasn't," chortles Lockwood. "You're my favorite person in the entire world. God would smite me before I'd ever purposely give up on talking to you. And I'd been planning on sneaking away to Liverpool for a holiday, but... well, I've had quite a few pairs of eyes on me for some time now. I didn't want to bring the danger to your front door."

"Anthony, your trouble in a man-shaped package. There's always some danger lurking in your corner," you laugh and he laughs too.

The silence is more comfortable now. Less tense, now that some weight has been released.

"I really did miss you," he then whispers. You almost strain to hear him. "I tried so hard to find someone to fill the gap you left, but I... it was impossible. There's no one like you out there in this world. No one as special. No one I could love as much as I do you."

Your heart stopped.

"You love me?" You whisper.

"I'm crazy about you. Of course I love you. Ever since I met you in Scotland Yard and I signed your cast," he smiles fondly at the memory. "I know that was probably at my least attractive point then, with a bloody tissue shoved so high up my nostril, it tickled my brain, but I just knew there was something about you. And when you first called, my heart was going so fast. You can ask George about it when we get home. He'll tell you all about how I nearly collapsed at the sound of your voice."

You laugh again, and it's like the sweetest song he's ever heard. He'll do anything for that sound. He'll do anything for you, alone.

"I saved all your letters," he says. "I have your picture by my bedside. I dream about having you by my side, every single night."

"Now you're just starting to sound cheesy," you scoff and smile. He keeps smiling right back up at you. That million giga-watt smile. He had your heart in a steadfast hold, and you knew it.

"Cheesy is my middle name," Lockwood hums. He picks himself off the ground and stands up. His hair is riddled with dirt, and his white shirt is stained brown in many spots. He watches curiously as you hop down into the grave. You teeter and struggle to land on your feet, but he's there to save you, like he always is.

His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close to him, preventing your fall. His free hand cups your cheek and brushes away a small tendril of hair.

"So now you know my story," he beams. "I get to ask a question now. So, I missed you. That much is obvious. But... did you miss me back?"

You stood there, looking at his smile, feeling the way his thumb traced your spine just how you remember and ogling him. Not too long ago, you thought you'd never see him again. You're so glad that you were wrong then.

You lean up and kiss him. He's fast to kiss back. You don't push him away this time.

He lets you breathe once you both are satisfied and breathing hard. He looks right into your eyes.

"Grant a crazy man one wish?" He murmurs, eyes sparkling and rejuvenated. This was the return of the Anthony you knew. "Stay forever. Here. With me."

"Crazy man doesn't mean reckless or suicidal man, does it?" You giggle.

"I will fight to the very last inch of my life if it means I get to come home to you again," he whispers.

"Then you've got yourself a deal."

[js589]

Here's today's installment of Everything I'll Never Say, and, as promised, things are getting worse before they get better.

Part 1, Part 3

TAPE 1, SIDE 1, PART 2

[click]

Been a week and some now.

Barnes has stopped asking me what happened. I don't know if you've talked to him or what.

If you read the papers, you probably know what we've been up to. I'm sporting a smart new wrist brace at the moment. My left, so I can still do jobs, though Holly and George have apparently decided we're not doing them anyway. I might be an idiot, but I'm not idiot enough to go off on my own without them. They'd probably call Barnes on me anyway.

They won't talk about you in front of me, either. I don't know if it's because they hold me responsible or they think I'll… break. [scoff] Like I'm made of glass or something.

Honestly, I've thought of calling. We saw Kat the other week at a job and she let slip that you're an independent now.

She also said she tried to recruit you and you weren't having it. So, points for still having some standards, I guess.

[prolonged silence]

I keep thinking I should stop by. Call, at least. The independent agent register is available to all agency heads.

[pause]

I just don't know what I'd say, or what good it would do.

[click]

-------------------

[click]

It's been a month.

Things were almost back to normal.

I thought they were, anyway.

We had a job last night—went fine, by the way—and we were home and in bed by midnight.

Of course I was up before George. Before Holly got here, too. So I went and got the paper.

I don't need to tell you what I saw.

[several deep breaths]

I know how they sensationalize things.

But I also know the press love a dead agent.

[deep breath, voice catches several times]

You were presumed dead, Lucy. Dead, under a collapsed house. The papers said you were barely breathing when they found you. And I know they like to embellish. Maybe you were just a little short of breath from yelling, or from getting the rest of them out.

They said it was an "unexpected collection of poltergeists". Unexpected! How does that happen? Who didn't brief you correctly? Did they just not know? That's the only thing I can think of—no; the only thing I can think is that I wasn't there.

You know there's no sense trying to reason with a poltergeist, right? We still agree on that much? I can't believe you'd think otherwise, but right now, I just don't know.

I thought about going to DEPRAC to see what they know. I had the phone in my hand and everything. And then Holly showed up and asked if I'd seen the paper, and… I don't know. It felt like I'd been caught.

What was I actually going to do? Show up at your hospital bed and yell at you? What if you weren't awake? What if you weren't...?

What good is anything I can do or say anymore? It couldn't make you stay. It's not going to—if you didn't…

[deep breath]

Fuck.

[click]