#gotlostinfiction

[gotlostinfiction]

The Weeping Girl

When a miserable old man turns up at Lockwood & Co.’s door with the promise of £50,000 for an easy case, it's hard to refuse. But is everything all as it seems, or will this case be a lot more than they bargained for? 

TW: Mentions of abuse and murder, mild swearing.

SPOILERS: Mentions a case from The Hollow Boy.

(this is my first attempt at writing my own fanfic so any advice or tips would be very useful <3)

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

In front of me sat one of the most wrinkled old men I've ever seen in my life, and Lockwood & Co. have done a lot of cases for old people. He was a Mr Andrew Hallcock and he had come to us with reports of a crying girl heard by his younger servants, himself being way too old to sense ghosts. We, on the other hand, would be able to sense them easily. 

Just to catch you up, my name is Lucy Carlyle and I have been a part of a ramshackle agency called Lockwood & Co. as a Junior Field Operative for just under two years. Our agency founder and leader, Anthony Lockwood, was sitting on my right with a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee. On the chair to my left was George Karim, the deputy and researcher of the trio. He held a plate of carrot cake and was munching noisily, much to our client's disgust. Oh, also, there’s one more. Not sure if he's a member or not but, there's the skull. A few months ago I figured out that I can talk to ghosts, and that we have a real Type Three in our house. No one likes him if I'm honest, due to his crude remarks, but I thought he should be mentioned (He’d get offended if I didn’t.)

Now that we're caught up, we can continue.

“Well then, Mr Lockwood,” Mr Hallcock began. “As I made you aware on the phone, some of my younger servants have reported to me that they can hear crying just before they are about to sleep. I've never had an issue like his before, and I can promise you that my house is not haunted!” He said with a tone of annoyance. Apparently, he wasn't fond of ghosts - or our furniture by the way he perched like a bird ready to take flight. 

Lockwood looked uncertain. “Have the servants described in more detail what they've heard?”

“Or has anyone seen anything?” I added helpfully.

Mr Hallcock locked his small beady eyes on mine. “I don’t know why you are butting in, young lady, I thought you were a mere serving girl.” 

I went to stand, but Lockwood's hand snaked out and rested on my thigh, pinning me down. “May you answer our questions, please? All three of us are agents and need to know what they may have seen or heard.” He said calmly.

“Very well,” Mr Hallcock began. “They have only reported hearing crying. I don't think any of them are talented enough to see apparitions. Not that there should be one! Anyway,” He continued. “I'm willing to offer up to £50,000 if this issue is resolved quickly and discreetly. The public cannot find out that my home may be haunted, I have a reputation to maintain!”

George reached out for another slice of cake but paused when he heard the figure. I felt Lockwood move his hand.

“Of course, Mr Hallcock. We can promise all that you ask.”

“Good.” He replied. “I'll be expecting you at 8 pm sharp tonight. I will ensure that the house is cleared of all staff, and I will occupy myself away from home. Good day, gentleman.” With a whiff of cigar smoke, he was out the door.

“What a dick, he didn't even say goodbye to me!” I said. I was the first to break the silence that had formed with his absence.

“He could talk for England, that's for sure,” George added.

“Yes, well, he wasn't a very pleasant person, certainly not to you Luce. But, we can't reject that kind of money. Especially not for an easy case like this.” Lockwood said, a large smile forming across his face.

“Here we go…” George said with a sigh.

“Here's the plan, George you go to the archives, find absolutely everything you can about the house and Mr Hallcock, I'll go to Satchels and restock, and Lucy you pack the kit bags,” Lockwood ordered; with a smile, he walked purposefully out the door. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

Two hours later, we were ready. Lockwood, George and I all bundled into the taxi waiting outside Portland Row. It was a small one, and George jumped straight into the passenger seat, dumping our kit bags in the back. This left me practically sitting on Lockwood's lap, squished close next to our kit and the skull. Great.

“Oh, it’s snug back here isn’t it, Lucy?” The skull piped up from the jar on my lap, and I could see a large smirk forming across the glass. “Lockwood looks like a tomato.”

“No idea what you're on about,” I replied sharply. 

“Has he given us anything useful, Luce?” Lockwood asked me, having to crane his neck down due to the angle. 

“Erm, said it’s not very spacious back here,” I replied, purposefully avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Well, quite,” Lockwood said and coughed awkwardly, his cheeks tinged with red. “So then George, fill us in.” He continued, changing the subject. 

“Well, Mr Hallcock is a bit of a dick, just like you said Luce. He lied to us about a violent death that occurred in the house to protect his ego and reputation. He-” George cut himself off. “Ooh, you two do look cosy back there!”

“Get to the point, George,” I said. This was mortifying; I could hear the skull's faint laughter in my head.

“Okay, well as I was saying, Mr Hallcock comes from a family of men who think they can do what they want. Specifically to women. At the archives, I found so many complaints to the police from female members of Mr Hallcock's staff about sexual comments and the sort. I mean, remember how he spoke to you, Lucy?”

“Yeah, he treated me like a piece of shit, the sexist bastard.”

“Exactly. Turns out, Mr Hallcock was involved in a murder trial of one of his servants, a 20-year-old girl called Rebecca Hughes. She died on his property in a bedroom upstairs, stabbed to death. One of her fellow servants was charged and hanged for it, and Mr Hallcock was brought forward to give evidence.” George continued. 

“You think that's the primary source of the haunting then?” I said, ignoring the teasing remarks coming from the skull.

“Has to be,” George replied. “No other deaths have been reported in the house or the area.”

Lockwood coughed again, his cheeks going redder still. “Well I'm glad I bought some extra protection then, you know how murder victims get. I brought another industrial flare.” Clocking George's concerned look he quickly added, “We’ll use it properly this time, not like Combe Carey.”

“I don't think Mr Hallcock would want us to damage his house either,” I said as we pulled into the long gravel driveway. Just in the distance, I could see the house looming over us. Well, I say house, it was more like a mansion. On its private lot, surrounded by woodland, stood Hallcock Manor. It had a regal-style entrance, with large stone columns and wide steps leading to a grand white door with gold accents carved into the sides. The home spread wide at the sides with small walkways at each end and then cascaded backwards, seemingly never-ending. Basically, it was bloody posh.

The taxi driver dumped us halfway down the drive, complaining that he couldn't be bothered to have to reverse all the way back. Safe to say that Lockwood didn't tip him. We all piled out and headed towards the house. Walking towards it was incredible, but also mortifying. I was in awe at the beauty of the place, but then apprehensive of the danger that could unfold.

As if reading my thoughts, Lockwood spoke. “This should be an easy case guys, no need to worry. Mr Hallcock said that there was no apparition seen and that it was just crying. We will be fine.”

“What about the fact that she's a murder victim? They’re always Type Two’s.” I asked.

“Well, at least we've got this.” Lockwood pulled out the flare and showed it to me and George. After our last use of it, I wasn't reassured.

“I think Lucy should keep a hold of it,” George spoke up. “You were reckless with it last time, you know, lobbing it at the well like that. Lucy will be more careful.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Lockwood replied, though I could tell he wasn't convinced. He passed it over to me, his long fingers brushing against the palm of my hand. I smiled weakly at him, and he grinned back. It was his reassuring smile, the one he used for worried clients. 

“Ooh, he almost held your hand!” The skull remarked. “The closest you’ll ever get.” I decided not to recite this one back to the boys. 

Lockwood then flourished the keys from one of his coat pockets and opened the door, ensuring that he didn't hesitate on the threshold. Being well-trained, we followed closely behind. The house was just as beautiful inside as out. Regent-style furniture filled the home in a classy sort of way. The walls were lined with floral patterned wallpaper and gold-framed oil paintings hung in neat rows. George pulled out his floor plan and assessed our surroundings.

“This is called the ‘Grand Entrance.’” He said, eyeing the decor. “To be fair, they weren't wrong.”

I closed my eyes and listened. I tuned out the low rumble of Lockwood's voice and the distant beeping of George's thermometer. But the house itself was silent, I couldn’t sense anything. 

“You got anything?” I asked the skull, which was fixed to my back. 

“Nope, absolutely nothing. I even think I just saw a tumbleweed, it's that boring.” 

“Through here should be the main kitchen where we can have some tea, but there are three if you want a choice,” George said, breaking through the skull’s rambling. We carried on walking, assessing the temperature as we went.

Just like the rest of the house, the kitchen was posh too. Marble countertops lined with gold engravings were spread out far against most of the walls. A matching table was in the corner, where George had plugged in a portable kettle. A few minutes later, we had made ourselves comfortable (as comfortable as we could on rock-solid marble chairs) with our tea and biscuits.

“I can't sense anything at the moment,” I said, hugging my tea close for warmth. It was cold, I had noticed, but not supernatural I didn't think

“Me neither,” Lockwood added, “I can't see any death glows. How’s the temperature, George?”

“A bit chilly, but not supernatural. This is an old house, and it’s winter.” He replied checking his watch. “I'm surprised, to be honest, it's 9:30 and there's been nothing so far.”

“We haven't checked upstairs yet though, that's where you said the girl died,” I answered.

“True, although we don’t know where she actually died. All I could find in the archives was that it was an upstairs bedroom. Well, in case you haven't noticed this house is huge, so it could be any of them.” George said in a huff. 

“I think we should get on then,” Lockwood said, getting up to leave. “Come on.”

“Go on, follow your boyfriend.” The skull cooed in my ear.

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

An hour or so later, we had explored the whole house. And believe me, it took a while. It was about 11 pm now and since the crying was reported “just before the servants went to sleep” it could be any time from now till 12. We had set up a large iron circle in the coldest bedroom on the second-story landing - the servant's quarters. Mr Hallcock had informed us that he slept on the top floor, leaving his servants free reign of the second. Like the rest of the house, it was spacious and included its own kitchen and living area. Despite being a bastard, he at least looked like he treated his employees well.

Sat on the floor with my legs crossed, I could feel the miasma building. I reached into my kit bag for some mints and saw George do the same. I closed my eyes and tried to listen again. There it was! A faint weeping, only a whisper, and I had to concentrate to pick it up. 

“You getting anything Luce?” Lockwood asked me. 

“Yep,” I answered, needing to stay focused. He took the hint and let me listen. 

The crying was still there, getting ever so slightly louder and more hysterical, but it had been taken over by repetitive thumping and banging. It was hard to decipher if it was someone's footsteps or things being moved around. Or maybe even someone's fists. I told this to the boys.

“You think it’s her?” Lockwood said

“Has to be, Lockwood. No one else died here.” George replied, chewing ferociously on a mint.

I stood up and left the circle, the miasma was strong as well as the temperature, but it was manageable. There was a grand fireplace, on a wall in the far corner, again embossed with gold accents on both sides. On impulse, I reached out and let my hands rest on the mantle. A wave of memory from the past hit me. I heard voices, a deep loud one that I recognised as Mr Hallcock. He was shouting at someone, and I could hear the weeping in the background. Was he speaking to Rebecca? Suddenly, there was a loud bang followed by a gut-wrenching scream, then silence.

I prised open my eyes and looked around. Nothing had changed, Lockwood and George still sat in the circle and I was still by the fireplace. The room felt different.

“Luce?” Lockwood walked over and gently touched my arm, “Are you okay? You've gone very pale, and you just stood there for 15 minutes.”

I looked up at him, then around the room. “Really?” I said, “I was gone for that long?” 

“Yeah, didn't want to disturb you though, in case you had something,” George added, now munching on a sandwich. 

Lockwood and I walked back to the circle and sat down. I filled them in on what I'd heard. 

“You sure it was him?” Lockwood asked.

“Positive,” I replied, taking a bite of chocolate. “I would recognise that voice anywhere, and the stuff he was saying was a dead giveaway.”

“Like what?” George asked.

“He kept saying that something was her fault. Said that he would give her one more chance.” 

“No wonder she's crying,” George added with a laugh.

“Not funny, George,” Lockwood said, glancing at me.

“Just trying to lighten the mood. Can you not feel the miasma now? It's everywhere.”

And he was right, while we were too busy talking, things had escalated. Ghost fog lined the floor; it lapped and our ankles and the air was bitterly cold making our breaths show in small puffs. Our thermometers showed minus temperatures. We all stood up abruptly, producing our rapiers and stood back to back.

“Why didn't you mention anything?” I asked the skull impatiently.

“Whoops.” Was all I got in return. With that, I turned away from him.

“See anything, Lockwood?” I asked, hoping that now it was later he could see some death glows. 

“Nope, still nothing. Although I'm sure we've got the right room, it's bloody freezing.” He replied; I could see him shivering, despite his coat. 

“Guys, can you see that?” George spoke up, his voice shaking. 

I looked in his direction, and there was a small ball of light, slowly getting bigger, forming into a small woman. Rebecca Hughes. She looked young, George said she’d been 20, with long blonde hair reaching her sides and dark brown eyes. She wore a uniform of a pinafore dress and kitten heels, but there was something wrong. Her dress was ripped, and holes covered the surface of the sleeves and front. Stab wounds, I guessed. 

“Getting interesting now! Got any popcorn?” The skull asked.

“That’s what the other servant did to her,” George said, “It said in the report that she was stabbed repetitively.” 

“Well, she's not being aggressive, which is unusual for a murder victim,” Lockwood noted. 

I looked at Lockwood for permission and after a nod, I stepped just outside the chains. She wasn't strong yet, I should be able to communicate. 

“Rebecca, what happened to you?” I asked calmly. She seemed like a Type Two, unable to have a conversation but could listen. She looked at me through her long lashes and remained still. 

“Monster…” She whispered.

“Deserves to be hanged…”

“Who’s a monster, Rebecca? Who should be hanged?” I asked her. I could just make out her words over the crying. The sound had rocketed since I'd communicated with her. 

“Monster…”

“Lucy, get in the chains please,” Lockwood asked calmly, though I could sense the urgency in his voice. The skull laughed in the background.

“Who hurt you, Rebecca?” I repeated.

“Lucy!” This was Lockwood again. He was shouting now, every aspect of calm revoked. 

“Hall-” The ghost began before the connection was lost. 

I felt a tug at the back of my jacket, it was Lockwood pulling me into the circle. I tripped over the ghost jar and fell flat on my backside, just as he hurled a salt bomb at Rebecca - exactly where I had just stood. If you thought the skull was laughing before, he was cackling now. 

“What the hell was that Lockwood!” I turned on him, “I had almost got somewhere!”

“She was about to charge at you, you would have been ghost-touched if I hadn't helped!” Lockwood roared back. 

“Oh look, the happy couple are arguing.” The skull added, unhelpfully 

“Stop it!” George shouted, making me and Lockwood go silent. “Your emotions are making her more agitated. Lucy, what did she tell you?”

Annoyed, I responded, “She said that someone was a monster and they should be hanged. I asked her who and she went to say ‘Hallcock’, I’m sure of it.” 

“Any idea about her source?” George asked.

“No idea, maybe the knife used on her?”

Lockwood had gone silent, that could only mean one thing. A plan.

“Right, we need to find her source. I'll distract her and fight her off while you two look for her source, okay?” He said eventually. He gave me a look that said ‘No arguing’ so I reluctantly agreed. 

Practically leaping out of the circle, Lockwood charged forward, his rapier angled at the ghost. Me and George followed behind him, speeding around the room looking for her source. I scrambled through draws and under beds, behind picture frames and on shelves, and still nothing. George was having no better luck either. 

Lockwood had led the ghost away from us, into the hallway. He was using his rapier in a forward motion to pin the ghost in a corner, it appeared to be working. The house went quiet for a while, only Lockwood's sharp breaths could be heard as he battled against the ghost.

“Lucy!” A voice broke through the silence.

My heart stopped. That was Lockwood. Screaming. 

“Lucy! George!”

I was closest to the door. I dropped the box I was searching through and ran into the hallway. Lockwood was backed into the corner, the ghost having turned on him. His hands were sweaty and he was losing grip on his rapier. I heard it clang on the floor. I saw his usually dark eyes start to lighten, turning a milky white as the ghost's hand reached for him. I knew the signs of ghost lock all too well. I raced into action and scrambled through my work belt for a flare.

“Oh, he's finally going to be reunited with his family! Let him go, Lucy.” The skull suggested. I blanked him. 

Still rummaging through my belt, I found what I was looking for. The industrial flare. Without thinking, I pulled the cap and threw it.

Now, you may not know this but my aim is awful. Out of the three of us, only Lockwood can throw. We learnt this the hard way at the Lavender Lodge, when I doshed a bottle off his head and George couldn't throw a rapier for the life of him. So, the flare did hit the ghost, but mainly Lockwood, much to the skull's amusement. 

George had come to stand next to me. We both looked in horror as Lockwood was shot sideways into a bedroom. The wooden floorboards had jolted up at different angles, the banister had broken in two and the wall closest had been destroyed. In the light of the flare, I saw a patch of white on the ground but this wasn't my priority. I raced forward, my shoe flying off as I jumped over the hole in the ground, and headed for the room Lockwood had disappeared into. 

He staggered out into the hallway and stood before the hole, his hair flopped elegantly over his brow with his coat ripped at the shoulder, but somehow it still flowed behind him in the light breeze. His face shone with sweat and was littered with scratches, his hand lay cooly on his rapier hilt. Even after getting blown across the hallway, he looked as charming as ever. 

In case you were wondering about me, I was less fortunate. My hair stuck up, my fringe was completely blown back away from my face, my jacket was torn and splattered with ectoplasm, and my left boot was somewhere down the stairs. Basically, I could have looked better.

Still, Lockwood beamed at me with his megawatt smile, as if I had never looked better to him. 

“Well, that was fun,” Lockwood stated. He was out of breath, and wobbling slightly. 

I hurried over to him and grabbed his arm to support him. I went to call George for help but he was on his knees, clawing frantically under a floorboard.

“George?” I asked, curiosity lacing my voice.

“There's something down here, the blast showed it. But it's gone, I can't find it!”

“Don’t help him, Lucy, this is so funny.” The skull said, I could see its hollow eyes darting about in the plasm. I ignored him once again, it was quite a skill. 

“George,” I said anxiously, “Can you be a bit quicker? She’s back, and she’s behind you.”

George spun around and saw her in the distance. She was weaker, the blast had dimmed her spirit, but she was still powerful. She went to charge at him, but she wasn't quick enough. I let go of Lockwood and raced for her. I extended my rapier and angled it towards her in thrashing blows, just like Lockwood had taught me. 

“George, hurry up!” I screamed at him. He was still on the floor behind me, rummaging through spiderwebs and dust. 

“This has to be the source!’ He said, ‘It has to be here somewhere!”

Lockwood had been watching me and hadn’t taken his eyes away. It was almost like a second ghost lock, similar to a trance. Suddenly, he snapped out of it and jumped over the hole to where George still was. 

Together, with me battling the ghost and the two boys looking for the source, it worked quite well. She was less strong now that dawn was approaching, and it was an easy task to keep her away. In the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white being pulled from the ground. George shoved it under a net, and Rebecca abruptly disappeared in front of me. I put my rapier back in its hilt and turned around. George was clutching whatever he had found tightly, her source. We had done it. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

When we arrived back at Portland Row, the house was quiet. George was in the basement, analysing the source we’d found (safely), and Lockwood had collapsed into a kitchen chair. I snatched the first aid kit and plonked myself down next to him. He looked tired, which wasn’t anything new, with dark circles encased around his hollow eyes. He looked at me through his long lashes and smiled. A genuine one, not the false one he gave customers or the polite one he gave adults. This was a smile meant for me, and I savoured every last bit of it.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” I said softly, as I opened the first aid kit. He hadn't looked away.

“I’ll forgive you, I always do.” He said with a short laugh, but then grabbed his sides from pain. 

I looked at him in pity, it hurt me to see him like this. 

“Sit still.” I ordered, “This is probably going to hurt.”

“Not as much as getting blown across a hallway.” He joked, his laughter fading to a grimace as I dapped a large cut with antiseptic, then placed a plaster over it. 

I held the side of his face, my hand faintly brushing against his cheekbones as I repeated the process for the rest of his cuts. We remained in a comforting silence, as I moved effectively but as gently as I could. I already felt bad enough for almost blowing him up, I didn't want to make it worse. After I finished, I slowly closed the box and looked at him. 

“Thank you, Lucy.” He spoke. His face was awash with plasters and it was hard not to laugh if I'm honest, “And thanks for saving me too, I know that you did almost kill me, but I could have been ghost-touched.”

“I had to save you, Lockwood. When I saw your eyes go white, it was…terrifying. I never wanted to see that happen to someone I love again. Not after Norrie.” My voice broke at the end, the memories of Norrie had been brought back once more, and it was hard to resist tears. 

Lockwood reached out and held my hand, his rapier-calloused palms rough against mine. 

“It’s okay, Luce, I’m safe thanks to you. You don't need to worry.” He reassured me, rubbing small circles on my hand. 

“Lucy…” Lockwood started, before George burst open the door, making us both jump apart.

“It was Mr Hallcock” Was all he said. 

We rang DEPRAC.

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

Turns out, Rebecca was a murder victim, but not from a fellow servant. She was murdered by none other than Mr Andrew Hallcock himself. The white thing found under the floorboards, her source, was a letter. A confession she was planning to send to the police before it was too late. It read:

“Dear Scotland Yard,

I would like to report Mr Andrew Hallcock on several accounts of abuse and neglect towards me. He is a monster, who took advantage of me and deserves to be hanged. 

He has harmed me before and blamed someone else for it. I am worried this will go too far. 

Please believe me, I am desperate.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Hughes.”

Mr Hallcock was used to getting away with things, so when he found this letter, he confronted her. To put it simply, she was a threat, so he ended her life. He then hid the letter under the floorboards, its presence being kept a secret for over 20 years. It wasn't until a new member of staff was treated the same as Rebecca, that she came out of her shell. Mr Hallcock knew this, so he swore us to secrecy to protect his reputation - and the promise of money had blind-sighted us.

It took them a while, but DEPRAC got him to confess; he was charged with murder, hiding evidence, as well as preventing justice. They let us off the hook for destroying half of his house, and gave us the £50,000 too, which was a bonus - It was one of the first times that Inspector Barnes had ever been nice to us. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

We obviously had a celebratory breakfast, and the following day the table was so full of plates that the thinking cloth could hardly be seen. Lockwood and I had gone to Arif’s while George cooked, so there was a sea of full-English breakfast and doughnuts. We sat in our usual spots and tucked in. 

“I can’t believe you did it, didn’t think you were capable.” The skull spoke from its spot on the kitchen counter. I recited this to the boys. 

“Me neither if I'm honest,” George said, shovelling food onto his plate at a rapid rate. 

“I always knew we could do it, you pair don't give yourselves enough credit,” Lockwood responded. 

I heard the skull gag in the corner.

“You did say that it was going to be an easy case though, didn’t you? How well did that work out?” I asked him, eyeing the plasters still scattered across his face. 

He laughed, and it didn't hurt him this time. It caught George off guard and he joined in, making me laugh too. The sun shone brightly into the kitchen that day, casting a warm glow and reflecting on each of our happy faces (and the skulls).

We were Lockwood & Co., and I know it doesn't sound like it, but that was one of our best cases yet: The Weeping Girl. We weren't perfect by any means, but we worked well, even if a little unorthodox. 

─── ‧⁺˖✮˖⁺‧ ───

thank you for reading! please lmk any advice or tips :)

[givemea-dam-break]

the calm before the storm

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ in which circumstances pull two souls apart

pairing: anthony lockwood x (fem) reader

a/n: the angst queen is back. no apologies. i was craving writing another luke castellan fic, but decided it was about time i came back to the hyperfixation that began about this time last year (happy one year lockwood and co!!) so surprise!!! i'm not sorry for this, just so you know. enjoy!

warnings: canon typical violence, descriptions of murder, angst (as always)

words: 4.7K

taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @wellgoslowly @waitingforthesunrise @oblivious-idiot @jesslockwood @magicandmaybe @gotlostinfiction @ettadear @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @mischiefmanaged71 @mirrorballdickinson @ikeasupremacy

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

01. the calm

There was a certain kind of peace when it came to 35 Portland Row at night.

The way the fire flickered, casting the library in a golden-orange glow and filling it with cosy warmth. How the kitchen always smelled like whatever wonderful meal George had made earlier in the day. The sound of the crackling fire and pages brushing against each other and creaky floorboards. They all compiled together to make it feel like home.

(y/n) sat curled up on one of the library’s armchairs, nose buried in one of the aged books. A steaming cup of tea sat on the coffee table beside a pile of senseless magazines - Lockwood’s guilty pleasure. He was thumbing his way through one just at that moment, and the cover - an edited photo of Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell with a big, bold-lettered caption “Inside the minds of the most treasured people in Britain!” - told her everything she needed to know. 

“That stuff is going to rot your brain,” she murmured, turning the page of her book. “I don’t know how you can stand reading that gossip.”

Lockwood, still looking at the magazine before him, shot her a sideways grin. “You just don’t appreciate today’s culture.”

A laugh bubbled from her lips. “I appreciate it plenty when I’m not under threat of death from ghosts. I mean, seriously. How many times can you read about what colour dress Penelope Fittes wore to a gala, or the stupid things all those snotty old rich people keep saying?”

“You have to admit, they’re a little bit funny.”

“It’s funny how stupid the things they say are.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, dog-earing a page before closing the magazine and setting it down atop the already massive pile. His head tilted as he looked over at her, face cast in that same golden-orange hue that basked the room. He looked positively ethereal.

“I have read plenty of books, too, you know,” he said, still smiling. “I just don’t find them as interesting.”

Raising an eyebrow, (y/n) slipped her tattered bookmark between the pages of her book, balancing it on the arm of her chair. She twisted slightly so that she could look at him in the other armchair.

“Have you ever considered joining a gossip circle?” she asked. “You know, the kind where all those old women meet up in a cafe and have a little blether about their drama? You’d fit right in. Have half of them charmed within minutes.”

His smile changed, then, shifting into the exact kind she had imagined him using to get into a little gossip session. “You think so?”

She snorted, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. “Without a doubt. You’d have them convinced that, because Penelope wore a green dress to a gala and Steve Rotwell had a green tie, there is some kind of secret relationship between them. Secretly married, or some bosh like that.”

“Well,” Lockwood drawled, “just as well one of us has the skill of charm. If it were you doing interviews, we’d have no clients.”

She swept his magazine off the table and thwacked his arm with it. “If there was no one here to keep you alive, there’d be no business.”

He laughed then, and the sound was like music to her ears. If it was something she could bottle, she’d have a thousand vials of it collected. She could listen to him laugh all day, especially if she was the reason for such a beautiful sound.

With a playful kind of annoyance, she tossed the magazine back on the table. She might have imagined it, but Lockwood watched the movement with eagle-like attention, as if studying every move she made. Every face she pulled. The thought had her heart pounding a little faster.

“I wouldn’t be surprised by that idea, by the way.”

“What?” (y/n) tilted her head. “You being dead without me to save your ass? It’s a proven statement.”

Once more, he rolled his eyes. His smile would have buckled her knees had she been standing. “No. Penelope and Steve being secretly married. I’m going to cop that idea now. Just in case it’s true.”

“As long as I get the credit.”

“Always.”

02. before

“Another murder? Lockwood, do you ever think of broadening your horizons?”

Lockwood grinned, spreading out a few pages from different newspapers in front of him. “We seem to specialise in them. How many murdered ghosts have we successfully contained? Besides, the murderer of this one is unknown. I thought it’d be a fun challenge to see if we could figure out the perpetrator.”

“We have extremely different definitions of fun,” (y/n) grumbled, flipping open a folder full of dated documents. “Don’t you fancy something less… brutal? Someone who died of old age, maybe?”

“Boring,” he said, drawing out the vowels. “We’re Lockwood and Co! How else do we get in the papers without something like a murder?”

She watched the way his eyes seemed to gleam with a strange sort of joy and shook her head, holding back a smile. They most definitely had different definitions of fun. 

“Maybe we can bake some really nice cakes,” she suggested. “Donate money to help stop homelessness? End world hunger?”

His smile then was so beautiful that it stole the breath from her lungs. “While those are wonderful suggestions - I do particularly like the thought of cakes - I think we can do much better by getting rid of some ghosts. Now! What have you found?”

They went on like that for a few more hours, passing taunts back and forth while noting down any points of interest from their research. Really, it would have been more beneficial to have George researching with them - he made sense of all the big, fancy words and mixed-up dates - but he was researching his own case with Lucy. 

It was an interesting case, that much she had to give to Lockwood. A woman, named Fearne Watson, who had been killed in her home a mere four years prior, whose body was not found for another two days when her neighbour had come to drop off some food she had baked for her. Police had flooded the scene and all of the journalists from popular news sources managed to squeeze their way in, getting all the details they could wring out of anybody, including the poor neighbour. (y/n) could remember seeing a glimpse of it on the news, sitting in her mother’s living room, waiting for her father to come home from work. The body had been sealed in one of those black body bags. There was caution tape everywhere, tape that journalists and paparazzi seemed to ignore.

Her family had been interviewed, each of them grieving harder than the last. It was hard to read their heartfelt words. Her sister, who had practically raised her during their childhood while their single mother worked multiple jobs, was by far the most emotional. It was even worse seeing photos of her attendance at the funeral - her pure devastation at a private memorial being disrupted by paparazzi.

What had seemed like at least half of London’s population had ganged up on the press, after that. Some smaller companies were thrown out of business.

The biggest mystery of it all had been the murderer. Whoever had committed it had covered their tracks well: nobody had seen anyone in the home with the victim - though they had not been paying much attention, therefore it had been partially investigated - nor had they seen anybody leave. No weapon was left behind, which was no matter because, as it was later revealed, Fearne had not been killed with a weapon.

The autopsy reports had not been released to the public, but Lockwood’s charm and (y/n)’s bare-faced insistence managed to garner them the second-last piece to the puzzle. 

“Hemlock poisoning,” (y/n) murmured. “What year are we in? 1623? Don’t people usually use, what, paracetamol nowadays?”

Lockwood’s eyes flitted over the document, trying to absorb as much information as possible. If DEPRAC found out they had weaselled their way into getting their hands on it, there would be trouble. They had a very limited amount of time with it.

“Would’ve been a painful death, I imagine,” he said. “It’s a paralytic - says here she died from suffocation. Her respiratory system was paralysed after her muscles seized, also paralysed.”

She shuddered, taking the sheet of paper when he offered it to her. It wasn’t long before she had to pass it back, insanely disturbed.

“You sure know how to pick a belter of a case,” she mumbled. “Next time, take George with you.”

He only smiled, more reassuring than anything else, and reached over, squeezing her hand. Sparks coursed through her veins at the touch, and she looked up at him, melting at the way he looked at her. 

“We’ll be okay,” he promised. “We have each other.”

A smile curved her lips, and she squeezed his hand back. “Always.”

03. the storm

The chains were heavy in her hands, cold enough that the skin of her fingers and palms were beginning to hurt. The house itself was not cold quite yet, but iron had that effect.

Lockwood stared down at his thermometer before nodding. (y/n), gratefully, began laying down the chains in a circle, closing the ends in on each other. Lockwood set a lantern down in the centre but didn’t turn it on just yet.

“Eight degrees,” he said. “You ready?”

She pursed her lips, nodding. 

“No sympathising with visitors this time,” he added, and while there was a smile curling his lips, she could feel the seriousness in his statement. She did have a history of it.

The house’s living room was large enough to fit two three-seater sofas, as well as a dining table tucked under the back window with six chairs. The walls were a dingy shade of beige. A large patterned rug, red as blood, covered a good portion of the dark wood floor. With a thumping heart, she knelt down and lifted up a small corner of the rug.

She took a deep breath, willing her heart to slow its beating. Nothing good would come from being in a panic. The slight tremor in her hands ceased. She was a well-versed agent, this was nothing! She had helped solve the mystery of Combe Carey Hall. She had solved dozens upon dozens of cases. One more murder was nothing.

But, as she pressed her hand flat against part of the floor, stained slightly darker than the rest, it became clear that she was wrong.

Time seemed to swell around her, spinning and spinning until she was crouched in a brighter version of the house. A version without the big rug and the dining table beneath the window. The walls were a beautiful shade of duck-egg blue. Photos hung in simple white frames, plants were dotted around the room in pots shaped like cats and hedgehogs and dinosaurs.

Music played softly, a song (y/n) recognised as one her mother used to listen to while she still lived at home. Someone was humming along.

A woman swept into view, one she recognised from the newspapers that did not do her beauty justice.

Fearne Watson’s auburn hair was swept over her shoulder in loose waves, glowing like fire in the sunlight. She had blue eyes that were ever-smiling, and her freckled cheeks were rosy. She was no older than twenty-five.

Another voice could be heard, feminine and soft. She was singing along to the song while Fearne mimicked the instruments. (y/n)’s parents had often done the same.

The second woman came into view, and (y/n) couldn’t help but smile. Her sister, Dahlia, brushed over, gently taking Fearne’s hands in hers. They spun for a few moments, dancing along to the song. When it ended, they laughed and laughed, sipping from delicate teacups.

“Mm! What kind of tea is this?” Fearne asked, smiling. “Tastes very floral. It’s not jasmine, is it?”

Dahlia smiled, too, watching her sister with soft eyes. “Something like that.”

A terrible feeling began to settle in (y/n)’s bones. The thoughts building in the back of her mind began to come to fruition, and as she watched, she could feel her blood running cold. There was a terrible, nauseous lump in her throat. The police had thought nobody had been home with Fearne.

Fearne’s hand brushed her throat lightly. There was a faint sheen on her brow. “Did you add parsley to this? It’s got a bit of a weird taste.”

Her sister merely shook her head. She had not drank any of her tea.

“Dal, this - this doesn’t taste right.”

Dahlia tilted her head just so slightly. She did not seem concerned. “Oh?”

It was then that it began. The drawn-out death.

Fearne’s skin took on a pale tint, coated in a layer of sweat. The teacup dropped from her hand, smashing on the hardwood floor. Dahlia swept it up, disposing of it in the bin beside the sofa. She watched her sister closely, bright eyes narrowed as Fearne’s limbs took on a rigid look. She slumped on the sofa, panic flaring in her eyes.

She was struggling to speak, lips coated in her own saliva. She managed one word. “Why?”

Dahlia did not respond to her question. “Hemlock tastes very similar to parsley,” she murmured, standing as her sister began shaking, trying to suck in as much air as she could. “It was a shame things ended like this.”

The question, Why? hung in the air, unanswered. But the glaring look in Dahlia’s eyes revealed truer feelings than she had expressed in interviews. She resented her sister. Wholly and irrevocably. Why exactly she hated her was left a mystery hidden by a cruel smile.

(y/n) was torn from the vision as Fearne’s face began to turn purple, her lungs failing. She was saved from the horror of watching her die.

Lockwood was crouched in front of her when the present world began to melt back around her, his copper-and-caramel eyes taking the place of the sofa Fearne’s body had slumped upon.

His hands were on her face, warm and calloused. “You okay?” he asked gently. “Need any water?”

She shook her head, goosebumps rising across the skin of her arms. “It was her sister.”

“What?” Lockwood frowned, hands slipping from her cheeks to rest on the skin between her shoulders and neck. His touch made her shiver. “The newspapers -”

“They got it wrong,” she said. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. “She - she put hemlock in their tea. She murdered her own sister. She lied to the journalists. I can’t even begin to understand -”

Her voice fell flat. In some space in the back of her mind, she was vaguely aware of Lockwood speaking, trying to draw her attention back to him, but all she could focus on were the whispers. The glow.

A few feet behind Lockwood, there was a faint shimmer in the air, akin to how heat shimmered above pavements in summer. But this was all wrong. This was the dead end of winter. This was inside a house, where that kind of heat didn’t appear anywhere but the oven. This shimmer was glowing.

At first, it was no more than that - a shimmer - but the features soon developed. Long auburn hair. Freckled cheeks. Down-turned eyes and a wide nose bridge. 

“Fearne…”

Lockwood’s hands were on her face again, trying to get her to look at him. “What? (y/n), talk to me.”

Dahlia, said the apparition with such spite that (y/n) could taste it. Bitter and pungent and poisonous. Dahlia.

She sounded out the name as if speaking to a child and teaching them syllables. Her very voice, strained of air and yet still, somehow, melodic, had her frozen on the spot.

“Fearne,” she uttered again. She could not move.

Perhaps had she not felt such sympathy for their visitor's circumstance, she would not have found herself ghost-locked. Perhaps she would have been standing already, rapier in one hand and a salt bomb in the other, prepared to hold her off whilst Lockwood found her source. Or, no, really it would be the other way around - Lockwood would never let her fight a ghost on her own, his pride and needless urge to protect were a killer. So maybe she would have been searching for that source by now. Maybe she would have found it already.

But it felt as though her joints had locked up, preventing her from moving at all. Her eyes could focus only on the shape of Fearne Watson’s ghost and not Lockwood, who she would much rather have been looking at.

He seemed to realise then what was happening, standing as he spun around to face the ghost. His rapier was drawn in mere seconds, angled towards her purple, glowing face. Her teeth were bared in some gruesome excuse of a smile that creased her tear-stained cheeks.

“(y/n).” His voice was steely as he looked ahead at the ghost, hiding any of the fear she wasn’t entirely sure he ever felt so as to not empower the ghost. “I need you to find the source. Snap out of it.”

She couldn’t, not when Fearne’s voice whispered in her ears so painfully, so full of betrayal. Her sister’s name over and over and over again, tear-filled and sickening. All (y/n) wanted to do was wrap her arms around Fearne and promise her that things would be okay, that she would take her story back to the news with the revelation of her killer. Even if it was just her word against the world’s, supported by no evidence but her Talent, she would do it.

Then, Lockwood threw a salt bomb at Fearne’s face, dissolving her spectral form for a moment.

He turned back to (y/n), eyes uncharacteristically wild. “(y/n), go!”

And she did. She was on her feet again, heart thumping in her chest as Lockwood turned to follow the moving glow of Fearne Watson, slashing at her with his rapier whenever she came too close.

(y/n) grappled for anything that could be a source, feeling them in her hands for any signs. Ice cold. Traces of memories that she would be able to see or hear. Most were fruitless, just ghastly-looking vases and pretentious photo frames. What on earth would be the source if somebody else was living here now?

A thought came to the forefront of her mind, driving her back to the blood-red rug. She folded the corner over itself again and again until she reached somewhere near the middle, cringing at the wailing noises that came from the visitor. Salt exploded in the air, tangling in her hair and melting on her lips. With the miasma she had misunderstood as fear and sympathy, it was a horrible taste.

The dark floor was stained darker in one spot, splotchy and strangely shaped, exactly where the teacup had fallen in the vision. Fearne howled when (y/n)’s fingers brushed it.

“Hurry!” Lockwood called, twisting his rapier in ways far too complicated for (y/n) to ever attempt. “I know what you’re thinking!”

And he likely did. She was unsure as to why Lockwood expected any different from her - to not feel even the slightest bit bad for these ghosts. Some had died so brutally, so heartbreakingly, that sometimes she doubted if he truly had a heart, despite the way she so often saw him looking at her. 

This poor woman had been killed by her sister for nothing more than existing. She had died horribly, unable to move or breathe as her sister watched her struggle, ignoring the hemlock tea stain on the floor beneath her feet. She had remained at the site of her murder for years, with no escape from the memories of her death.

How could she not feel bad? How could she not wish for something more for ghosts like Fearne, more than a fight and another violent end, surrounded by the flames of the Fittes Furnaces?

The wailing disappeared for a moment, and all she could hear was Lockwood panting behind her. And the whispers. The whispers from the floorboard.

“Have you found the source?” he asked, his voice cool. She wasn’t sure when the last time he had used that tone on her was.

His answer was a resounding yes.

Fearne’s glowing apparition appeared in front of (y/n)’s face, her haunting smile and glassy eyes like a hand around her heart.

Dahlia, she murmured. A tear slipped down her purple cheek as one of her hands slowly reached upwards, towards (y/n)’s cheek. Her other hand neared the site of the source, from which she had just appeared. Dahlia.

(y/n) didn’t notice how cold her hand felt until the chill was gone, replaced by the weight of a silver net. All noise felt as though it had been sucked out of the room, replaced by a heavy silence.

Then came the angry breathing Lockwood so often resorted to when he could not bear to speak to George or Lucy when they had particularly annoyed him. But never had he done it because of (y/n). Never.

She turned her head, slipping her hand out from beneath the net, and met Lockwood’s gaze. His brows were drawn close over his shadowed eyes, lips curved downwards as his shoulders rose and fell with each deep, steadying breath he tried to take.

“We get rid of ghosts,” he said, voice tight. “We aren’t paid to sympathise with them.”

(y/n) stood slowly. “They deserve more than this.”

“They are ghosts.” His words were clipped now. “They deserve nothing.”

“She didn’t deserve to die.”

“And neither do we!”

He had raised his voice just so slightly, but, even still, it took her by shock. He slipped his rapier into his belt, pocketing his salt bombs, and stared angrily at her in a way he never had before.

“I let you off the first time something like this happened,” he said, “because you were new. I wanted to see how you worked, see how you processed these things. The second time, well, that was different - the ghost had no intention of doing anything but sitting sadly in a corner. The fifth time? Well, I suppose that, along with every other time you’ve pulled this, was because of my feelings for you. But you’ve put both of us at risk today, again. I won’t have it.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “What? So you want me to go around with no feelings whatsoever and just get rid of all of these ghosts?”

He threw his arms into the air, exasperated. “Yes! That’s what I pay you to do!”

“Well, I won’t do it.” (y/n) bit the inside of her cheek. “Without the emotion, I wouldn’t be able to find the sources the way I do. I’m not going to be some emotionless paramount of an agent like you. And if you don’t want me to work that way, then I won’t. I'd rather leave than do that.”

“Then go.”

The words hung in the air, and (y/n) found herself immediately regretting hers. But Lockwood's certainty in his, they had her dead-set. If he was so blasé about her threat of leaving Lockwood and Co after all they had been through, all she had felt for him, then she would go.

She didn’t want to work in any way but hers. She had perfected her technique, used it on every case to support her findings. Sure, she sympathised with many of the ghosts; how could she not, when many were late children or murdered women or family members taken too soon? Telling her not to work that way, to not use the pain felt by the victims to help her bring them peace, was like trying to cut a piece out of her body. She’d kick and scream and stop it at any cost.

With a breath that constricted her chest, she clenched her fists. Pain flared up through her right hand and, when she looked down, she had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn’t making up the blue tinge her skin had taken on.

Lockwood seemed to notice it at that very moment, eyes widening as he stepped forward. His voice softened as he said, “(y/n), let me see -”

Taking a step back, she clutched her hand to her chest. “No.”

She said it with more force than she has ever used with him. It shocked her almost as much as it did him. 

With her good hand shaking, she turned and strode out of the living room into the kitchen, where their kits were stashed.

DEPRAC’s main goal was to protect and provide for the agents that fought off visitors across the whole of Britain, and they had recently managed to get legislation approved for agents to carry adrenaline shots with them to cases. Far too many agents, most of them being barely teenagers, had died waiting for ambulances to provide the shots after being ghost-touched, especially when working in remote areas. DEPRAC wanted to reduce fatalities as much as possible.

So she reached into Lockwood’s bag - legislation had only been approved with the compromise that supervisors or business owners carried adrenaline shots with them, rather than allowing other agents to have possession of them - and pulled out the box containing the shot.

Lockwood was at her side in a second, reaching over to help her out, seeing her struggle with only one hand, but she turned away from him. She hoped he hadn’t seen the tears clouding her eyes before she had moved.

“(y/n),” he murmured.

“Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t.”

And, so, she stabbed the needle into her arm, administering the adrenaline despite the rules surrounding even that part of the legislation. She did not want to feel his hands on her skin. Not anymore.

☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎ ☁︎

(y/n) sat curled up on her chair, newspaper laid out before her. 

Her last case with Lockwood and Co had made it into the news, page eight, much to Lockwood’s likely chagrin. That was a guess, though. She supposed she wouldn’t know anymore.

Light flooded in through her window, illuminating the walls of her childhood home. She had not wanted to return, but what choice had she had? Getting a flat in London was almost impossible.

Her parents had taken her back with open arms, happy to have their little girl back, but they fell into old habits quickly. It seemed that the years she had spent living in 35 Portland Row had left them to store some passive aggressive comments ready for her return. Everything she did elicited some kind of comment.

She flicked through the newspaper, filling in crosswords and drawing devil horns on the heads of the Fittes agents that had made it into the paper.

Page eight, though she hated it, held her attention. After the effects of ghost-touch began to fade away, Lockwood had called the police and DEPRAC regarding the case, informing both of their findings. Though no evidence had been found to prove their claim, paragons of each big agency with the talent of Touch were brought in the DEPRAC van. Every single one confirmed her story.

The police disappeared shortly after, alerting higher ups and figuring out a strategy. Dahlia Watson still lived in London.

The floorboard was pried from the house, wrapped tightly in a silver net and taken by a DEPRAC officer en route to the Fittes Furnaces. She didn't miss the way Lockwood looked over at her at the announcement of the source's destination.

Journalists appeared shortly after, shouting their questions and writing down every move (y/n) and Lockwood made in their frustrating notepads as if their silence was condemnation. DEPRAC officers managed to shoo them off, but not before they snapped pictures of the two walking out of the house.

Lockwood looked as he always did, with that charming smile that, despite (y/n)’s anger, had a horrible flutter arising in her stomach, His long jacket blew back just so in the breeze, and his hair brushed his forehead softly. (y/n), on the other hand, looked far sterner than she had ever seen herself, her hand still a faint shade of blue, her eyes wan. Anybody who had seen their pictures in the news before that point likely knew that that was the end of their business together at Lockwood and Co. They were stood about two feet apart.

She should have left it there, left her remorse and fury mixing terribly in her chest, but she didn’t.

Her eyes caught onto the final sentence, and she felt rather sick. “I give full credit of the discovery to my partner, (y/n) (l/n), (pictured left). This case, and Fearne Watson's murder, would not have been solved without her. Always.”

Former partner, she thought with a lump in her throat. And, well, always did not seem so true anymore.

She tore the page from the paper, ignoring the bewildered look on her mother’s face. With bleary eyes, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

Perhaps always was only for fairytales.

[givemea-dam-break]

Hey, I love how you write! I wanted to ask a Lockwood x reader where reader is an orphan, and the agency accepts a case where the ghost is y/n's mother, and after the case Lockwood comforts her. Sorry if it's weirdly specific, feel free to change something. Thank you!!! (Sorry for grammatical errors, English is not my first language, I'm using google translate)

a/n: don’t worry about grammar or anything pahaha, i’m here to write the things you like not criticise you about something that isn’t your first language 😭 and i’d be more than happy to write this! i hope you enjoy (and i hope it’s alright to read my love <3)

warnings: mentions of death, blood, mild description of panic attacks words: 2.2K gn reader taglist: @wellgoslowly @waitingforthesunrise @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @neewtmas @ettadear @mirrorballdickinson @gotlostinfiction @locklylemybeloved @mischiefmanaged71 (let me know if you want added to my taglist <3)

My Flower - Anthony Lockwood

There are creepier houses in London, but somehow this one feels worse.

As you scan the contents of the living room, there’s an odd feeling in your chest, tugging and squeezing and flooding your stomach with nausea. It’s a pretty minimalistic house, probably because there’s only a small space to work with, but something in it has made your throat dry.

This isn’t the first time you’ve come on a case to deal with a woman murdered by her husband, as horrid as it is. It’s not even the first time you’ve worked on a case where the victim, and number one suspect for the Visitor, has been killed within the last two decades. Fifteen years ago, George had told you. Slit throat. The thought makes you shiver.

Maybe it’s because it was this very room where the murder happened, and where their young child had been left beside an aging corpse, wailing, for two days. No one helped, not until the neighbour grew sick of the crying.

The case was in the newspaper for months as DEPRAC and police forces tried to find the husband, but to no avail. Reading them in the kitchen back at 35 Portland Row had made you feel ill. This is worse.

“How’s it going through there?” Lockwood calls from the kitchen.

“No sign of her yet,” you say, glancing down at the iron circle around you. “But I can feel her.”

Creaking floorboards sound, and then Lockwood is in the doorway, glancing around the room. He’s wearing those stupid-looking sunglasses of his to block out the deathglow in the room – one that is horribly strong, apparently. You wouldn’t know. Your sight is terrible. With a swish of his coat, he’s standing beside you, too close to be considered appropriate for colleagues but too far to satiate the twitch of your fingers.

“You want to use your Touch?” he asks. “Try getting a sense for what the source could be? For all we know, it’s one of these creaky floorboards.”

You huff a laugh, but it feels rather strained. “Where do you suggest I start?”

“Wherever your heart takes you.”

“What are you, a poet, now? Wheesht.”

He snorts as you step out of the iron circle. A chill passes over you, and looking down at your temperature reader, you can see it’s fallen three degrees since your last check five minutes ago. If not for the gum you’re chewing, you’re sure you’d be able to taste the bitter miasma on your tongue.

“Watch my back.”

You can practically hear his grin when he says, “When don’t I?”

“That time in Soho. That other time in that house in Hackney. Oh, or that park in Greenwich –“

“Right. I get it. But I’m watching your back now.”

A smile tugs the corners of your lips upwards, but you have to set the words aside. With a deep breath, you place your hand on the wall in front of you, just short of the window facing the front garden, and close your eyes.

The world rushes away, taking with it the creeping fear in your soul and the chill on your skin. Warmth floods your bones as you open your eyes, greeted with an older version of the living room you stand in. There’s no sign of Lockwood or your equipment. The minimalistic décor has been replaced with clutter: children’s toys; blooming plants; photos along all of the walls; a comfy-looking sofa draped with a fluffy blanket. Even with your moderate Talent in Listening, you can hear soft music playing, followed by laughter and a child’s voice.

A figure crosses into the room, a beautiful woman in her twenties, and in her arms is her child, no older than two and babbling incessantly. The woman laughs, pinching the child’s cheeks before setting them down on a plush rug and handing them one of their dozens of toys. She looks at them fondly, perched on the sofa’s arm, and you have a clearer view of her.

She looks just like she did in the photos in the newspapers – young and beautiful and hauntingly familiar. Something in the way she smiles, how she laughs, has an odd feeling sparking in your chest.

There’s a moment where it’s almost like a photograph. Nobody moves, not the woman, not the child, and not you. But then the woman stands and crosses the living room until she is standing beside you, peering out of the window cautiously. Her fingers fiddle with something at the windowsill.

“My flower,” she says, glancing back at the child, “I do love you so. Remember that.”

You frown, and though you know how the story turns out, you still jump when footsteps shake the house. It all happens too quickly. The husband storming in, furious at God knows what, shouting at his wife, shoving the child away when they toddle over for a hug. When he reaches the woman, it feels as if all the air has been sucked from your lungs, and you can only watch as he berates her, blames her for problems that were of no cause of hers. You feel like you’re going to be sick when he grabs a glinting letter opener. It shouldn’t be sharp enough to harm, not really, but it is. And he kills her.

There’s so much screaming, even with your muted Talent, and it’s deafening. It tears you from the vision, and with a feeling similar to whiplash, you become aware of the real world’s surroundings; of someone’s hands holding you up and their voice asking you if you’re okay.

But you can barely focus on that.

A few feet in front of you, there she stands. She’s beautiful, even as a ghost, even with the blood on her throat and lips and the hollow cheekbones. You can’t breathe, fixed on the sight of her alone. And her words. The few, raspy words she speaks have got you by the throat.

“My flower,” she rasps, and there’s a horrible gargling sound like blood in her throat. “(name).”

You stumble back into Lockwood, who uses one arm to hold you close and the other to point his rapier at the ghost. His heartbeat is pounding furiously against your back, the only sign of his nerves.

“I’ll hold her off,” he says. “You get the source. Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah,” you manage, grasping his arm. “But…”

“But what?”

He swipes with his rapier as the ghost nears, and for a moment she disappears, only to return. Repeating, repeating, repeating. My flower. (name). My flower. (name).

“Lockwood, don’t hurt her.”

“She’s a ghost! She’ll hurt us.”

Your grip on his arm loosens. “Do you trust me?”

“Usually. I’m not sure I do right now.”

Regardless, you pry his arm off you and take a step forward.

The woman’s ghost makes no attempt to attack you. She simply hovers in place, watching you with careful, curious eyes as you step closer to the window. Your hand slides onto the sill, shocked by the sharp cold, and it could very well be a figment of your imagination, but you swear there’s a glimpse of a smile as she repeats your name.

With a trembling hand, you find that the edge of the windowsill is loose. Carefully, you pull it upwards and try not to jerk your hand away as a spider rushes out, climbing over your fingers and down onto the wall. The wood, old and weathered, cracks and snaps upwards.

“Why’s she not moving?” Lockwood is still in a defensive position, now slowly moving to stand between you and the ghost.

And there it is. The source. You pluck it out from a hastily-made hole beneath the wooden windowsill, as if it had been formed solely for the purpose of hiding this very thing – a small box, one with your name written carefully on the top.

A sigh of relief. Your name repeated.

Slowly, so as to not startle her, you pull a silver net from your belt and gently wrap the source in it. And with a wink of light and once more, My flower. (name), she disappears.

The chill immediately lifts from the room, and warmth creeps its way back into your bones. Cautiously, Lockwood sheaths his rapier and turns to you. He looks a little bewildered, apparently unused to a ghost not wanting to kill him. His eyes are a little wild, but they soften when they find yours.

“What just happened?”

“I think…” The sentence goes unfinished as you stare at the source.

Keeping it mostly wrapped up in the net, you peel away the top to reveal the lid of the box, brushing a finger over the faded cursive. Lockwood’s there in an instant, looking between you and the box as you open it warily.

The box isn’t big by any means, but it’s large enough to hold some little polaroid photographs, each with a date and little notes written in the same handwriting that dons the top. There are photos of a baby dressed in silly outfits, ones of the woman with her child on her knee, grinning. The one at the very bottom shows a newborn, wrapped snug in a blanket, with a birthdate and name written below that has your heart ceasing all actions.

Lockwood’s fingers brush the pictures. “I thought… I thought your mother was dead.”

“She is. We just met her.”

You’re not sure why it didn’t click sooner. After years of living in foster care, you always clung onto your surname, knowing it was the last thing you had of your family. You never knew who your mother was, or your father for that matter, and had never known the first names. But why the surname didn’t give you a hint… You’re not sure.

Part of you feels relieved to have that clarity now. To know who your mother was, and that she loved you, but at what cost? Having to watch her brutal death as her child – you – sat and cried? To have only seen her again in the form of a ghost-hunter with the intent of destroying a ghost? To know that your father was a murderer who abandoned you?

All at once, the emotions hit you like a tsunami. It’s hard to breathe, so damn hard to breathe, and your head is swimming. Bile rises in your throat as you fall back against the wall, dropping the photos and their box to the ground. Your legs shake, giving out, and you slide down the wall until you reach the ground trembling.

But Lockwood’s there. He’s always there. He gathers up the photos into the silver net, wrapping it tight before shoving it away to the side and kneeling beside you as you reach for his hand. It’s warm, familiar, and it makes you feel tied down to the world, but, god, it’s still so hard to breathe. It feels as if your throat has closed up, unwilling to let anything pass but horror and grief and a strange piece of relief.

Lockwood doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gently moves your hand from his until it rests against his chest atop his steady, strong heartbeat.

It feels like years before the ability to breathe without feeling like you’re dying returns. But Lockwood stays, calm and collected, holding your hand to his chest and acting as your lifeline. He doesn’t tell you to breathe. He doesn’t tell you that you’re okay. He tells you you’re safe. That he’s there.

Shakily, you take a deep breath and rest your head back against the wall. Your face feels sticky with tears, and you can taste salt on your lips, but Lockwood doesn’t care. No, he brushes the hair off your sweaty forehead, his hand lingering for a few moments.

“I can’t believe…” You can’t even say the words.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel.”

“It didn’t even click. I should’ve guessed when –“

His hand on your cheek stills yours words. “Should’ve nothing. It’s not your fault you didn’t realise. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine, but, as horrible as I feel right now for bringing you on this case, I think you needed this.”

You want to scoff at the words, to shout at him for even suggesting that seeing your mother’s ghost after fifteen years of not knowing her is good for you, but you can’t help but agree with him. If George or Lucy had come instead of you, you never would’ve known who she was. What she looked like. How she sounded when she laughed. How beautiful her smile was. What your nickname was. My flower.

When you lean forward slightly, your forehead finds Lockwood’s, and you rest against him for a few moments, finding solace in the evenness of his breaths and the familiar scent of bitter tea and cheap shampoo. After a moment, he pulls away and presses a feather-light kiss against your forehead, and you find yourself leaning, now, against his shoulder, breathing in the comfort of him.

“I’m here if you need to talk,” he says quietly into your hair. “Or if you just need someone. I’m always here.”

It’s not until he brushes his lips against your head again that you can move.

And he holds you the whole way home, fingers entwined, so that you know the words are true.

[givemea-dam-break]

i'm here (george karim x reader)

a/n: @ettadear and @neewtmas this one is for you guys teehee. it's not overly long, but it got me out of my writing slump :) this went through a multitude of different forms (my favourite version ended up not working out very well but I'll incorporate it into something else) but i hope you enjoy it!

warnings: none words: 827 taglist: @waitingforthesunrise @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @gotlostinfiction @mirrorballdickinson @mischiefmanaged71 @magicandmaybe

gn reader

You’re not sure when you started coming out into the back garden.

The grass tickles your ankles, swaying softly in the breeze. It really needs cut, but nobody ever has time or energy for it. Maybe you’ll do it this week. Maybe not. Maybe you’ll just say how the garden needs a tidy and make no move to do it.

It’s barely morning. The sun hasn’t even risen yet, but here you stand, staring at the slowly lightening sky as if it’ll bring you the solace you so desperately crave. You could talk to your friends, reach out to them for help, but the thought of bothering – burdening – them when so much is always going on makes you feel incredibly guilty. You’re not even sure they’ve realised your morning habits now.

What exactly is wrong? You’ve no clue, only that you’ve felt a hollow ache in your very soul for what has to be weeks now. It could be homesickness. It could be some horrible, unsolicited feeling of isolation and loneliness. It could be a multitude of things and, even still, you can’t figure it out.

The ghost lamps in the streets beyond are flickering off by the time the back door creaks open.

Confused, you turn to find George standing on the patio, looking up at the sky. His hair is messy, likely from sleep, and he’s dressed in some funny patterned pyjama bottoms and a thick hoodie, shivering in the crisp morning air.

“You okay?” you ask, frowning.

“Trying to figure out why you could possibly want to wake up so early and stand outside in the cold.” His gaze falls from the sky, landing on you instead as he makes his way over, kicking an apple out of the way. “We should collect the apples this year instead of tripping over them.”

A soft laughs escapes your lips. “We should. I’m sure you’ve got an apple pie recipe somewhere in one of those books of yours.”

He stops next to you, and he’s close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin without even touching. Is that the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, or is there someone just stomping really loudly in one of the nearby houses?

“You’ve been upset lately.”

“No, I’ve not.”

George gives you a look. “You’ve been quieter. Your section of the thinking cloth hasn’t had any new and wonderful additions. Oh, and you’ve been coming out here every morning for the past two weeks.”

Your face feels awfully warm. “Have you been watching me?”

“Yes,” he says with a shrug. “And the floorboard outside my bedroom creaks whenever you’re coming down in the mornings.”

It’s an effort not to look at him when he says that what with how he just so easily admitted to taking note of the things you’ve been doing. Or rather, not been doing. And, although it’s for a reason that isn’t exactly ideal, it brings a little flutter into your chest. You can’t remember the last time someone paid such close attention to you.

“So?” he prompts. “You know you can talk to me.”

You know you can, but you’re not even sure yourself of what’s wrong. “I know. I just… It’s hard to put my finger on what it is exactly, you know?”

He nods and, it could very well be a figment of your imagination, but you’re sure he shuffles an inch closer until your shoulders are almost touching. You can feel his eyes on the side of your face, watching for any hints of what could be wrong. Because that’s what George does. George, the boy who searches and searches for the tiniest details. George, who is relentless when on the hunt for information. George, who, despite it all, knows not to push you on a topic you don’t want to talk about. George, who –

Who is reaching for your hand and slipping his fingers in between yours.

His touch comes as a shock. Usually, he rejects any kind of physical touch whenever he can, preferring the comfort of his own skin to anyone else’s. But there’s his hand in yours. His pulse beating almost in time with yours between your palms. His hand is warm and soft, and the touch alone has your heart racing.

“I’m here for you, remember,” he says softly.

You’re sure your hand is horribly clammy, but he doesn’t seem to care. Instead, he squeezes it as you look at him, offering a small smile. A smile tugs the corners of your lips upwards in some meagre attempt to show him how grateful you are.

Truthfully, you’re not sure he really knows how much this means to you. Him reaching out to you. Him paying attention to the little things you were sure nobody had noticed. His touch.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

And, when your head comes to rest on his shoulder, he leans his against it, squeezing your hand again.

[givemea-dam-break]

fic idea: George x Reader where Georgie has been so overworked recently and goes out on a case with Lockwood & Lucy so while they’re out reader cleans up the house as much as possible and does chores and bakes cookies to show appreciation for everything George does for the house <3

a/n: AHHHHH this is so cute yes!!! once again, this isn't overly long, mostly because i'm still working myself out of a writing slump, but i hope you enjoy!

warnings: none words: 965 taglist: @neewtmas @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @gotlostinfiction @waitingforthesunrise @mirrorballdickinson @mischiefmanaged71 @magicandmaybe @wellgoslowly gn reader

For You - George Karim

By no means are you a good cook when it comes to dinnertime at thirty-five Portland Row, but you’re a hell of a good baker.

The smell of freshly baked cookies is still strong when you hear George trudge through the front door with his trademark huffs and scuffling footsteps. You’re still plating them up when he finds his way into the kitchen, covered in what looks like soot and ectoplasm burns on his thick jacket. You have to ignore the way his hair falls over his forehead in such an endearing way to be able to function.

“What happened to you?” you ask with a laugh.

“The ghost’s source was in the house’s very old, very dirty chimney,” he grumbles, tearing his jacket off. “Typical, huh? What’s that you’ve made? Smells good.”

With a grin, you turn and show him the plate of cookies. “For you,” you say. “Well, for Lockwood and Lucy, too, but if they’re all gone by the time those two get back then they don’t need to know.”

There’s a moment where George is silent, looking at the cookies as if they hold some otherworldly secrets, but then he wipes his glasses on his shirt and glances around the room. Apparently, he notices the lack of dirty dishes, rings made from mugs and glasses on the counter, and the absence of a perpetual burnt toast smell, because he nods in appreciation.

“You’ve cleaned up, too. Is that why you didn’t want to go on any cases tonight?”

“Surprise?” You place the cookies down on the table and wiggle your hands dramatically, which earns of huff of a laugh in return. “There was so much that needed done, so I thought I’d get it sorted. Especially since you’ve been working yourself so hard.”

“I haven’t been –“

“Georgie,” you say, “yes, you have. You’re out of the house by nine most mornings now to get down to the Archives, and you’re not back until right before dinner. And, believe me, I appreciate all of the work you’re doing, but I can’t take much more of Lockwood’s spag-bol. Either way, just wanted to show you that I’m grateful for you.”

Already, you can feel your face growing a little warm. What kind of friend cleans a whole house and bakes cookies just to say thank you? A good one, maybe. Or maybe not. You’re not entirely sure what constitutes as being a friend or what is more at this point.

“I washed your dirty clothes, too. They’re on your bed along with some of those pens you lost a few weeks ago. I found them stuffed between the cushions of the sofa. Oh, and –“

His hand reaches forward slightly, and your words come to a stop.

“Am I rambling?”

There’s a little shadow of a smile on his lips. “Yeah.”

And then his hand is on your face, fingers brushing your cheek so softly they almost feel like feathers. Your heart ceases all functions, and your breath stops short. He’s looking at you so tenderly that you fear you might implode.

When his fingers pull away, there’s a faint white dusting along the tips. “You had flour on your face.”

Immediately, your hand reaches up to your cheek to brush away any remaining flour, and George laughs, reaching over again to get the last little bit. Can he feel how hot your skin is right now? You’re not entirely sure of whether it’s from embarrassment or the fact that George Karim has just touched you so nonchalantly without knowing how much it sends your heart racing.

“Thank you,” he says, dusting his hand off. He shuffles back a small step. “You really didn’t have to. Especially not at two in the morning.”

You shrug to try and seem indifferent, but it comes off a little more clunky than you had intended. You are pretty tired, to be fair. “No fuss. I got bored. Besides, I had this recipe sitting around and I know it’s one of your favourites.”

There’s a faint glimmer in his eyes then. “You do?”

“Of course, I do. You told me ages ago, and it’s not something I would forget.”

He gives you a very George smile then – one that looks outwardly quite awkward, but you know is genuinely happy from the way his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. It makes your heart soar and your head feel a little light.

“You know you’re the best right?” he says as he plucks a biscuit off the plate. “Lockwood might pay my wage, but you’re an angel.”

The words take you by shock, mostly because it’s something you never would’ve expected him to say. Usually, he’s far too awkward to compliment you beyond telling you that you’ve done a good job on something or that the jumper you’ve chosen to wear that day is a particularly nice colour, so to hear You’re an angel leave his lips feels like some kind of fever dream.

Are you dreaming? Surely you are. There’s no way that any of this has happened.

But there he is, just a foot or two away, smiling in that unique and entirely enchanting way of his as he breaks his biscuit into small chunks to eat it. There he is, trying to decide whether or not he should keep looking at you or stare down at his shoes with ears that look curiously pink.

“How quickly do you reckon we could eat these before Lucy and Lockwood get back?” you ask.

George’s smile becomes a little bigger. “If we try hard enough, ten minutes.”

He hands a chunk he broke off, and you swear his fingers linger for a little too long to be considered friendly. It makes you grin as you take it.

“Bet.”

[givemea-dam-break]

maybe, maybe, maybe (george karim x reader)

a/n: this fic got me out of my writing slump, so i do sincerely hope you all enjoy but i cannot promise happiness. tis not my thing. enjoy suffering my loves <3 @neewtmas my dear dear wife, this one is for you :)

warnings: language, big sad teehee words: 1.9K taglist: @wellgoslowly @waitingforthesunrise @oblivious-idiot @jesslockwood @magicandmaybe @gotlostinfiction @ettadear @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @mischiefmanaged71 @mirrorballdickinson @ikeasupremacy gn reader

The living room of your flat has possibly never been messier but, even still, George Karim sits amongst haphazardly folded blankets and notebooks of scribbles, between the window cluttered with long-forgotten photographs and the slightly dented door without batting an eye.

He’s like a slice of heaven within it all; a source of light in this horrible darkness you’ve sown all by yourself. And, yet, it doesn’t clear. The darkness lingers there, frayed at the edges but persistent, trying its hardest to suck all the brightness from him. You suppose that’s partly because of how things ended. How you’ve felt during this time apart.

“Nice flat,” he says in that monotonous tone of his, the one that doesn’t reveal anything no matter how frustratingly hard you try to decipher it.

You scoff, clutching your mug of tea to your chest. “Wouldn’t say that.”

Truly, you wouldn’t. Not with the damp that seeps through the ceiling or the smell of your neighbour’s rubbish bin that was really due emptying days ago. Certainly not with the horrible silence that suffocates you when you’re trying to sleep, or the knowledge that, no matter what you do, this flat will remain empty of anyone but you. Anyone but you and the photos that are gathering dust.

They often stare at you, glittering beneath their gowns of dust in the sunlight or even in the most horrendous of weather. Smiles of people you no longer truly know. Friendships you could only dream of. Times you would do anything to get back. You should’ve ripped them up long ago, but you couldn’t, and still can’t, bring yourself to do it.

“How have you been?” George asks, glancing at you over the dark rims of his glasses for a mere moment. “I’ve not heard from you in a while.”

The shrug you attempt comes out a little disjointed. Heat seeps through your ceramic mug, burning your fingers, but the pain is a welcome kind. It’s keeping you present. “What are you doing here, George? I know you’re not just here to catch up.”

He’s quiet for a moment, contemplating his words over a swirling mug of dark tea. The silence has your fingers twitching, begging for some kind of answer soon lest you start going mad over the fact that after a year, he’s here, sitting in your flat only a few feet away with that endearing look of rumination on his face, the mop of dark curls you had once longed to run your hands through. God, you bought him the shirt he’s wearing right now. Did he choose it on purpose?

“I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Bullshit, your brain says.

Thank god, says your heart.

“I’m doing fine,” you say. “And, I think if you had been so bothered, you would’ve come sooner.”

It’s a little harsh, you know. Yes, you would give anything to have the friendship you once shared again, but you’re entitled to your anger. He’s the reason you live in a horrible apartment block in a less-than-adequate flat, with your only company being your own oppressive loneliness and, occasionally, the cat belonging to the old lady in the flat above. But, even then, Pippi doesn’t seem to want to stay long. That hurts more, perhaps, than not having a friendship with the boy you would’ve died for during this past year.

“I wanted to come see you,” he admits. “But I figured you didn’t want to see me.”

Oh, how wrong he is.

As the mug burns the skin of your fingers, it’s all you can do to cling onto reality and not fall back into the horrid isolation and despondence that has grown all too familiar.

There have been some nights where the loneliness has been so terrible, so consuming, that you’ve imagined George in your flat. You would smile at him, and he would smile back in such a way that had your heart doing leaps. He would lie beside you on the ground, a body of light and happiness and illusion, and listen to all of the heavy feelings that dragged behind you so often like a ball and chain. It would take a few minutes of empty silence to realise it wasn’t real. It would never be real. Not again.

How cruel of him to assume that, you think. Crueller, maybe, than him being the reason for you living here, away from him, in the first place. To protect you, he had said as Lockwood had handed you the resignation papers. To protect us.

Of course, you had still been allowed to live with your friends at thirty-five Portland Row, but how could you? How could you sit in the kitchen every morning across from him, knowing he had essentially banned you from fieldwork with Lockwood and Co.? Knowing he had taken from you the one thing you had truly felt good at. To protect you.

A sip of hot tea, setting your tongue and throat on fire but tearing you from the approaching sorrow. “You obviously don’t know me as well as you thought.”

There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “You wanted to see me? I thought you would’ve hated my guts.”

Your chest aches now, and it almost feels as though your heart is trying to rip itself from your body to escape the pain that threatens to swallow you whole. No matter how often you feel it, your heart just cannot become accustomed.

“I thought the world of you, Georgie,” you murmur, turning your gaze to the window of golden sunlight. How unfair, that such a beautiful day can bring such torment. “I would’ve done anything for you, had you said the word. I just thought you had felt the same.”

Obviously not.

But, even still, the look in those dark eyes of his has you wondering. Could he have? Was there ever a possibility?

“You thought…?”

“I did. I had hoped that we… well, that we could’ve been something more. More than just George and (name). But I suppose you had other ideas.”

He’s standing, all of a sudden, and the room feels entirely too small, as if it cannot fit two souls of eddying pain in such a compact space. He’s coming closer. His footsteps are swallowed by the trodden, stained rug. He’s in front of you, so close you can hear him breathing, and see the dozens of paint-stroke colours in his eyes and the little scar on the bridge of his nose, hidden by the frame of his glasses.

When was the last time you stood so close to someone? Judging from the racing of your heart, it’s been a while. Perhaps it was that last case you went on together, the one where you almost reached for his hand. Or maybe it was when you had angrily stormed past him, shoving him out of your way in your haste to leave Portland Row and him. Him, him, him.

“(name),” he whispers, and it’s like his voice has been stolen away. Even so close, you can barely hear him. “I wanted that more than anything. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

And though you want to, you can’t look away. “So, instead, you sent me away.”

“That was never my intention,” he promises. His voice is becoming more desperate now, and it’s carving a hole in your chest. “All I wanted was for you to be safe. All I wanted was you.”

His fingers are brushing your arm now, and, god, it’s all you’ve ever wanted. For him to be so close. For him to want you the way you’ve always wanted him. For him to love you in the same way. One footstep closer, and your chests could almost touch. But, still, you find yourself pulling away despite the agony shredding your very being. His touch, however small, is too much. You can’t bear it.

You have to force the words to leave your lips. “You should leave.”

Even without looking at him, you can picture the expression on his face, the acute dejection, the slightly widened eyes and parted lips. His breath hitches quietly, and his fingers, still outstretched as if clinging to some semblance of your skin, twitch.

“(name) –“

“You should leave,” you repeat, and this time the words feel like a death sentence.

This morning, it would’ve been better than a dream to have George here. To know that he has loved you like you have him. But, now, seeing him after so long, hearing the words you could’ve only imagined before, feels like an arm across your throat. Asphyxiating. Choking. Wrong.

And it kills you to even think that.

You don’t want to push him away, truly. All you’ve wanted this past year is him. The smell of tea and old books and something strangely citrusy. The warmth of his body close to yours. The comfort of knowing that, if you needed it, you could reach for his hand. The elation at seeing his smile, whether it be subdued or that enchanting toothy grin.

But here you are, pushing the one person you need away.

George’s hands give a slight tremble before he shoves them into his pockets. His lips purse, and his eyes search your face for a moment longer, trying desperately to find a piece of you that wants him to stay. And, god, does a part of you want him to – need him to – but he doesn’t find it.

His gaze falls from yours, and it feels as if your soul is being ripped into a million shreds of old, rotting paper. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, George. I just –“

“I know,” he utters.

And you’re sure he does. Because nobody has ever understood you in such a way as he. Nobody has ever known the inner workings of your mind so thoroughly, or perfected the ways to change your moods when you’ve needed it most.

Though, right now, he feels like a stranger whose heart and soul has been borne before you. A stranger whose laugh you could place in any crowd. A stranger who holds the dearest, most painful place in your horrible heart.

“Maybe one day…”

His lips are pressed in a thin, white line. “I know.”

Your pain is a product of your own making, but it’s debilitating as you watch him step out of your front door. It’s only when it clicks shut that it all comes washing over you: his presence; his absence; your refusal.

Everything you had wanted had been right in front of you. Everything you had longed for, dreamed of during those lonely, cold nights when all you wanted to do was curl up in the library of thirty-five Portland Row with George, talking about anything and nothing, had been right there, and you turned it away.

The mug crashes to the ground. The tea spills all over the already tea-stained rug in a somewhat weekly ritual of torment you always seem to repeat. It scalds your feet through your socks, but the pain is distant. Needed.

You should run out of your flat. You should follow him like they do in the movies and grab his face and kiss him in some dramatic gesture of love. You should declare your love for him, beg for him to stay and make everything right. He would hold you tight, promise to never let you go again, and, ultimately, you’d both be happy. No longer would he simply be some figment of your imagination, but reality.

But your feet never move. The tea continues to burn its edict of punishment. His presence becomes ever-distant, unattainable.

Maybe you were made for loneliness, you think. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

[givemea-dam-break]

Not a prompt unless you want it to be, but you’re the only one who will appreciate -

George/Reader (or OC) where Reader is a Database Analyst for Fittes. Enemies to lovers.

Reader dedicates her life to making information more accessible/understandable/traceable and George can begrudgingly accept that. They make appointments with each other to argue over the merits of digitization, tagging systems, etc and if these arguments spill over into meal times, maybe they grab a bite and keep arguing, and oh no does everyone think we’re dating??

Anyways <3

a/n: RAHHHHHHHH I LOVE THIS IDEA SO MUCH!!!! i know essentially nothing about technology though so i’ve probably butchered that part of this but i hope you enjoy!!! and thank you to @ikeasupremacy you really helped this go from a 2 page long flop that contained literally fuck all to a 5 page decent piece of work pahaha

warnings: mild language, mild angst words: 2.8K taglist: @neewtmas @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @gotlostinfiction @waitingforthesunrise @mirrorballdickinson @mischiefmanaged71 @magicandmaybe @wellgoslowly @ettadear gn reader

Nice To Meet You - George Karim

“You know that, on the whole, this will make life way easier for you?”

“Since when do you want to make life easy for me?”

Taking an angry bite out of your sandwich, you say, “I’m not doing this specifically for you, twat. This is quite literally the purpose of my job, so it’s for everyone.”

George Karim sits back in his chair, glaring at you through the green reflections on his glasses. “And what exactly is the benefit of digitalising all of it?”

“Going over this again? Right, well, for one, there’s going to be new computers put into the Archives meaning more people can use them. Have I lost you yet? No? All right. For two, being able to search up what you want in a database is way easier than pacing for hours trying to find an old newspaper that someone might be using already. For three, multiple people can read the same file at the same time. You can’t do that with the musty old paper copies.”

There’s a moment of silence and an air of tension thick enough that you could cut it with a knife. The only sounds beyond George’s annoyed huffs of breath are the jingle of the café’s windchimes and chatter from other customers.

If you had your way, you wouldn’t even be sitting here discussing your plan of action with him, but your supervisor told you that you’d best talk about it to other agencies and their members to see what their thoughts are. Of course, the one time you head to Lockwood and Co. with the intention of speaking to them on purpose, hoping and praying you’d at least be speaking to Anthony Lockwood himself; you were sent off with his second and by far the most infuriating boy in all of London, George Karim. And, well, as you already know, he is a tough nut to crack.

“Why are you so stuck up on physical files, anyways?” you ask. “It’s not like we’re going to burn them on a pyre and force you to use a website. They’ll still be there. It just seems much more convenient to click a few buttons and have what you need.”

“They hold a particularly warm place in my heart,” he says with a hint of sarcasm. “But, fine, okay, life will be made easier for everybody with this new system. So why is it only being implemented now? Smaller agencies could’ve done with this years ago while Fittes and Rotwell and all the big companies have had it this whole time.”

Though you hate it, you can only shrug. “The big companies don’t want to have to compete with the smaller ones.”

“You’re saying this, but you’re working for Fittes, the biggest of the big companies.”

You grip your sandwich harder, pretending it’s George’s throat. “Yes, well, better pay than a smaller company. Some of us don’t get offered a bedroom when being accepted into a job. Besides, as much as I don’t like the big companies making a huge profit off of the Problem, I don’t have a choice. They’re the only ones with the resources I need. And, don’t forget, that’s where you used to work, too.”

Surprisingly, George doesn’t have a quip for that. He takes a thoughtful sip of his tea, glancing out of the café window and onto the busy street just beyond. The sunlight hits the lenses of his glasses in such a way that they shine a reflection down onto the table in front of you.

“So, this would be accessible for everyone?” he asks. “Not just the big agencies and their lackeys.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this to make you believe it, but yes. If that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t be doing this.”

Quite frankly, you’re not surprised about having to repeat things over and over. Every single conversation you’ve ever had with George, no matter how fleeting or filled with irritation, has seemed like he had the personal mission of finding flaws in everything you do. Holding your rapier wrong – you absolutely did not, if anything, he was holding his wrong. Pronouncing a word wrong once. Taking a moment longer than him to spell a ridiculously long word on a report.

Now is no different. It’s as if you can see the cogs turning in his mind, working overtime trying to find an issue with this plan. But there’s nothing, that much you know from you and your team’s extensive planning and the look of mild horror on his face.

You can’t help the proud smile that parts your lips. “Go on, then, Georgie. Thoughts?”

He gives you a scathing look that only fuels the pride burning in your chest. “I think…”

“Yes?”

“I think that…”

“Carry on. I need to hear you say it.”

“Oh, shut up. I think that it’s a good idea.”

“Hmm? What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”

You’ve never seen such anger in a person’s eyes. “I think that it’s a good idea. Happy?”

“Very. That’s all I needed to hear.”

George opens his mouth to say something, probably something insulting, but a waitress breezes over. She’s a sweet middle-aged lady with a contagious smile that even has him easing up a bit.

With a twinkle in her warm eyes, she asks, “Is there anything else I can get the lovely couple?”

And that does it. If you weren’t so shocked yourself, the horrified expression on George’s face would’ve cracked you up. It looks as if someone stepped on his puppy and then tried to feed it to him. Then, amongst your own disgust, you realise that the expression is at the thought of dating you, and no matter the animosity the two of you share, you can’t help but be a little offended.

“Oh, uh, we’re not –“ You purse your lips. “Nothing else, thanks.”

She leaves momentarily, and your table lapses into an entirely uncomfortable silence. You can’t look at George. He can’t look at you. There’s a weird pit in your stomach. Nausea. Right? Because… Ew.

“I told you we shouldn’t have continued this conversation during my lunch break,” you grumble.

He hums in agreement, finding particular interest in his swirling tea. “We should probably go.”

“Yeah. Yeah, uh, we’ve covered all bases. Of the plan, I mean. Not anything else. The plan. My job.”

But, even still, you’re both sitting. You’re not moving. Why? Maybe you’re paralysed with disgust. Maybe the mere thought of people thinking that the two of you are dating is debilitating. Maybe, maybe, maybe… You’re considering it?

God, no. That’s horrid to even think about.

“I, um, are you heading back to the Archives, too?” you ask.

George takes a moment to respond, as if lost in a daze. “Oh. Yeah – Uh, yeah, I am.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

As soon as you stand, George is on his feet, enough money slapped on the table for the two of you, and heading over to the exit. And, well, as much as you want to let him head off on his own, here comes that realisation that it’s a little insulting that he is the one trying to escape so quickly.

What a little prick.

You’re out of the door almost as soon as he is, insistent that you will be the one ahead. Yeah, sure, you’re heading to the same place and could try to be amenable, but will you? God, no. You want him to know that you can leave just as easily and are just as horrified by this prospect of a relationship as he is.

Why wouldn’t he want to date you? Beyond the constant arguments you have, you’ve always figured you’re a pretty decent person. Smart, but not arrogantly so. Friendly. Funny. Good company. Caring. What’s not to like? How dare he be disgusted!

But he seems just as determined to reach the Archives first. It’s only a few corners away, but it feels like a miles-long race between the two of you. But if the prize is your dignity, then to hell with the distance – you’d go actual miles to preserve that, especially against George.

It comes to a halt when you’re forced to wait at traffic lights, unable to even slip across the street before they change from red to green merely because of the amount of coincidentally flooding traffic.

For what feels like hours, you have to stand beside him, listening to him breathe and mutter and tut as if this is the biggest inconvenience in the world. Hey, if he didn’t think a relationship with you was such a horrible idea then this wouldn’t be taking place!

No matter that you think the exact same. You’re allowed to feel like that.

Do you feel like that?

The beeping of the pedestrian crossing jerks you from your thoughts, and you’re rushing across the street before you know it. And, oh, curse his long legs! He’s getting ahead of you.

There’s an anger building up in your chest now, one that probably isn’t fully justified. Perhaps it stems from deep-rooted feelings of inadequacy you’ve not had the mind to think about for a little while now. Or even just out of pure spite of George Karim that has been pulsing through your veins for years now. Why has it been there? Because of him. Because of his incessant need to find flaws in your work and you, and his need to huff at anything you say or do. Like your existence is a bother.

Either way, the anger forms words before you can think to dismantle them. “What’s your issue with me?”

George pauses, near the side of the pavement, with the Archives in clear view behind him. He’s frowning over back you, dark eyes narrowed and bouncing with golden sunlight. Why should someone that hates you so be complimented by the sun? It’s entirely unfair, especially when it’s only blinding you.

“What?”

You stop a foot or two in front of him, panting a little from walking so fast. “What exactly is your problem with me? What did I do to you? Because, far as I know, you’ve hated me ever since we first met.”

The words take a minute to process, and it looks as though he’s trying to figure out some hidden meaning behind them. There’s nothing hard about what you’ve asked. Nothing harder than admit you feel ashamed to have even asked it.

“I don’t –“ George’s frown only deepens, taking complete notice of the frustration on your face.

“Forget I asked,” you say. “It doesn’t matter. Stupid question anyways.”

But, when you start to walk away, a hand on your wrist stops you, pulling you back slightly. When you  look back, George is there, hand wrapped around your arm and staring at it as if it isn’t his own skin on yours. You expect him to pull away, disgusted at the thought of touching you, but his grip only softens slightly.

“I don’t hate you,” he says.

Scoffing, you say, “Yeah, right, and I’m Penelope Fittes. Let go of me.”

And, to his merit, he does. But your feet aren’t cooperating. They won’t move. Why, why, why won’t they move?

“I’ve never hated you,” he murmurs. His gaze is fixed on yours, something you’ve always noticed he’s steered clear of doing, and you feel frozen under it. “Intimidated, yeah.”

“Intimidated?” You roll your eyes. “George, come on. I was trying to be serious, but you’re just making a joke of it.”

The look in his eyes at that moment is a mix of desperation and exasperation. “I am being serious. Do you know how hard it is to be regarded as the smartest person someone’s met, to rely on the intelligence as your only form of worth to people, and then find someone smarter than you?”

Words try to form in your throat, only to crumble like chalk beneath too-strong fingers.

“And I’m sorry it’s made me lash out at you,” he continues. “I know it’s a horrible thing to do, but it’s like my mouth doesn’t want to cooperate with my brain. Truly, I regret how I’ve treated you. You’ve never deserved it.”

Your throat feels thick, and it’s hard to swallow. “Georgie, don’t lie.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on his lips then. “You know I like it when you call me that?”

“You told me you hated it when I call you Georgie,” you say, but it feels like your voice is dwindling.

“I told you that so you’d call me it more,” he admits. “(name), I really, truly have never hated you. And, again, I am so sorry I’ve treated you the way I have. I admire your intelligence and your insistence of sticking up for yourself. I just wish I had started things differently between us.”

The anger is back, burning a hole in your chest. “You’ve had years to tell me this. Why? Why didn’t you?”

He’s breathing rather heavily. “I was scared. I was trying to figure things out – my feelings, your feelings. But, more than anything, I couldn’t bring myself to change from the person you’d begun to see, because what if you hated the real me more than this one you know so well?” Now, his eyes tear away from yours as he stares up at the sky, looking for guidance from some divine being. “Even when you insulted me, I enjoyed it because it was from you. How lucky was I to even be able to speak to you, never mind hear you come up with all these unique names? There are millions of people who have never heard you speak, who have never had the pleasure of speaking to you or will never have it again, and I didn’t even want to chance becoming one of them.”

With that, the flames roaring inside your chest are extinguished. Instead, now, there’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling in your stomach that inches its way up your body and into your mouth, holding your tongue and stopping your ability to speak.

Despite all the quips, the need to find faults in what you do, he has never meant it. How horrible does that make you, saying all of these things to him because that was how you genuinely felt?

Do they count, seeing as they were formed on the basis of a personality that doesn’t truly exist?

Your fingers hurt from tearing at the skin around your nails. “You really think I’m so bad that I wouldn’t like the real you? Georgie, there is no way I wouldn’t have preferred it.”

He laughs at that, and the sound only bolsters this strange feeling in your stomach. Not quite butterflies, but almost. More melancholic. Could you have had the opportunity to hear that laugh for years now? To cherish it the way a person does a memory? The way an artist does a creation?

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to tell you how sorry I am,” he says, and you swear he inches slightly closer. “About the way I acted. The fact it’s taken me this long to admit this to you. All of it. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

And you don’t. Not really. Not when it’s left a hollow feeling in your chest, left by the realisation that everything you said was unfounded and cruel and based on a person you had no true conception of. Not when this is how it has been for years between you both. Weeks, you could understand. But years?

There’s a part of you, though, that could potentially forgive him, given the chance. George may be quick to criticise or provide information for something, but he has always kept his emotions at arm’s length, that much even you know. So, for him to come and outright tell you all of this takes insane courage.

Even still, you can’t fully comprehend it all.

“Well,” you say, “you paid for my lunch. So that’s a start.”

He smiles then. A flash of white teeth and an insurgence of unfamiliar fondness in your heart.

“We could restart,” he suggests, pushing his glasses up his nose just so.

Despite the hollowness, you nod and manage a small smile. “I’d like that.”

Not even a second later, his hand is hovering in the air just between you both. “George Karim. Nice to meet you.”

It shouldn’t make your smile grow, it really shouldn’t, but it does.

“(name) (last name),” you say, clutching his hand in yours. “Nice to meet you, too.”

And, somehow, that smile of his, one you’re sure you’ll grow more accustomed to, adds a small piece of filling to the hole in your chest.

[givemea-dam-break]

you and me, in every story - chapter one

a/n: a lockwood and co au in which lockwood and lucy's roles are swapped! the idea was cooked up by the wonderful @portlandrowismyhome and @wellgoslowly (i contributed too i promise), and this will be a multipart series! i hope you enjoy :)

warnings: none words: 2.3K taglist: @irisesforyoureyes @neewtmas @aayeroace @locklylemybeloved @mirrorballdickinson @ettadear @gotlostinfiction @mischiefmanaged71 @oblivious-idiot (let me know if you want added to my taglist <3)

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Lockwood had lived his whole life in London, so it was safe to say that he was peeved when he couldn’t find his way to Portland Row.

Seriously? How hard could it be to find a little street north-west London? Very hard, evidently, because he’d been circling the same area for the past half hour like an idiot. Now, not only was he frustrated at getting lost – it was embarrassing for a native Londoner to get lost, in his humble opinion – but he was also tired, hungry, and his shoulders hurt from this stupid bag he had decided to carry around. Well, the bag wasn’t stupid. Just some of the contents.

Really, all he wanted was to get out of this sweaty suit, have a shower, and then have the best sleep of his life while having the security of a job. Was that so hard to ask?

Apparently so, but, even still, he persevered, map in hand as he trudged the streets of Marylebone. Curfew tiptoed closer and closer, but he was adamant. He would not finish the day without getting himself this job. He’d fight tooth-and-nail for it if he had to.

Not that this job was exactly a fantastic one. It was just something he’d plucked out of the newspaper, but he’d heard of the company a few times and figured that this would be his best shot after things went awry last time.

And, ah, there! Finally! Thirty-five Portland Row, standing tall and… well, not proud, not with its peeling paint and slightly overgrown flowers in the window boxes. But it was certainly something!

On the fence read a sign: Carlyle and Co. After dark, ring the bell and wait beyond the iron line. How inviting. If Lockwood was hired – of course he would be! – he’d petition to change the wording of that. It sounded awfully uninviting, and that just wouldn’t do. No wonder the company wasn’t popular!

Well, these opinions of his would have to wait. Heaving a deep breath, he climbed up the steps to the front door and rang the bell, waiting patiently.

Footsteps sounded on the other side, followed by the rattling of the doorhandle, and then the door swung open, revealing a boy no older than he. His dark hair fell in a mop over his forehead, resting just above a pair of black-rimmed glasses over dark eyes. Eyes that showed nothing but confusion.

“Are you Arif’s new delivery boy?” the boy asked, frowning down at Lockwood.

Lockwood dared not show his confusion. “No. I’m here about the job. Are you –“

“Mr Carlyle?” he guessed. He rolled his eyes, and Lockwood held back a frown. “No. If anyone did their research, they’d know that Lucy Carlyle is the owner. And she’s a girl.”

“Oh. Sorry... So, the interview?”

The boy shrugged, stepping aside. “I suppose. Come on in.”

There was a little flicker of unease in Lockwood’s chest, but he couldn’t afford to let it show. Instead, he glanced around the hallway, taking in every detail about it: the slightly outdated wallpaper; the square marks that indicated photo frames that used to hang there for a while; the umbrella rack holding rapiers much fancier than the one he currently carried in a case. Everything about the hall was elaborate yet, somehow, entirely out of place, like different decades trying to fit together. Who was he to judge, though? He didn’t even have a house.

“Okey-doke,” the boy said, gesturing to a door on the right. “Here we are. Luce, you were right. We’ve got another interview.”

A voice came from inside the room, distinctively not a London accent, but pleasing to the ear all the same. “No, George, I just checked. That was our last one five minutes ago.”

The boy – George – frowned, glancing at Lockwood as he came to stand in the doorway. “Then who’s this?”

Lockwood had little to no time to take in the cluttered living room before his eyes caught the girl in the centre, clearing up some paper from the coffee table.

It was like all the air had been sucked from his lungs when he looked at her. Lucy Carlyle. That’s what George said her name was. And, God, did it fit. She turned to look at him with warm brown eyes, her bobbed hair swishing around her face before settling. She was no older than him, if not a little younger, and he couldn’t help but notice the unprofessional outfit she wore – a blue jumper and trousers, along with some ectoplasm-stained boots – and all of a sudden felt a little out of place in his suit, especially next to George in his orange plaid shirt and graphic tee, but the feelings melted away when Lucy Carlyle smiled at him. Not one of those Oh, I’m so happy to see you smiles, but more of a reassuring one.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have an interview, but I saw the job listing and I was in the area.”

Complete lie. He’d been halfway across London, desperate to find anywhere that would hire him. This was his last hope.

“I’m Anthony Lockwood,” he continued. “But I just go by Lockwood.”

Lucy Carlyle nodded. “Lucy. Well, I’m sure we can fit in one more interview. George, brew some tea, would you?”

George glanced back at Lockwood with a hint of distaste. “Thought I’d wait to see how well he got on before making any.”

“George.” Lucy shot him a look before returning to that reassuring smile. “Please go make some. Lockwood, why don’t you come sit? Don’t mind George. He’s sick of people, now, and he’s not had his biscuits. He gets tetchy when he’s hungry.”

Lockwood could only nod as he sat on the sofa across from Lucy, trying not to think too much about how unprofessional all of this was. If DEPRAC were to see how this company operated in front of applicants, well, they wouldn’t be happy. What with the lack of a uniform, the arguing… He loved it. And, by the looks of it, not a supervisor in sight. Even better.

“Here’s my CV,” he said, pulling the folded paper from his pocket.

Lucy reached out for it, taking it gently and opening it. Her dark eyes scanned over it for a minute, reading each meticulously chosen word, before letting it fall on the coffee table in front of her. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at Lockwood, sending a shiver down his spine. Something in her gaze had the ability to freeze him in place.

“So, you’ve got Sight?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s my strongest Talent,” he said. “Deathglows are what I see the best, and I need sunglasses for them sometimes. But ghost-fog, apparitions, all that stuff, I pick out quickly. My Touch and Listening are mild at best.”

Way to talk himself up.

“I’m a Listener,” Lucy said. “Strong, if other people are to be believed. George is an all-rounder, but he’s mostly our researcher. Where was your last job? I’m assuming this isn’t your first.”

“No. I worked at Fittes for a while.”

Lucy turned as George stepped through the door, carrying a tray with mugs of steaming tea and biscuits. “Thanks, George. Well, you two will get on grand. George used to work at Fittes.”

“Mmhm,” George said, sitting in one of the armchairs. Completely uninterested, he plucked a biscuit off the plate and sat back, opting to read a comic.

“Biscuit?” Lucy held out the plate to him. “George’ll only eat them all.”

Gratefully, Lockwood took one. He hadn’t eaten for hours, and he was starving. A biscuit wouldn’t do much, but it was a Digestive, for heaven’s sake. He couldn’t just pass that up!

“So, Lockwood,” Lucy said, “I did have tests in place, but George pointed out earlier that they aren’t really inclusive of people with Sight, so I’m going to have to take you on your word with all of this. Do you have a reference from your previous supervisor?”

It was an effort to not choke on his biscuit. “No, I don’t. Everything happened sort of suddenly, so I’ve not had a chance.”

George sniffed. “You could take him to a haunted house, see how he does. Maybe he’ll run off.”

Lockwood teeth ground together, but he plastered on an easy smile. Whenever things were going wrong, that trusty smile of his could get him out of trouble. Surely it could help him deal with a self-righteous teen boy who couldn’t even eat a biscuit without covering his T-shirt in half of it.

But Lucy didn’t even spare him a glance. She was looking straight at Lockwood again, eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she considered him.

Then the slight curve of her lips melted into a frown. “Did you say something?”

Lockwood blanched. “What? No?”

Lucy sat back; her eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, you did. You just called me – I’m not even going to repeat that! And, to think, I was considering hiring you with no knowledge of your skill.”

“I didn’t –“ He looked at George desperately. “I said nothing.”

And, for a moment, he worried that he had said something and not even realised. But what would he have said? He’d been far too busy being slightly disgusted with George’s method of eating biscuits to have even said anything to her.

To his surprise, George saved the day. “Luce, he didn’t say anything.”

“Yes, he did!”

“No, I swear I didn’t. I –“

Lucy stood and stormed around the coffee table until she was right in front of Lockwood. He worried what she was going to do, but she leaned over his shoulder and yanked open the zipper of his bag. She tore out the big silverglass jar he had stashed in there, holding it in both hands.

He hadn’t really thought anything of it when he stole it. It was just a jar with a source inside – a boring old skull that sometimes came to life when it could be bothered – but he had been so mad with how things had ended that he felt the need to take something from Fittes, just like they’d taken something from him. It had seemed a worthwhile steal, seeing as ghost-jars weren’t overly common.

Currently, the ghost inside was awake, swirling in bright green ectoplasm and pulling the crude faces Lockwood had grown used to these last few days. The past few mornings in his hotel room, he had woken up to see it leering at him and making horrible gestures with made-up hands, and though it had mouthed some obscenely horrible things that Lockwood couldn’t understand, he had kept it for some odd reason.

It was more active than other ghosts, and part of Lockwood hoped that somehow he had bagged a Type Three, as controversial as their existence was. He had started to fall out of that belief. Well, until now.

Lucy glared at the ghost inside, free of that easy smile she’d had mere minutes ago. “Excuse you? You’re a ghost in a jar. You’ve no right to speak to me like that! I’ll throw you into the furnaces myself, see how you like that!”

Lockwood and George shared a look, and the latter dropped his comic book on a side table, leaning forward.

“Uh, Luce?”

“What, George?”

“You’re talking to a ghost.”

“Damn right I am! Didn’t you hear what he called me? Prick.”

“Luce?”

“What?”

“We can’t hear anything he’s saying. That’s – that’s all you.”

Lucy’s scowl softened for a moment, and she glanced between the jar, Lockwood, and George, her cheeks growing red. Angrily, she slammed the jar down on the mantle top, shaking the little pieces of clutter that were scattered across it.

“You’re serious you couldn’t hear it?” she asked.

“No,” George insisted. His gaze turned on Lockwood. “Were you aware you were carrying a Type Three on your back?”

Lockwood hesitated. “Well, I thought, maybe, um…”

George huffed a laugh. “How did you get your hands on that? Fittes keeps them locked up securely. Like, really securely. Believe me, I tried to nick a one before I left.”

A strange thing to bond over, but Lockwood would take whatever he could get. He looked back over at Lucy, who was practically steaming from the ears as she stared at the skull. The horrible thing formed a hand out of the ectoplasm and made a particularly inappropriate gesture that had Lucy beyond seething.

“Well, we can’t just let you go back out on the street with a Type Three,” she said, and though he knew the anger in her tone wasn’t directed at him anymore, he still felt his face grow warm. “And I’m guessing it won’t be as easy as buying it off you.”

She wasn’t wrong. If that really was a Type Three, he sure as hell was keeping it on hand. But… Nobody could talk to Type Threes, nobody besides Marissa Fittes and she was long since dead. And here was Lucy, arguing with one right in front of his eyes as if it were a daily occurrence for her. Only George seemed shocked by it all, staring at both wide-eyed. He needed a job, and they wanted his ghost. It seemed as though there was a deal afoot.

“No. I want a job here. Then you’re free to do what you want with it.”

He spotted the mad flare in George’s eyes and shifted uncomfortably. The kid might not be able to eat a biscuit neatly, but Lockwood had every reason to believe he was somewhat a mad scientist.

“Well, anything within reason.”

Lucy glared at the ghost for a second longer before turning back to Lockwood. “Fine. We’ve a room free upstairs if you want to take it, unless you’ve got separate accommodations? Rent would be taken from your wage.”

He couldn’t seem too excited, so he simply pasted that smile of his on again and said, “That would be great.”

“George, shift whatever crap you’ve got stored in there. Lockwood, welcome to Carlyle and Co.”