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philliam-writes · 2 years ago

Text

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

#lockwood show #lockwood books #lockwood & co #l&c #lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwood x you #lockwood x y/n #lockwood netflix #lockwood and co #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert

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philliam-writes · 2 years ago

Text

you are in the earth of me [03]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: no warnings apply

Summary: A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start. Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

Notes: [01] || [02] | [04]

Words: 4.3k

A/N: A shorter chapter, but I still hope you'll enjoy it! Thank you so much again for all the support! ♥ If anyone new wants to join the taglist, just lemme know!

03: wring those embers

back then, i was dauntless and dawn could never know and my weakness made me weep less than i would ever show you — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

Indeed, at Rotwell everyone works hard to solve the Problem. It is quite impressive how immaculate they look while doing it—as though in addition to the highly sensitive Psychic Talents every Rotwell agent possesses, they secretly train to perform under stress with no fold in their jackets, no holes in their pants, no grime smudges on their faces. Seems as though your invitation to those seminars got lost on the mailing route.

You slither by the countless other agents in their splendid burgundy jackets, aware you stick out like a sore thumb with your torn coat and muddy steel-capped boots. After the night you had, it is hard to plaster on the charming smile that is Rotwell’s USP. Every winning smile sent your way by your colleagues is too bright, too clean. They look very new and fresh and shiny, like someone has popped them out of a plastic case this morning.

The glittering glass building rises on Regent Street with its smooth-fronted edifice of glass and marble. Snarling lions, holding rapiers in their forepaws, have been inscribed into the glass of its sliding double doors. Outside, a line of the desperate and ghost-haunted stands, waiting to get inside and petition the company for help. You squeeze past them inside the spacey foyer, a wide room with gold-fringed red carpets leading to the different departments laid out before a row of neat receptionists sitting at their tidy desks. Right at the room’s centre, in front of the white-marbled wide stairs leading to the upper floor, stands Tom Rotwell’s marble bust with its forever-frozen, blank expression passing judgement over his legacy. You feel very small under his scrutinising gaze, and duck along the marble pillars towards the maintenance apartment on ground floor.

Someone barks your name. There goes your plan to head in unnoticed and get cleaned up before any of the adult supervisors catches you. But when you turn, you recognise the scrawny boy heading your way: Aleck Gorobec, an agent from the Domestic Hauntings Division. He’s always had this habit of chewing on something—right now, he’s working a toothpick between his front teeth as though he’s trying to make a gap as wide as the Grand Canyon. “Hey, Crawford wants you in his office.”

The relief vanishes in an instant. If you had to chose between spending the afternoon in Daniel Crawford’s office or doing a tango with a Wraith, you’d be already on your way to put on your best Sunday dress.

“Like, right now? ‘Cause I really need to get a new jacket—”

“NOW now,” he says. “Better not keep him waiting, he seemed prety pissed. I think he got into a fight with his wife. Again.”

Even better. He’ll chew you, spit you out and feed your remains to that little rat of a dog he owns.

You will find no support in Aleck; now that he has relayed the message, he turns and saunters back to his little group of half-sized lackeys with identical hair cuts, leaving you to your fate.

So you make your way towards the staff elevators and think about faking a heart attack so you could skip seeing Crawford. They wouldn’t let someone with a weak heart deal with something as harsh as work regulations, would they?

The lift brings you up two more floors to the deputy sector. Each floor is lined with heavy crimson carpets you know for a fact are steam-cleaned every night when the majority of agents set out for cases. Employees on this floor have their own canteen and coffee shop regular agents aren’t allowed to use—you have a feeling a cup of coffee or tea they serve up here costs half of your rent compared to the one they sell downstairs that is delivered by the local Starbucks.

Muffled voices drift through the rows of closed oak doors. Somehow, the smell always reminds you of a teacher‘s room; stuffy but comforting in a way, the sleek couches and spartan cabinets in the small waiting areas and lounges have absorbed the coffee smell over the years.

Crawford’s office is at the end of the long hall. You were hoping he would be caught up in a phone call as well, but when you knock, there’s an immediate “Come in!”

Andrew Crawford is a small, stocky man with little to no neck depending on his mood for the day. Apart from making it his life ambition to harass every even slightly successful agent under the age of 25, his other hobbies include collecting every type of Little Trees Car Air Fresheners on the market. As far as you know, he doesn’t even own a car.

“Took you long enough,” Crawford grumbles. His little hairy moustache twitches in annoyance. “Take a seat.”

You prefer to stand. Somehow you don’t think that’s what Crawford wants to hear. So you make your way across the office, slowly sinking into the hard plastic chair. Deputies’ rooms are all furnished equally: marble-topped desks, chairs, bins, filing cabinets and a few plants. You count ten, eleven, twelve of those air fresheners hanging from a single yucca plant.

Crawford finishes abusing his plastic keyboard, throws a glance at a large-scale street map of the Strands, his area he’s responsible for, takes a swig of cold tea and turns to you for the first time.

“Wait, where’s your damn jack—” Crawford stops, takes you fully in: the tears and holes, the grime and ectoplasm smudges on the once-splendid red. He grunts, and leans so far back in his swivel chair it creaks loudly in protest. “Almost didn’t recognise it. Say, Rotwell is one of the best employers anyone with Psychic talents could ask for, don’t you agree?”

You hate questions like this. “I, er—yes?”

Crawford looks at you. Then looks some more, as though he’s just waiting for you to realise what this is all about. He clears his throat and leans forward, puts his massive arms on the table as though he’s just having a chat with a close pal in a pub after work. “See, thing is, I was informed you were seen with unknown operatives from other agencies. And last time I checked—” He turns to the monitor to his left, slams his thick fingers on a few keys—“you were not on a job that required assistance from external agents.”

You start fidgeting with the hem of your gloves. “Well, no, but sir, I was attacked—”

“I heard that happens from time to time when engaging ghosts.”

“No, I mean by a man. Someone alive.”

Crawford eyes you suspiciously with his tiny, dark eyes. “When did that happen?”

“In the early morning hours. Three, four a.m.”

“And what do you want me to do about it now?”

You open your mouth, and close it. One of Crawfords few talents is successfully making you feel as though you are the problem. What if you were? What if you’re overreacting? An agent’s life tends to be dangerous, what of it? “Well, the culprit is still out—”

“Do you have a name? Did you see his face?”

“No, and I didn’t, but—”

“Then what exactly do you expect from me? Clearly, nothing serious happened to you, you got off with just a few scratches. The real issue is that due to what recently transpired, further employment might be a problem.”

You grit your teeth against a groan of frustration, feeling your body burning with anger, your blood boiling with rage that threatens to spill over. “I have worked here for five years, without any complaints, no breaches of contract.” You ball your hands into tight fists. “I am an exceptional agent, you know that. And you’re letting me go just like that?”

Crawford sighs wearily. “Trust me, this isn’t easy for me either. I am aware you are one of our more lucrative agents. But lucky for you, we are not letting you go. I merely suspend you for conducting unauthorised work with an external agency. Until your suspension is lifted, all benefits are revoked. That includes using certain facilities and access to equipment for field work. You can leave your jacket here.” Crawford reaches forward and taps a spot on his desk with two fingers, before returning to the paperwork in front of him.

It takes a moment to stir from the ice-cold grip that has taken hold of your body and heart. Your mouth is dry and a fist-big chunk of anxiety is lodged tightly in your throat. “I was not working with anyone. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding or not,” Crawford replies calmly; something has caught his attention on the monitor, he isn’t even looking at you, “we’re just taking safety measures to ensure the confidentiality agreement wasn’t breached on your end.”

“But I—”

He looks up at you then, and blinks as though wondering why you are still wasting his time. “And where is your rapier?”

“Still at ho—the dormitory.”

“All right. No need to bother. We’ll send someone later to clear out the room. If you need help finding new accommodates, there are a few establishments offering lodge for little money in Lambeth I heard.”

The aggressive typing resumes. You are clearly dismissed.

Wrenching out of the jacket, you make no effort to hide your anger and frustration. Crawford gets a balled-up knot of dirty fabric thrown on his desk, but he seems to care little for your tantrum safe for raising a single bushy eyebrow at the flickering screen.

You stomp outside the room, slamming the door shut behind you hard enough it rattles the golden-framed paintings of rolling hills and slithering lakes on the wall.

You’ll show him. You’ll show them all.

When you catch a glimpse of yourself in the polished glass window on your way out—no wine-red jacket, nothing to identify who your employer, no former employer was; just your tired face yet eyes bright with determination, for the first time since a long while, you look like yourself again.

At the Lions Den, it isn’t just the cleaning crew mingling near the entrance. DEPRAC vans park in front of the main doors. A few officers are lost in a deep conversation about the intricately interwoven iron railings decorating the windows on the first floor. Two very tall, very sturdy Rotwell agents stand guard, self-important and with their chests puffed out as though they are guarding Buckingham Palace itself.

There is no way you’ll be able to get inside through the main entrance—even if you did, you have a gnawing suspicion security has been tripled inside since yesterday. They must have figured out someone has broken in, otherwise why would DEPRAC be here?

You duck behind naked rhododendron bushes and sneak towards the iron door leading to the back garden. Many residences in Chelsea have garden terraces; this one is a courtyard between several buildings. Slim paths wind through the back and disappear behind shoulder-high hedges. The trees, their leaves turned gold and russet with the late fall, are strung with chains of white lights, and stylish ghost lamps scattered between them that give off the familiar green glow at night. A small fountain plashes musically in the centre of the yard.

Minding the pebbles crunching under your boots, you gingerly make your way across the lounging area, past the small tables and cushioned three-piece suites—until you catch the swish of a black coat disappearing around a corner.

Just great.

You hurry after it, hearing the crunch of stone under heavy work boots somewhere behind you. DEPRAC, or worse, Rotwell agents.

The two are hiding behind a bench facing the back entrance. Before whoever strolls behind you can round the corner, you grab Lockwood by the end of his coat, and Lucy by the back of her collar, and yank them behind the trunk of an elm casting long, dark shadows on the building.

“What are you doing here?” you hiss; all three of you are cowering so close together your knees almost touch.

Lucy looks as though she is still recovering from being grabbed like that—by considering if she should swing at you or not. Lockwood on the contrary has already collected himself and put on a diplomatic smile. Yet you can see the steady, fast hammering of his pulse against his throat.

“Why, Lucy has never seen the infamous Lions Den, that’s why I took her up on a little sightseeing—” Lockwood begins.

“We need to get inside,” Lucy hisses back. Straightforward, to the point, like an arrow aiming true. You can work with that.

“Not sure if you noticed, but Rotwell dormitories have a strict jacket-only policy,” you say. You feel their eyes on you like a pair of red-hot coals.

“Where’s your jacket then?” Lucy asks.

You draw your shoulders back. “I quit. This morning. Afternoon. So, no jacket for me.” What’s a little lie if they will never find out the truth. Whatever shrapnel of self-respect you can hold, you will staple it on you as though it is the last leaf whipping on a barren branch during a cold winter storm—the last remnant of the previous season where everything was warmer and cosier.

There is silence. You can hear the soft electrical hum of the lights and ghost lamps turning on above your heads as dawn sets in, the water plashing in the stone fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

Lockwood and Lucy exchange looks—it seems like a glance, but you recognise a full blown conversation governed by face muscles and eye narrowing; it is the same whenever you and Kipps argue about something without wanting a third person to understand the topic. Kipps’s teams calls it your ‘sibling conversation.’ Lockwood and Lucy look a lot like that right now, conjuring full volumes with shared glances only.

“Just follow me,” you mumble, and duck behind a juniper tree before they can reach the conclusion of their argument. “And keep your heads down.”

You lead them away from the agents strolling down the path you’ve been on just a minute ago. Lockwood and Lucy immediately stick to your heels, careful their heads don’t poke over the hedges.

The three of you sneak around the east wing, through another iron gate and pause to listen for voices. Only a couple House Sparrows chirp in the trees above your heads. This could be a graveyard for how frequent visitors stroll by.

Finding your apartment isn’t hard. Bright, neon-yellow DEPRAC tape marks an X where the full-height window, smashed and gaping, leads inside the rooms. Glass lies strewn across the grass. The entrance to your apartment is like a dark mouth, the broken glass still sticking to its frames standing out like jagged teeth.

Again, you listen for voices. Again, only silence answers. You look back at Lockwood and Lucy. “I’ll go check things out. You stay here and keep watch. If anyone comes, let me know.”

Not interested in any disagreement or otherwise unsolicited opinions, you turn to slip inside. A hand catches your wrist. Warm fingers brush against the slip of skin where your glove ends, sending an electrifying shock up your arm. You start.

Lockwood lets go and pulls back. “Like it or not, we are in this together,” he says quietly. His voice drops to a low tremble, gaining a quality that feels like a solid caress on your skin. Heat crawls up your neck. “And as with any proper team, there are no secrets, and no holding back valuable information. Deal?”

You wrestle with what you should say. You have never been skilled at putting things delicately. Frankly, you’re better off on your own than having to worry about those two—and yet. If Lockwood and his agents had not let you stay and patched you up, what use would have your confidence now?

Not trusting your voice, you nod.

Glass shards crunch under your boots when you step inside. The whole room is demolished: furniture overturned, the cupboards have been completely and methodically emptied. All the drawers are missing. What remains of your desk is splinters and broken leftovers. Your clothes have been ripped off the hangers and thrown on the ground, some even torn. You don’t want to think about how you would have met the same end if he had gotten you into his hands.

The wardrobe’s door barely hanging on its hinges squeals when you carefully pull it open. You find your duffel bag at the bottom, and meticulously start throwing whatever intact clothes you can find inside. A few shirts, something you can wear to sleep, underwear, a few jeans, your favourite turtlenecks, sweaters. A package of unopened gloves. Your library pass that grants you access to every Archive in London—the one you thought you’d lost a week ago and technically should return to Rotwell.

An old, outdated kit with a few zip fasteners missing hangs from a hook. Whatever leftover equipment from missions you’ve hoarded over the years—salt bombs, iron fillings, hands-sized lavender packages, one canister of Greek fire, a slightly rusty iron chain—you pull out from the back corner and cram inside the kit. There’s also the last model of a layered leather harness with small pockets and buckles to hold equipment that you prefer to the standard agent belt around the waist.

It should be enough to manage simple cases as a freelance psychic operative until you find your bearings and build a reputation. Type Ones should be no problem, and most non-agents can’t tell the difference between grocery-bought salt and the extra grainy and purified salt from Sunrise Corp. You’ll have to drop by at the Thames Embankment at some point, where a lot of the cheaper merchants ply their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge.

But your first job will be making sure no one will get hurt over that stupid key ever again.

There is one more thing. On the door, tapped against the wood, is an old photograph. Matthew, Kipps, you. Age eighteen and thirteen, the boys crowd you and pull grimaces behind your beaming face as you proudly present your shining new rapier and the Fittes Manual to the camera. Seven years, but it feels like a lifetime.

People always used to say that you two have the same eyes—everything else is different like night and day. His blonde curls shine like a halo in the setting sun stealing through the curtained window in the back. He has a half-smile on his face, and his head tilted towards Kipps as though he is just on the verge of turning and telling him something. You see the same dimple on his cheek that you have when you smile, and when you squint you can make out the small smudge of pasta on the corner of his mouth you guys had earlier to celebrate you achieving third grade.

You fight the urge to touch his face on the picture—the only comfort during the first months without him. Even though you know he won’t come back, sometimes you wished an echo would reverberate, something that connects you to him apart from the memory of the last day spent together before he died. You take the picture and fold it neatly before putting it into your back. Grief can try and catch up later when you’re too busy to give it more thought.

As you get your stuff ready, something glinting on the ground catches your eye. It is a small, polished coin, flat on one side and engraved on the other. Depicted on the bottom is an infinity sign, and above is a double cross. You brush your thumb against it, but of course there is no psychic echo attached to this item. Because it belongs to a living person—that living person who must have lost it when he destroyed the interior.

Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat. You stare at the symbol for some time, unblinking. The bitter taste of a certain word spreads on your tongue, closing your throat.

Unwrapping this revelation will have to wait. You move swiftly to the hallway and stand before the umbrella rack that holds your rapiers. Most of them are a little too fancy not to link them back to one of the bigger agents with their jewelled handles, but there are two with simple designs, so you decide on the 17th Century Italian Rapier.

“Take the Solinger Rapier,” comes Lockwood’s voice from behind you, startling you. You shouldn’t be surprised he doesn’t listen to orders, still you throw a glare at him over your shoulder which he promptly ignores by giving you a bright grin. “More balanced.”

“So much for being a team. Scared I’ll just run off with the evidence?”

“Ah, so you did find something. Well, we at Lockwood and Co. hold teamwork to the highest account. It is only polite I help.”

Any reply gets stuck in your throat when loud steps thump on the other side of the apartment’s door. Lockwood and you look at each other, eyes wide.

You throw your kit at him without a second thought so you can go after your other bag, and to his credit, he catches it effortlessly and bolts for the smashed window. Before you follow, you quickly snatch the Solinger Rapier and fasten it to your belt.

With your duffel bag in hand, you join Lockwood and Lucy outside. The sun is already behind the horizon, the sky a pale grey-blue, the colour of tempered steel. You take your kit back from Lockwood, ignoring his satisfied grin like a cat in the sun when he notices which rapier model dangles from your hip, and lead them back through the gardens out on Dovehouse Street.

Everything is going so smoothly. Too smoothly. Since the universe can’t have that, just as you close the iron gate behind you and set out down the street to where you guys can call a cab, a familiar voice calls out your name—a voice that always has your fight-flight-response kicking in, tending towards fight the moment you turn around and see Sebastian Vernon’s self-satisfied, arrogant grin.

Sebastian Vernon, a fellow Rotwell operative at the height of his career: he’s recently turned 19, he managed to luck out a Jack of all Trades regarding Psychic Talents and sports an impressive, sharp jawline many girls you know swoon over. The Golden Boy, The Pride of Rotwell. Of course he developed an ego as big as an inflated balloon with nicknames like that.

“Did you get my note this morning?” His voice jolts you from your thoughts. “Great drawing, isn’t it?”

“So it was you. I almost couldn’t tell; it looked like a five year old drew that.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his smile cools down to freezing point. “I heard they kicked you out,” he continues. “What was it this time? Botched a job? Set a customer’s house on fire?” He strides towards you with his hands behind his back, his cologne trailing like a cloak. His hair is pinned up fashionably, expression arch. He has always possessed a regal bearing. You can’t understand how he manages to look down his nose at you, even though you are one head taller.

You have crewed with him sometimes during the years, and neither have warmed to the other. You try to chalk it up to personality conflict, but deep down, you know that it is mutual dislike. Sebastian always finds ways to make you feel less-than with the barest twist of inflection or a carefully chosen word slipped like a knife between the ribs, so sharp you don’t notice the wound until you look up from a lapful of blood. And you aren’t above a blunt riposte, even if it often comes far too late.

When he’s close enough to stand in front of you, he whistles. “Like what you did with your face. Gotta compliment whoever gave you that shiner.”

“Jealous they managed that within a day when you couldn’t do it in the last five years?”

His smile turns arctic. At least that’s something you can always hold against him: kicking his ass in every in-house rapier duel since joining Rotwell.

“Always with that big mouth,” Sebastian seethes. “Whoever rearranged your face should have done us all a favour and shut you up for good.”

“I would appreciate,” Lockwood says in a conversational tone, making you startle—you have completely forgotten him and Lucy, “if you do not threaten my agency’s associate.”

He holds himself leisurely, relaxed. His long, slender fingers curl around his belt—not outright resting on his rapier handle, but close enough that he could reach it with one swift, quick movement if he wanted.

Sebastian blinks. “I’m sorry, am I supposed to know who you are?”

A corner of Lockwood’s mouth twitches. His voice is deceptively calm, his smile wolfish. “Lockwood from Lockwood and Co.”

Sebastian’s pale blue eyes widen. He looks at you. “You’re telling me you’re working with Andrew Lockwood? From the Lockwood and Co.?” A sort of deranged laugh escapes him. “I know it’s bad, but I didn’t expect it to be that bad! Surely, even you can do better than Lockwood and Co.!”

You throw a quick glance at Lockwood. He regards Sebastian in silence, and his face can be hewn from marble in its impassivity, which you realise now makes him all the more terrifying. His gaze sharpens like a hound on the scent.

“Why not ask your ginger boyfriend if he can get you a position at Fittes’s?” Sebastian’s smile crooks into a cruel half-moon. “Or has he already reached his expiration date?”

You open your mouth—and to your surprise Lucy shoulders past Lockwood and wrenches one of your bags out of your hand. Her eyes are blazing, red blotches of rage spot her cheeks and neck. “His name is Anthony Lockwood. And Kipps—Quill Kipps has a name, too! If you don’t have anything nice to say to your fellow—former colleague after everything she’s been through, then best keep your mouth shut.”

She whirls around and marches off, like a sudden autumn storm sweeping through the streets. Lockwood and you share a look; you notice his eyes glint with barely contained mirth and pride before he dashes after Lucy.

When you glance at Sebastian, he keeps his face blank, but the emotion behind it becomes unsettling and dangerous, like a vague whiff of burning plastic from an electrical outlet.

You hurry after your two new companions. Sebastian’s voice trails after you like a shadow. “Careful you don’t get your new team killed. Again.”

You draw up your shoulders, take your doubt, ball it up, and crush it into a fuel you can use.

“So,” you say when you caught up with Lockwood and Lucy. You’d offer to take your bag back, but Lucy holds it as though she can’t wait to use it as a weapon and bludgeon someone with it. “Kipps has a name, too. Nice one.”

“Shut it. I just can’t stand haughty guys like him,” Lucy grumbles, impatiently swiping hair out of her eyes.

“Funny,” Lockwood notices brightly, “how you sometimes use that same voice with me.”

Lucy rolls her eyes, but some of the tension in her shoulders dissipates.

“I gotta admit, good teamwork so far,” you say. “I guess I can let you take a look at this.”

You flip the coin between your fingers and present it with the symbol up on your open palm.

Lockwood wastes no time plucking it from your hand, his fingertips brushing against your gloves. Even through the fabric, you feel the warmth of his skin. You put that information into a box, close it up, and shove it into a far, dark corner where you’ll hopefully forget it and it can collect dust.

“Fascinating,” Lockwood mumbles, inspecting the coin from every angle. “Does anyone know what this symbol means?”

Lucy glances at his open palm. “No.”

He said so earlier. No secrets, no holding back information. Yet this is something you can’t share yet. The fact that somehow, this symbol seems … familiar.

“No,” you echo, eyes fixed ahead on the road. Black clouds, like slabs of onyx, gather at the horizon, rolling over London. “Never seen it before.”

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