#quill kipps appreciation weekend

[lilaccatholic]

Finally actually posting chapter one of my Kipps Appreciation Weekend fic!!!

If you're seeing this in the daylight (EST) hours, hound me for chapter two. If you're seeing this in the nighttime, yell at me to go to sleep.

[justjudethoughts]

Friendly reminder that Quill almost died from wounds inflicted in Jessica's room.

[schokoleibniz]

Happy Quill Kipps Appreciation Weekend!!!!!!!!!!! Here's some karipps archive smut that started out as an unfinishedbirthday gift for @synestheticwanderings (does it still count as a birthday gift if I managed to finish it in the same month???) y'all can thank her for bullying convincing me to finish the draft for this weekend:)

It’s a slip of the tongue, George swears to himself. All thanks to Quill bloody Kipps running his mouth again, and George outs himself without thinking.

“Lucy’s not the one I’m interested in,” he blurts out, and he immediately winces at his honesty.

[synestheticwanderings]

Unholy Ghosts

Shifting around, he feels for the goggles in his bag. He takes them out and turns them carefully in his hands. They alone were worth the trip to Aldbury Castle. He lifts them up to his face. Green other-light glows from the shelf above him and he starts.

Or, Quill spends a night in a closet with the skull.

part of the tin soldier series

People, though they must die, are not born in order to die, but in order to begin. – Hannah Arendt

Quill doesn’t know what time it is, just that he should be asleep. He would like to be asleep. But Karim is sprawled diagonal across the double bed and Lockwood is tossing and turning on the cot with Lucy’s name on his lips.

He’s too old for this.

So he takes his pillow and slips out of the room, going downstairs to the kitchen. The storage closet is packed with their kit and potato sacks, but it’s darker and quieter, so he tries to make himself comfortable. There are a couple of lumps in odd places that he knows he’ll feel in the morning, but he figures it’s better than a knee to the gut or an elbow to the face for the third night in a row.

Still, he finds himself restless. He tries all of his tricks: breathing exercises, some light yoga, walking around the kitchen, making a cup of tea. But even though he’s exhausted, he’s also too keyed up. He’s—well, what is he exactly? Three days ago, he was staring at a wall with no job and no prospects. Three days ago, he hadn’t Seen a ghost in years. And now, he’s—his thoughts trail off. He can’t quite locate himself or name what he’s feeling.

Read the rest on Ao3.

[catherineeverlasting]

ATTENTION LOCKWOOD & CO EDITORS: no idea if this has been done yet but: “They both reach for the gun” edit and it’s Lucy and Fairfax reaching for Annabel Ward. just an idea.

[sciroccoorion35]

Brothers in Arms

Rating: T | Category: Gen | Relationship: Lockwood & Kipps

~4500 words

Lockwood helped Holly into the night cab, then climbed in after her. Quill Kipps, official Fittes observer, was left to take the drop down seat across from them. Only the slightest tick of his jaw gave any indication that he might be annoyed. If Lockwood had had any energy remaining after his fight against Solomon Guppy, he might have taunted him about it. As it was, he closed his eyes and let his head fall against the back of the seat.

“You look knackered,” Kipps said, helpfully.

“At least I don’t look like a useless pile of…” He tried to think of something suitable, but nothing came. 

“…of?”

“Sorry, long night. How about I owe you a cutting insult, to be delivered at a later date.”

Lockwood heard a chuckle from across the cab, but didn’t open his eyes. He could picture Kipps’ smarmy face easily enough if he cared to. He didn't care to.

It had been a good night, all things considered. Far better than he’d had any right to expect. Lucy had been brilliant and she had slotted back in with the team as seamlessly as if she’d never left, better even. Kipps had even chipped in, contributing a bit of muscle and a surprising aptitude for destruction. Lockwood hadn’t seen a supervisor so useful since, well, since Sykes. 

It was possible he dozed off for a spell in the ride to the furnaces, he wasn’t sure. He opened his eyes when the cab stopped, engine idling. 

“Tony, you look beat,” said Kipps as he climbed out, then leaned over, looking down at Lockwood through the open door.” Why don’t you let me take the Source in? I can drop off your copy of the receipt tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” Lockwood said automatically, preparing to follow. “You don’t have to—” 

“I can go with him and get the receipt,” Holly said in her polite, but gently leading voice. She often used it in front of clients when she didn’t think it was appropriate to say things like, “You’re being an idiot,” to her employer.

“Fine,” Lockwood said resignedly. He wanted to argue but knew he didn’t have the energy to put up a good show of it. “Just make sure and watch them burn it.”

Holly nodded and climbed out of the cab, the sealed Source in her purse.  

“Why?” Kipps asked, leaning forward, but making no move towards the door. 

“Let's just say I would hate to ever have to face Guppy again,” said Lockwood, letting his head fall back against the headrest. 

“That bad?”

Kipps had had excellent Sight in his day, according to George. Likely he’d seen things in the same gory detail that Lockwood so often did: Raw-bones and Wraiths and more blinding, horrific death-glows than he could count. Things that would haunt him for years. None of that could hold a candle to Solomon Guppy.

Lockwood met Kipps’ eyes, fighting down the sick revulsion that rose at even the memory. “You’ve no idea,” he said, shaking his head wearily. Kipps nodded, an understanding passing between them. 

Lockwood thought that would be the end of it and Kipps would get out of the car so he could finally head home, but Kipps just stared at his hands for a moment, clasped between his knees, then spoke. “I think my time at Fittes may be coming to an end,” he said quietly. “Ever since Chelsea, they’ve lost trust in me. And watching your team tonight…”

“You did more than just watch,” Lockwood said quickly. 

Kipps gave a derisive snort. “That’s the most I’ve done on a job in months. I think you might have been right all along. Talentless supervisors really are worthless buffoons.” He gave a self-deprecating little smile, so different from the arrogant, prideful sneer Lockwood was used to seeing on his face. 

“Don’t sell yourself short Kipps,” Lockwood said with a cheeky grin. “I know you want to strangle me half the time, but there’s no talentless buffoon I’d rather have at my back.”

Kipps snorted. Then he nodded and finally got out of the cab. Lockwood gave the cabbie his address and slouched back in the seat once more. 

Of all the surprising things that happened that week, discovering that he didn’t mind working with Quill Kipps wasn’t even in the middle of the list. He hardly gave it a second thought as the cab rolled through the dark London streets towards home.

As it happened, it was only a few days later that Lockwood rang Kipps to set up a meeting at a cafe in the city centre. 

“Let me get this straight,” Kipps said, toying with the handle of his fancy cappuccino pensively, as though Lockwood were asking his opinion on the latest rapier handle designs from France, or something equally pretentious (though Lockwood allowed that the latest designs were rather chic). “You are taking on a cluster case in a village way out in the country and you want to hire me as… what? A porter?”

Lockwood tried not to smirk insultingly. He was probably unsuccessful. “As a consultant. You gave excellent advice in the Guppy House the other night,” he said diplomatically.

Kipps just looked at him for a long moment, his eyes weighing, assessing. Lockwood kept his posture relaxed, nonchalant. He wouldn’t say he’d grown to like Kipps over the past year, but he did trust his judgement. Most of the time.

“Tony,” Kipps said eventually, “what is this really about?”

This caught Lockwood off guard. “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t your kind of case. You can’t think you’ll get your name in the paper over this. And I can’t imagine you’re doing it out of magnanimity. So what is it?”

Lockwood bit the inside of his cheek, considering how much to reveal. “If I tell you,” he said slowly, “will you come?”

KIpps rolled his eyes. “Just spill it. I’ll make my own decision, thank you very much.”

Lockwood blew out a breath, but told him. He skirted around the importance of the skull, saying only that relic-men had stolen a powerful Source from Lucy and sold it on the black market. How they had followed the trail to Johnson and the Rotwell Institute. About his suspicions regarding the timing of the haunting in the village and the uptick in black market activity.

Kipps was quiet for a long minute after Lockwood stopped speaking. He sipped his drink and stared off into the distance with that stupid, contemplative look on his face again.

“Well?” Lockwood asked impatiently. “What do you think?”

“I think… that this is way above your paygrade. DEPRAC should be all over this.”

“But they’re not!” Lockwood burst out. “Do you have any idea how easy it was to follow the breadcrumbs? DEPRAC couldn’t find their way out of a chain circle without a map.”

“You could talk to Barnes. I know he’s a bit stuffy, but he likes you—”

“Barnes does not like me.”

Kipps gave a little shrug, not conceding the point but not belabouring it, either.

“So, your plan is to go to the village and… what? See if you can find evidence that it’s true? Take down this black market single-handedly?”

“Yes, that’s about the size of it. If we find evidence, we can always call DEPRAC in. You know they won’t get off their arses without a really good reason.”

“And that’s all this is about, is it? Just chasing fame and fortune, like always?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not, for example, trying to win back a certain Listener by showing off how far you’re willing to go in pursuit of justice since talking about your feelings is just too damn hard?”

Lockwood crossed his arms. “I assure you, that’s not why I’m asking you to join us.”

“That’s not a no, Tony.”

“Does it matter? I’m asking you to help us take down a dangerous relic smuggling ring and help relieve the suffering of a village full of people.”

“Oh it doesn’t, and I’m definitely coming, I just wondered if I also needed to knock some sense into your thick skull while I’m about it.”

It was Lockwood’s turn to roll his eyes. “If you’re in, meet us at Waterloo station tomorrow morning. Bring whatever gear you need.”

Months later, Lockwood sat by himself in the waiting room of the hospital. He’d sent Holly and Lucy home hours ago. He wanted them to sleep, recover what emotional equilibrium they could. And he wanted to be alone. He didn’t want their eyes on him, reminding him he’d failed George, failed all of them, silently asking what they were going to do next. He needed time to think it all through, to go over his missteps in detail, to see what he should have done. Only then would he be able to figure out what came next.

After a hazy eternity in which Lockwood might have dozed off and on in the padded metal chair, something moved into his field of vision. It was a cup of coffee, cosy in its little brown sleeve, steam wafting from the opening in the lid. His eyes followed the line of the hand holding it up to the pale, serious face of Quill Kipps.

“Kipps,” he said muzzily.

“Drink, Tony. The nurses say you’ve been here all night and I’m guessing you aren’t heading home any time soon.”

Lockwood took the cup, inhaling the bittersweet steam. “Did they say anything about—”

“Stable through the night,” Kipps said tersely, taking the seat beside him. Lockwood supposed Kipps had more experience with hospitals than he did. In his experience, it had always been too late for that.

Lockwood took a cautious sip of his coffee, then another, his brain sputtering to life, running over the bumpy terrain of his thoughts from the past twelve hours. By the time he polished off the coffee, a plan had begun to take shape.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, glancing at Kipps, still sitting there stalwartly.

“Yeah,” Kipps said, plucking the empty cup from his hand and walking it over to the rubbish bin. 

Lockwood stood up, stretching out his back and his legs, trying not to care about his crumpled shirt. Kipps took up a post beside him, arms crossed, staring meditatively at the floor.

“Anything else you need me to do?” he asked quietly.

Lockwood looked at him, taking a deep breath. “You know you don’t have to continue with this, Quill,” he said softly. “We’ve got targets on our backs now, but you’re barely associated with us. You could just walk away.”

“No, I couldn’t,” he said immediately. “I worked for Fittes for years. If even half of what we’ve found out is true, then everything I’ve ever believed—about the Problem, about my life—it’s all been a lie.”

Lockwood nodded, standing straight and mirroring Kipps’ stance. He’d thought that would be the answer, but he wanted to be sure.

“Barnes came by last night. He thinks this was Winkman, but he’s wrong. It was Gale, I’m sure of it.”

Kipps simply nodded. “So what is the plan?”

Lockwood paused, the deep breath before the plunge. “I think I’m going to have to kill him, but not yet. That’s a move they’ll be expecting. I want to come at them sideways, show them we’re not going to let this go without a fight.”

Kipps met his eyes, an understanding passing between them. Kipps blew out a breath.

“What do you need?”

Their next trip to the hospital was a team affair. Barnes commandeered a DEPRAC van to take them over directly from Fittes House as he grumbled about clearing the street so they could deploy sufficient anti-ghost measures in the hall of pillars. In this case, sufficient apparently meant the biggest bloody bomb flares DEPRAC was legally permitted to use inside city limits.

Lucy fought tooth and nail, but in the end the doctors persuaded her that stitches were in fact necessary given the depth of the wound in her side. They promised to use the self-dissolving kind, so at least Lucy wouldn’t have to come back for removal.

“Was that from Marissa?” Lockwood asked in a hushed tone after the nurse finally flounced off with the signed forms. “Did she get you with her rapier?”

“No, it was… actually I’m not entirely sure,” Lucy said, looking down at her stomach wonderingly. “It’s all a bit blurry. I think it might have been a shard of glass when Ezekiel… Oh, Holly, it’s you.”

Out of the entire agency, Holly was in the best shape, only a handful of minor cuts and contusions. The dusting of white in her hair was something they all shared now, except for Kipps.

“George is being patched up,” Holly reported. “It looks like he tore some stitches somewhere along the way, but otherwise he’s fine. He’ll be able to come home today.”

“And Quill?” Lockwood asked, surprised at his own level of anxiety at the question.

“He’s stable, but they said he might need another blood transfusion and they want to keep him overnight for monitoring.”

“Thanks, Holly,” he said, mustering a reassuring smile from somewhere. “Was there anything else?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Holly said, crossing her arms.

Lockwood raised an eyebrow and she huffed out a breath.

“You, you big idiot,” she said exasperatedly. He heard Lucy muffle a giggle beside him.

“Me? I’m fine, Hols. Besides, I need to stay with Luce and make sure…”

“Alright, love,” said the nurse, reappearing like a matronly magician’s assistant. “Time to get undressed. You can put this gown on, opening at the back.”

Holly smirked while Lucy looked up at him, horrified and Lockwood’s cheeks immediately caught fire.

“Ah, right. I guess I ought to… I mean, I should go check on Quill and…”

But Holly was having none of it. She hauled him into a cubicle and called a nurse over to explain the situation. The nurse took one look at the burns, cuts and bruises he’d smuggled in under his jacket and called over a doctor who called in another nurse, and together they gave him a thorough going over with burn cream and sticking plasters.

Adding insult to literal injury, the doctor ordered a blood test for anaemia because he, “looked a little peaky.” 

Interfering old trout. 

As soon as he was left alone Lockwood pulled his jacket back on and scuttled out of the cubicle in search of Kipps.

He charmed his way past a nurse and pulled the agency head card on a DEPRAC agent to get into the recovery room. He found Kipps hooked up to various bags and machines, lying pale as a ghost on the narrow hospital bed.

Lockwood pulled up a chair and sank down onto it with a sigh. It had been a long…week? Jesus, he didn’t even know what day it was anymore and to be perfectly frank, he didn’t much care. Right now all he wanted was to gather his team and go home.

“You look like shit.”

Lockwood opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and looked over at Kipps’ tired, pale face.

“Oh you are alive,” Lockwood said automatically, his brain managing to toss up an insult even in its weary, beaten state. “Your skin was so pale, I was starting to worry you were a deathglow.”

“At least I’m not walking around shirtless,” Kipps replied, eyes sparkling. “You look like you belong at a certain kind of underground nightclub.”

Lockwood crossed his arms over his chest haughtily, and definitely not self-consciously. “And how would you know that?”

“Oh I’ve been around. When you’re all grown up, I’ll explain how the world works.” Kipps gave the faintest self-satisfied little smile and settled back on his pillow.

“You'll have to pull through first, old man.”

“I intend to.”

“Well, good then,” Lockwood said, with more relief than he’d really intended.

A few minutes passed in tolerable silence, but then Lockwood glanced up and saw Kipps watching him expectantly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I was perhaps hoping you’d be up to telling me what all I missed while I was fighting for my life. I’ve heard a few rumours, and I can connect some of the dots. But I’m quite curious to know how you and Lucy ended up in Penelope Fitte’s office there at the end. Honestly, I thought you were over such daring and idiotic heroics.”

“Well, you’ll have to take it up with Lucy. She’s the one that went haring off by herself to confront Marissa. God only knows why.”

“She did what!?”

So Lockwood sat up and told him the whole story. Kipps frowned through most of it, seemingly unhappy with everyone’s choices there at the end.

“Well, I’m glad you both made it out,” Kipps said as Lockwood finally lapsed into silence after describing the explosion that nearly ended their lives.

“Yeah,” Lockwood said quietly, staring up at the ceiling. “Me too.”

“She did it for you, you know.”

“What?”

“The reason she went off by herself, to take on Marissa. It was so you wouldn’t have to. To protect you.”

“Don’t be daft, that’s not… she wouldn’t…”

Wouldn’t she? a little voice in his head asked. It sounded suspiciously like George. She was prepared to walk away from the agency, from the only home she had, to protect you. She had to know the confrontation was inevitable. This way she got to choose whose life would be laid down.

“If you’re right, then that was incredibly stupid,” Lockwood muttered, knowing in his heart that Kipps was right, damn him. “I thought we’d proven that we are better off together.”

“Well, we do stupid things for the people we love,” Kipps said softly.

Lockwood’s heart stuttered, and he couldn’t have formed a coherent response with a gun to his head. Or a murderous Type Three, as the case might be.

After a moment, Kipps took pity on him. “How are the others? Barnes came by and said everyone was getting checked over.”

“Everyone’s fine. A few stitches is the worst of it. The house will be in shambles, though…” Lockwood trailed off, images flashing in his mind's eye of bare walls and smashed furniture, like photographs spilling from a bureau drawer.

“Hey,” Kipps said softly and Lockwood looked up into his serious, grey eyes. “We’ll put it back together. Whatever is broken can be mended. Whatever is lost can be replaced. You saved the one thing that made Portland Row truly a home.”

Lockwood took a deep breath, then nodded. 

“Place looked like a dusty old museum, anyways,” Kipps smirked. “Needs more colour. I’m thinking we should paint the basement orange and pink, whaddya say?”

Lockwood huffed out a laugh. “Like I’m going to take decorating advice from someone who used to paste jewels on his rapier.”

Kipps just grinned. A few minutes later, a nurse came to check his bandages and Lockwood slipped out before she could turn her beady eyes on him. 

Holly and Lucy were waiting in the reception area, along with a bottle of iron supplements the doctor had prescribed for him and which they told him he was going to take if they had to hold him down and force feed him. Lockwood couldn’t help smiling down at Lucy as she threatened him. He reached out and took her hand, twining their fingers together, and she seemed to lose the thread of what she’d been saying.

George came hobbling out a short while later and together, they went home.

One fine spring day, many months after the Fittes Affair, Quill Kipps appeared at Portland Row before breakfast with a small, metal toolbox. He set it on the kitchen table before fixing himself a teacake and cup of tea. 

“What’s that for?” Lockwood asked between bites of toast.

“I noticed that someone left a note on the Thinking Cloth, just to the right of your elbow as it happens, that says ‘fix the taps.’”

Lockwood looked down, shifting aside the newspaper he’d been reading. Kipps was correct. The note was in his own handwriting, scrawled there so he would remember it needed his attention. The tap upstairs had been leaking intermittently for over a year. George had attempted to fix it any number of times but still somehow it always started up again. 

“Yeah,” Lockwood said tersely. “I’ve been meaning to get someone in.”

“Right,” said Kipps, sitting down with his tea cake and a cup of tea. “The thing is, I noticed it five months ago.” 

Shit, had it really been that long?

“I put a bucket under it,” Lockwood muttered.

“Yes, I noticed that too,” Kipps said, chewing. “But we don’t have any cases today, no interviews, no house projects. So I thought it might be a good time to take a crack at it.”

“Well, I appreciate that Kipps,” Lockwood sighed. Why did Kipps’ offer to fix the taps rankle so? 

“Sorry, perhaps I wasn’t clear. I thought it might be a good time for you to take a crack at it,” said Kipps.

“Me?” Lockwood asked, feeling his eyebrows rising into his hairline.

“Yes, you. You’re a grown man now, Tony. You’ve owned this house for years and you only have the vaguest notion of how to take care of it.”

“That’s hardly…” Lockwood began, but Kipps cut him off.

“No, I know. You’ve had a business to build and run, not to mention the Problem to solve. But the time has come. Today you will learn how to fix your own damn taps.”

Lockwood eyed Kipps as he ate his elevenses. Kipps had bought himself a flat from the money he made as a supervisor at Fittes. Lockwood had only visited it once, the day he asked Kipps to join them at Aldbury Castle. His impression had been one of sparseness. Cool, blank walls and enough furniture for one man, living alone. But as with all things Kippsian, it had been spick and span, everything as neat and orderly as clockwork.

Portland Row was very much the opposite of that and always had been. His parents were collectors and academics. His sister had been juggling school and raising Lockwood and taking care of everything to do with the house and finances. And he’d been running the agency out of the house since he was fifteen. Not to mention his two erstwhile roommates with their propensities for strange experiments and creative expression through disorganisation.

On the one hand, he liked the chaos. It felt like home. On the other hand, there was probably a line between eclecticism and dilapidation that Lockwood needed to stay on the right side of. Lucy had been a wonderful help in redecorating the house and George kept the kitchen well stocked with homemade treats. It was Lockwood’s responsibility to ensure that things actually worked.

Lockwood swallowed his last piece of toast, chasing it with the remainder of his tea. “Alright,” he said, placing his hands on the table and standing up. “Let’s do this.”

~~~

“Ugh, I’ve got grease on my shirt,” said Lockwood, twenty minutes later, lying awkwardly on his side under the sink in his and George’s bathroom.

“I told you to change into something darker.” Kipps’ voice floated down from somewhere above.

“I haven’t got anything dark. All my shirts are white. Also I think this connector is stuck.” 

“It’s not stuck, just put some muscle into it. You’re telling me you don’t even own a black t-shirt?”

“No, I have white and grey and one pink that was the unfortunate result of combining a load with George when he first moved in. I briefly owned a long sleeved black shirt but after using it for a spot of breaking and entering it went in the rubbish bin.”

Lockwood gave one last almighty haul on the wrench and the connector started to come loose. It took another minute, but finally it came off. “I got it,” he said triumphantly.

Kipps leaned down to examine the bit of hardware in Lockwood’s hand. “Ah, there’s the issue. It’s cracked. It looks like someone’s tried to fix it with plumber’s tape but that won’t really work in this case. We’ll need to make a trip to the hardware store.”

“Oh sure, we can do that at some point,” said Lockwood, scooting out from under the sink to sit up.

“At some point?” Kipps asked, raising a single, judgmental eyebrow.

“Yes, well, we obviously haven’t planned a trip to the hardware store today,” Lockwood said testily.

“And you and George will brush your teeth in the bathtub until then? Or the attic?” Kipps nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m sure Lucy will be thrilled. I don’t expect it to take you more than four or five months to get around to it.”

“So you’re saying you think we should go now,” Lockwood said flatly.

“House projects are almost never a simple ten minute fix. Always account for at least one trip to the store per day, often two when you realise you’ve bought the wrong thing or forgotten something crucial. Of course you can always buy two just in case but then you need to return the extra.”

“Christ,” sighed Lockwood. “I think I prefer hunting ghosts.”

“Of course you do,” said Kipps offering him a hand up. “But that won’t last forever.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Any time,” Kipps smiled, clapping him on the back.

Despite his gloomy predictions, it only took them one trip to the hardware store. Kipps brought along the connector and they were able to find a close replacement. While they were there, Kipps loaded up Lockwood’s basket with essential tools and a toolbox similar to his own. Lockwood had picked up a larger toolbox with all kinds of neat little inserts, but Kipps made him put it back.

“Buy what you need with a little room to grow. You can always size up later if you need to.”

“Seems more efficient to just get the best right from the off,” Lockwood said.

“That’s how you end up with a basement full of gadgets that never get used and just spend time collecting dust.”

“How would you even know?” asked Lockwood, rolling his eyes.

“I’ve seen a lot of basements,” Kipps replied. Lockwood couldn’t argue with that.

They (Lockwood) installed the new connector and then they (Lockwood) tested it by plugging the sink, filling it to the brim with water, and then letting it drain all at once. Once the last of the water had disappeared with a loud sucking sound, Lockwood pulled the bucket out, finding no drips.

“Well, that seems to have done it,” said Kipps in a satisfied way.

“How do I know it won’t start leaking again in a week. That always seems to happen.”

“That’s because the tape was only slowing the leak, not fixing it. If it does start again though, you can try taking out other parts to see if there are more cracks. The connector needed to be replaced regardless.”

“Okay, well, good I guess.”

“Come on, Tony. I’ll buy you a beer with lunch.”

“Lucy is making sandwiches,” Lockwood pointed out. She’d called up to them fifteen minutes earlier. 

“Yes, and I saw a couple of bottles in the back of your fridge. Come on.”

Lockwood put the wrench into his new toolbox and closed it up. He decided to stick it under the sink, rather than take it all the way down to the basement. Luckily, the smaller box fit nicely.

“Hey, Kipps,” Lockwood called. Kipps turned in the doorway to look back at him quizzically. “Thanks.”

“Any time, Tony.”

Together, they went down to lunch.

[lockwood-fic-recs]

read & make out

by schokoleibniz on ao3

Rating: E | Category: M/M | Relationship: George/Kipps

(Click for summary)

It’s a slip of the tongue, George swears to himself. All thanks to Quill bloody Kipps running his mouth again, and George outs himself without thinking.

“Lucy’s not the one I’m interested in,” he blurts out, and he immediately winces at his honesty.

[monsterbananatv]

WIP game asks! Oh wow it was difficult to pick two. Never beating the big brother allegations and Lucy??? What're you doing here??? please!

Those are both of my Kipps fics!

Never beating the big brother allegations is technically just a title rn but it was going to be a 5+1 of some sort but as I was typing this I think I came up with a better idea. What if I made it the title of the series and have the series just be fics about Kipps being the reluctant big brother we know he is. I have a few ideas for different things… the chances of me writing them all and finishing is slim but there’s a chance because I really want to use this name lol. We shall see what becomes of it.

Lucy??? What’re you doing here??? is my after Lucy leaves l&co where does she go fic. Cause like her leaving is rather abrupt and honestly how quickly do we think she would she be able to find her apartment so where would she go for a little bit? Yup, Kipps’s. She shows up at his flat with nowhere else to go and he helps her out like the big brother he is. I don’t have much currently cause I got derailed trying to figure out how she would know his address but my goal is getting it done before Kipps appreciation weekend lol.

Here’s a snippet for you:

When Quill Kipps opened the door of his apartment late one bleary winter night, the last person he expected to see was one Lucy Carlyle, teary eyed and carrying everything she owned.

“Carlyle?” He thought maybe he was imagining her. He rubbed at his eyes but she remained standing there. “Why are you here?”

She avoided his eyes, staring down at her boots. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Thank you for the ask! I appreciate it ❤️

[shizuoi]

thank you to @synestheticwanderings for tagging me!! i'm sorry this is so late

RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

from a little something i'm working on for for quill kipps appreciation weekend 👀

And just like that, Kipps finds himself in the eye of the storm that's been battering his heart for as long as he can remember.

taggging anyone who wants to do this!!!

[synestheticwanderings]

Turncoat

Resigning was the right thing to do. He knew it in his bones. Still, it felt like he had just cut off his own hand.

Quill Kipps tries to find his way in the world after his Talent fades.

Written for Lockwood & Co. Angst Week 2023 Day 7: Use Your Senses talents | darkness | silence

part of the tin soldier series

1. Shedding

Quill ground his teeth as he filled out the forms on his desk. He had waited one month, then two, before filing to transfer Kat Godwin and Bobby Vernon off his team. Despite his promotion after their work on the Chelsea Outbreak, Quill could see the writing on the wall: the cases they were assigned were less and less prestigious, a waste of the two agents’ respective talents. The Dagenham slaughterhouse case had been a bloody joke, but it was the Rotherhithe sewage works that was really the final straw. It was a shame. They worked well together. But Bobby would be fine wherever he went, and his research skills needed to be put to use on real cases. He worried more about Kat, who was getting older and needed a supervisor who could shepherd her through the transition. But she still had some time left. She deserved cases that actually utilised her Listening.

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. He knew he was being disciplined, and why; Fittes didn’t take kindly to those who didn’t fall in line. But after Ned’s death, after the deaths of so many agents, it wasn’t even a choice to follow Lockwood & Co. into Aickmere’s. He was grateful that Carlyle had stuck her neck out for them, cajoled Tony into teaming up again. There’s no way either team would have survived alone. And they did more than survive—they succeeded. They found the source and stopped the Outbreak. He had done his job and done it well. He’d do it again. But it didn’t mean that Kat and Bobby had to go down with him. He did the right thing then and he was doing the right thing now, letting them move on without him.

So why did it all feel like shit?

Read the rest on Ao3

[synestheticwanderings]

lavender haze

He’s lost people before and so he already knows he only gets this one night. It’s part of the job, folding away your grief so you can fight. He’ll have to do it again. And again. He knows this. He hates this. It’s inevitable. 

Quill brings Jessica flowers (and then it goes how you’d expect).

part of the tin soldier series

It’s midnight when he arrives, early by his standards. Inside the threshold of the foyer, Quill thrusts a bouquet of lavender into her arms and kisses her cheek. There are roses and yarrow too—Just lavender feels too…sensible, he whispers in her ear—but the small purple flowers are her favorite, and they’re the star of the show.

Jessica inhales the sweet scent and feels her shoulders drop; a sigh of contentment escapes her mouth and she can sense the satisfied smirk blooming on Quill’s face even though her eyes are closed.

There’s a crash above them, and their eyes snap to the ceiling toward the loft. This time Jessica exhales trying to gather her patience. She leans her head back against the wall. Just one night, she whispers, I just want one night.

I know, me too, Quill responds gently. His thumb smooths the worry on her brow. Go ahead and see what Tony’s gotten up to. I’ll put these in water, he offers.

She shakes her head. It’s an unspoken rule that he stays in the sitting room. He hasn’t met Anthony yet, and she isn’t quite ready to introduce them. She knows her little brother has seen the young agent coming and going, though. Just a friend, she insists to anyone who asks.

Everyone knows that’s not true.

Anthony calls her name. She is not the only girl her age playing mother, but it sometimes feels like it. Climbing the stairs, she pauses at the door to her bedroom. All these years later, boxes were still arriving from Donald and Celia’s travels. She should start going through the some of them tomorrow.

When she gets up to the loft, everything is in place, including Anthony in his bed. He’s perfectly fine, just seems to have trouble sleeping and wants to be tucked in. Is your friend here? he grumbles. He already knows the answer, it’s why he called her up here in the first place.

Quill is waiting patiently for her on the sofa when she finally comes back down. True to their rule, his hands are still wrapped around the bouquet. He gives her a tired smile. He’s lost people too—they don’t talk about it much, but it’s there, their losses and the accompanying whispers on the street tying them together. It’s new, this thing with Quill, but it’s easy. It’s so easy.

Jessica brings in a vase of water and shears, carefully unwrapping the butcher paper before cutting the stems onto the coffee table. She feels his eyes on her as she arranges the flowers. It’s a soothing ritual they have, the only time she doesn’t mind being watched. When she’s finished, Quill rewraps the discarded clippings into the brown paper and tucks it into his jacket. His hand cups her cheek, and she melts into him. She just wants to stay here.

Read the rest on Ao3.