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mazywrites · 3 months ago

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'A FAVOUR' short pt2

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem! reader

SYNOPSIS: lucy notices the phone number on the back of lockwood’s hand

THEMES: slowburn, enemies to lovers

REQUESTED BY: @that-choir-girl

WARNINGS: lockwood’s isn’t very nice, sort of similar to his relationship with kipps in the series. reminder that this is purely fictional, so if you don’t like how he is portrayed just don’t read it :)

NOTES: a very short part two to a series. i’m so endlessly sorry to the person who requested this for taking so long, i’m drowning in work at the moment. I’ve written a VERY long remainder to the series but for now i’m just posting this tiny segment so to help my own conscious lol.

here’s my masterlist not proofread yet || leave a comment below to join my taglist! requests are currently open but it may take a while for me to get around to them

My work is not to be reposted, copied, translated or used in any form without explicit permission from myself.

“Why’s there a number written on your hand?”

It was one of those rare nights where the house was quiet, bar the distant rumble of traffic from the main roads, or the buzz of the kettle every so often in the kitchen. The living room was littered with papers, books, and an array of pens, some laid out across the rug, and others strewn on the sofas. Lockwood sat closest to the door, sifting through a pile of forms. In opposite armchairs sat Lucy and George, each searching through works of their own. It had been a long few days, filled with endless research and trips to the archives in search of any hints about their latest case—a huge home in the countryside with a rather disturbing history in far too many ways. They’d been recommended to the owner through a mutual friend—and Lockwood was determined to prove his agency’s worth. After all, the local newspapers were doing anything but.

The question had sounded so absurd, so out of place that Lockwood hadn’t even realised it was directed at him at first. He continued, tapping his pen rhythmically against the table as he read through a newspaper cutting, pausing only when George called his name. He looked up.

Lucy’s brows were raised, her hand paused mid-motion as she reached for something across the battered brown coffee table. George’s dark eyes were narrowed, his face unreadable.

“What?” Lockwood’s response came out as a sort of croak, and could feel his face burning up as he recalled the question.

“The number,” repeated Lucy, and her lips tugged upwards slightly. “On your hand.”

Lockwood paused, and suddenly the collar of his shirt was painfully tight. He looked down at the pen tattooed on his hand, forcing his brows up in mild surprise in a desperate attempt to mask the embarrassment he just knew was visible on his face.

“It’s nothing,” he told them far too quickly, and mentally facepalmed. “It’s for a case.”

“For a case?” repeated Lucy with an air of incredulity.

“For a case, yes.” He tugged at his tie, loosening it in a bid to ease the discomfort he found himself facing. “Would you pass me that jug off the side, George?”

George wasn’t so easily distracted. He shuffled in his seat, pushing the frames of his glasses further up his nose.

“For a case…as in a client’s number? On your hand?” He glanced in Lucy’s direction, as if searching for some sort of support from her. “That isn’t hugely appropriate, Lockwood–you do know we have an entire book to store these things?”

This got a snicker out of Lucy, but Lockwood didn’t look as amused. His lips pursed, gaze falling as he shook his head, spinning his pen between his fingers as nonchalantly as he could manage, despite the eyes he could feel boring into him. “It’s nothing like that.”

Lucy exhaled loudly, sitting back in her chair too with a teasing smile. “None of our business, George!” She exclaimed airily, shooting the boy a grin. “It must be private.”

Lockwood tutted. “It’s not—“

“You’re right, Lucy,” agreed George, with an upward tug of his lips. “We wouldn’t want to pry.”

“I’ve just told you it’s nothing like that!” exclaimed Lockwood with an air of outrage.

The nerve of it! To associate him with her, romantically at that, was suffocating, as unbearable as the girl herself. He wanted nothing more than to elaborate, to tell them exactly who the number belonged to, exactly why on earth it was sprawled across his hand—but he knew Lucy and George well enough to know that it would only make them worse. How on earth would he describe what had happened, how he’d been booted out of a cafe, doused in coffee and to add to injury, held out his hand for the girl’s number—it was absurd, yes, but it was exactly what Lucy needed to tease him even more. He wasn’t going to give them that opening. He reached to loosen his tie yet again as George nodded with a tiny smile, returning his gaze to the book before him.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Lockwood.”

Lockwood cursed under his breath, throwing down his pen and rising from his seat with a sigh. Perhaps they’d both looked up again, no, they had definitely watched but all he cared for now was a cup of tea. He’d barely shut the door and crossed the hallway when he heard a fit of giggles, no doubt Lucy’s, from inside the living room. Lockwood huffed, rubbing at his temples in exasperation when his gaze fell upon the phone sitting on the stand in the hallway. He looked down at the phone number again.

Was this really necessary?

Or was he just going to look like a fool?

No. Lucy had been the one to bring up her name when he had mentioned that he couldn’t get them an extra set of hands. This was her idea. Not his own. He was doing what she had asked, right? Even if she didn’t expect him to actually follow through.

Yet he was the one who was going to make all the phone calls. How desperate, how pathetic he must look, going to the most jarring girl he had ever had the distaste of meeting, simply because he had no other choice. Was she sitting somewhere right now, smug, waiting to ruin his case when the time would finally come? It disgusted him to think of it, to know he’d have to endure her accursed presence, that judging, distasteful nose in the air, that quick mouth that jumped on his every fault. It was a death wish, if anything, to be willingly cooped up with her, but unfortunately, he was in desperate need of money.

It was the world’s way, perhaps, of getting back at him after he’d laughed, practically celebrated her sacking from Fittes. He had invited around anyone he knew, anyone willing to come—God, even Arif had popped in for a while— filled with a sudden sense of festivity, and he knew exactly why. Drinks, food- he’d planned it all over a number of hours. That day had felt as though Christmas itself had come early, like he had been successful without truly trying.

Yet here he was. Lingering by the phone in the hallway, debating how desperately he did need the money, and the reputation. It wasn’t even a question, and he knew it. Lockwood reached for the phone, and began to dial shakily the numbers on the back of his hand.

He raised the phone hesitantly to his right ear, his heart drumming a fast beat similar to the ringing of the phone line. Every moment of waiting only seemed to trigger his thoughts more and more.

Why on earth was she taking so long to pick up? It felt like the phone had been ringing for a lifetime! A surge of outrage shot through him; had she given him a fake number? Had he been made a joke of?

Oh, he was going to kill the damn girl.

“Hello?” Sang a voice in his ear.

Nevermind, he wasn’t going to kill her yet. Perhaps after the case itself, he’d have a fleeting chance to grab her, shove her down a set of stairs and bolt. Or maybe he wouldn’t need to- maybe she’d rusted over the months working as a freelancer. The thought spread a grin across his face.

“Hello?” The voice repeated again, time with an air of slight impatience. Typical. Lockwood cleared his throat. “It’s Anthony Lockwood…of Lockwood and Co.”

Oh God. He slapped a hand to his forehead, his eyes clenched shut, and there was an awkward silence on the other end. When it didn’t cease, Lockwood cleared his throat, recollecting himself. “You’re still up for the case I asked you about?”

There was a pause. “Yes.” Her voice had lost all the initial emotion, suddenly void of any feeling, monotonous.

Lockwood hummed in response. “Well then, two days time. Mapelwood Manor, just off Kent.” He waited for a response, but it didn’t come. “Be there by curfew. Don’t make us late.”

She scoffed sharply. “You’ve got nerve. Don’t set the place alight before I get there.”

It was Lockwood’s turn to feel disrespected.

“You know, L/n, you—“

Lockwood paused, cut off by a muffled, distant voice in the background. The voice was slightly louder this time, indistinguishable but certainly calling her name.

“If that’s all?” She spoke again, with an air of hurriedness.

“Yes.” Lockwood lowered the phone slightly, debating how to end the call. A farewell?

But the buzz told him she had already put down the phone.

“Did you say L/n?”

Lockwood jumped at the sudden voice of Lucy. He turned, and there she stood by the door of the living room , leaning against the frame in a way that suggested she’d had time to make herself comfortable. Lockwood scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I did, yeah. She’s, er—“ he tried to manage a casual smile “She’s coming with us to Mapelwood.”

Suddenly, his face was burning again. He headed into the kitchen for that cup of tea, but the footsteps behind him said she was close in pursuit.

“What?” Lucy asked, incredulous. “How?”

Lockwood didn’t reply, turning away to fill the kettle—or to hide his face.

“You asked her to come?”

“Didn’t really have much of a choice, Luce.” He said, jaw tight. “And besides, you’re the one who told me to do it.”

“Told you?” He could practically hear her grinning. “I didn’t tell you to do anything, Lockwood, I mentioned her name in passing.”

Lockwood leaned back with a sharp exhale, recognising the look on her face. “Don’t even–“

“You’ve been telling us for years that you hate this girl…” She smirked. “Yet you’ve gone and asked her to join our case.”

“Don’t make it weird,” he warned, brows raised. “We’ve got no one else, and we need the cash.”

Lucy raised her hands in mock innocence. “Of course. Nothing more.”

“Lucy Carlyle.” Lockwood straightened up, meeting her gaze seriously. “This is one case. Once it’s over, we never see her again. She can go back to whatever she does when she isn’t pissing us off.”

“Now that’s mean,” interrupted Lucy. “And she doesn’t piss us off.“

“Well, she’s mean.” Lockwood sat back again, crossing his arms. “And she pisses me off. Let’s just hope she doesn’t mess anything up for us.”

“She wouldn’t, Lockwood. Not everyone is as petty as you.”

“It’s not about being petty.” Lockwood shook his head. “She’s argumentative. Thinks she knows it all. Can’t follow orders either. I think she’s got issues, if i’m honest.”

“Reminds me of someone.”

Lockwood heard the door click shut behind him.

This wasn’t going to end well.

#anthony lockwood #bring back lockwood and co #cameron chapman #george karim #lucy carlyle #ruby stokes #anthony lockwood x reader angst #lockwood and co #netflix #anthony lockwood x reader #lockwoodsbane #portlandrow #lockwood and co.#locklyle

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mazywrites · 5 months ago

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‘A FAVOUR’

pairing: anthony lockwood x fem! reader

SYNOPSIS: you’ve never got along with the infamous Anthony Lockwood, and to your displeasure, he turns up needing a ‘favour’

THEMES: slowburn, enemies to lovers

REQUESTED BY: @that-choir-girl

WARNINGS: none, just some dislike between characters

NOTES: part one to a series (my masterlist) not proofread yet || leave a comment below to join my taglist! requests are currently open but it may take a while for me to get around to them

My work is not to be reposted, copied, translated or used in any form without explicit permission from myself.

IT WAS RELATIVELY QUIET THAT AFTERNOON, the sun dipping finally and the cafe’s usual racket reduced to a gentle hum. Teaspoons clicked, chairs screeched lightly against the beige floorboards. Towering shadows were cast across the walls, and waiters were now beginning to sweep up beneath empty tables.

Perhaps you should have called it a day, at this point. Should have packed up the leather-bound notebook in front of you, paid your due and left. Perhaps that would have saved you from the encounter itself. But you didn’t.

Instead, you remained hunched over in your chair, pen in hand, scribbling away, drink forgotten. Your shoulders were angled, brows furrowed up in concentration.

That was precisely why you drowned out the sound of the bell above the cafe’s door, as well as the light, confident footsteps that followed.

It was common knowledge across London that Anthony Lockwood hated the idea of failure. If anything, he liked to think he had a reputation of being unbelievably successful in situations where anyone else wouldn’t be so. But with that came a sense of pride. His chest was knotted in frustration simply because he was within twenty meters of you, and he knew this was only going to get worse. He hated this. You. Having to come to you of everyone it could have been.

He had stood by the door for a moment, scanning the room with a look that would suggest there was a disgusting scent in the air. There was nothing such, of course, but it didn’t stop his fingers from twitching in discomfort at the sight of you in the far corner alone. Typical. Always thought you were above socialising.

He lingered there for a moment, debating whether this was worth it. Worth approaching you. Would you refuse? Embarrass him?

You’d certainly be thrilled at doing so. The pair of you hadn’t ever gotten along, and he doubted you ever would. You simply had nothing in common. He couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been disliked between you both. You’d been the closest Agent to Quill Kipps, practically his shadow, for long enough to become familiar with Anthony Lockwood before the rest of London had.

More times than he could count on his fingers, Lockwood had crossed swords with Kipps. It didn’t take much provocation, in all honestly. There were moments when Lockwood liked to think that his quick mouth and disturbingly tragic humour left Kipps speechless- yet unfortunately, they were never long lived, because Kipp’s rather sharp-tongued colleague didn’t seem to back down as easily as he did.

Lockwood hadn’t thought much of it, when he had heard of you leaving Fittes and turning to freelancing. If anything, he had been thrilled at the idea. But he was with few options now, with a huge case hanging in the balance, but not enough hands.

He needed help. And as much as he loathed to admit it, you were the best for the job. And he didn’t have much of a choice, for DEPRAC were hardly on the best terms with him courtesy of a mishap on his end a few days prior. All he could do now was seek for a freelancer.

That was how he had ended up here to begin with.

He took a deep breath, straightened his collar and headed over, his heavy boots clicking with his every step. He stopped at your table, but you didn’t even look up. He cleared his throat.

Lockwood saw your gaze lift suddenly, brows raised in mild surprise. It was a look he hadn’t even thought you to be capable of, void of the usual look of distaste and instead curious, gentle even. It didn’t last. Your brows narrowed, and lips closed into a thin line.

“Lockwood,” you acknowledged, tone lacking any form of interest. You looked back down at your book, spinning the pen in your grasp in an attempt to look unbothered. “What do you want?”

A scowl crossed the boy’s face. Of course you weren’t going to let this be easy.

“I just need a word,” he told you, glancing around for a seat. You were grateful that you’d picked a table with no other chairs, but this didn’t seem to bother Lockwood at all; he dragged over a an empty one from a nearby table and dropped into it before you could even protest. He crossed his arms, leaning forward with his elbows propped up on the table. “It’s about a case.” You didn’t react, he noted, and continued with what you were doing carelessly. Lockwood swallowed back his pride, bracing himself for the inevitable. “I need a favour.”

He saw your gaze shoot up.

You paused for a moment, debating internally whether this was legit. You had worked with him in the past, under Fittes, and the only times he had willingly contacted your team was when he needed some background information that the public Archives wouldn’t provide him with. You assumed he just wasn’t aware you weren’t in a position to be of use.

“I’m freelancing now,” you informed him dismissively, focusing on your book again. “I don’t have access to the Fittes database.”

Lockwood muttered something incoherently under his breath, but the word ‘attitude’ wasn’t too hard to miss. You scowled up at him, but his face wasn’t surprised at all. He was already aware, it seemed, that you weren’t going to be of any help with his research. But then what did he want? And how on Earth did he even know where to find you?

He seemed to spot you piecing this together, because he started again hurriedly.

“Look, i’m not exactly spoilt for choices,” he began, voice measured. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be anywhere near you if I had any other options.”

This made you pause for a moment. Lockwood watched you reach for the teacup at your side, movements painfully slow. There was a flicker of smugness in your eyes for a moment, as a wide smile came over your face. He bit back all the curses that came to mind.

“I thought your little group was finally getting somewhere!” you exclaimed, in a tone so mockingly gentle. You took a sip of your warm drink. “Did DEPRAC realise you’re not worth the trouble?”

A muscle in his jaw clenched visibly, his hands curling up into fists in irritation. He loathed this about you, the way you always knew how to throw salt into his wounds, twist the knife that had already been stabbed so far into him, poke him repeatedly with a stick until he would burst. You’d done it the first day he had met you, looked at him with a condescending smirk that made his mind spiral. It was the influence of Kipps, no doubt, but that didn’t make it bearable.

Damn it. This wasn’t a time to dwell.

“It’s nothing to do with DEPRAC. I need you on a case.”

Your eyebrows arched up again at this. Lockwood watched you rock forward onto your elbows like him, with a fleeting look of curiosity.

“And why on Earth would I do that?” You asked coldly. The smile had disappeared. “Correct me if I’m mistaken but you spent the entirety of my time at Fittes making my job much more difficult than it should have been.”

This seemed to outrage him. “Difficult?” He demanded loudly, and a few heads turned in your direction. “It’s not my fault you like to turn up in places you aren’t needed!”

You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest and leaning back. This just wasn’t true. “Just get lost, Lockwood. I can’t even sit and have a drink without you rocking up to piss me off.”

Lockwood clicked his tongue, glancing about. “Bring it down a notch, love. I’d rather deal with a type two with no chains than be anywhere near your arrogant ass.”

A sound of rage left your lips at this, both the insult and the stupid little term he had used. You slammed the book infront of you shut with a bang. Lockwood bit back a grin, leaning back as you tossed your belongings into your tote bag, tea now forgotten. “If anyone’s arrogant,” you told him, standing up with a flourish of your sleeves and swinging the bag over a shoulder. “It’s you, you insufferable prick!”

Oh, but he knew exactly how to get to you. Lockwood ignored the insult entirely, instead shooting you a smile and motioning towards the drink you were leaving behind. “Not gonna have that tea?”

That did it for you. Within seconds, you had taken the cup in hand and tossed the contents onto the arrogant prat before you. Lockwood barely had a moment to react; he spluttered as it hit him, eyes clenched shut as it sunk into the collar of his shirt and slid down his face. When he pried open his eyes, you looked just as shocked as he felt. His neck was burning, colour rising awkwardly in his cheeks. He didn’t even want to look around; the silence that had fallen told him enough.

“Goodness!” cried a voice over from the till, filled with disbelief. “I’ve just cleaned in here!”

Lockwood arose from his seat, wiping at his face with a hand as he turned. A middle-aged woman was storming over, her face scrunched up in scandal.

“I’m so sorry—“ he began, pushing back his chair as he glanced at you, brows raised as menacingly as he could muster. Your face was still, expressionless.

The woman didn’t want to hear it. “Out!” she ordered, her nostrils flared. “Now!”

The pair of you didn’t need telling twice. The cafe was silent during your walk of shame heading outside onto the street. As rhetorical door swung shut, you paused, still in disbelief. Lockwood seemed taken aback too, because he did the same. The air between you wasn’t tense, nor one of annoyance; it was simply incredulity.

Lockwood scoffed suddenly. “What was that?”

You felt your face redden as you shifted your weight onto one leg, arms crossed defensively. “It’s your fault.”

He shook his head. “And now my coat’s ruined.”

This got a smirk out of you. You turned, ready to leave. “I guess I have good aim.”

Lockwood snorted, falling into step beside you, much to your annoyance. “There was hardly much of a window to miss.”

“Well now that you’ve had me kicked out, you can leave me alone, Lockwood.” You said pointedly, picking up your speed slightly.

He followed closely. “I said I’ll leave you alone! Just shut it for a second and listen! It’s a big case, and I need an extra pair of hands. Two times your usual rate!”

There had to be a hidden agenda. There always was with Anthony Lockwood, and no one ever realised until it was too late. Your steps faltered and you stared at him in search of it.

But his gaze didn’t waver. It was almost…reassuring.

You bit your lip, and his gaze followed the movement. He paused for a second, then seemed to gather himself, clearing his throat. “Three times it then. But that’s the best I can do.”

You raised a hand subconsciously to your face and sighed. “What’s the case?”

Triumph flicked through his brown eyes, and he suddenly seemed to have a spring in his step as he began to move. You followed in pursuit to your own surprise, maintaining a distance.

“It’s simple,” he told you, but you had dealt with him too many times in the past to believe this instantly. “But it’s a well-known client. Huge house, lots of cash…” he trailed off.

“And Dangerous.” You finished.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t have all the details yet but going in there with just three of us is a suicide mission.”

“And so you thought you’d take me along.”

Lockwood narrowed his brows. “God, you’re so negative all the time. I just thought you’d be good for the job, but go believe whatever you like.”

He grimaced as though he’d said something poisonous.

You tapped a foot on the pavement, but ceased immediately. The last thing you were going to do was look worried infront of him. Was this some sort of hoax? It felt it. But something about the desperation in his eyes had said otherwise. Yet you didn’t want to take any chances.

“You’ll draft up a contract then?”

Lockwood shoved a hand into his pocket. “I will.”

You nodded. His face scrunched up as he fished around in the pocket, but it seemed that whatever he was looking for wasn’t there.

“What?” You asked suspiciously. The movement made you recall a tale Kipps had told you not too long ago, where the two boys had argued and Lockwood had dug a flare from his pocket and lobbed it at your former teammate.

Lockwood looked up at you. “Had a business card.” He muttered, now emptying out the pockets of his trousers. “Hold on.”

You watched incredulously as he searched for what felt like an hour, shaking out his coat over and over again.

You sighed, reaching into your own bag. “Just give me the number.”

He paused mid motion. You looked at him. Why on Earth was he turning red?

Oh, for Goodness sake!

“Don’t tell me you don’t even know the telephone number for your own company.”

He didn’t reply.

You let out a huff. “Write mine down then.”

You dug into your bag and pulled out a ballpoint pen, before holding it out to him. Lockwood went to grab it rather irritably, but you pulled it away, face contorted in disgust as you studied his hands, squinting. “Have you got tea on your hands?”

Lockwood let out a grumble. “Need I remind you that you threw it on me?”

You weren’t letting those tacky hands anywhere near your belongings, and the idea made his insides shrivel up in aggravation all over again.

The pair of you stared at eachother with an air of displeasure yet again. Lockwood let out a sharp exhale and tugged back slightly at one of his sleeves. He held out the back of his hand, waiting expectantly.

You sucked at your teeth, clicking the back of the pen without making eye contact. It was awkward, trying to scribble your contact without touching him at all, but it was of course impossible. Instead, you gave in, taking it firmly, sure to dig your nails into his hand as casually as you could manage. He tensed as you wrote, pressing so harshly that there were dents on the back of his hand for a few seconds.

The moment it was done, you let go as if his hand was hot coal.

Lockwood stepped away too, his face burning as he looked around.

“I’ll er— give you a call.”

You merely nodded in response. Lockwood turned away without another word.

Thank you so much for reading! As usual, any comments or thoughts left are much appreciated! Comment to join my taglist!