#phill.l&c

[philliam-writes]

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.”

taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear

#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 reader #reader insert #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert #phill.l&c

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [masterlist]

When Kipps asks you to help out on a case, you think nothing of it until you get into a mystery with stakes so high you should have maybe become an acrobat instead of psychic agent.

Working with the notorious Lockwood & Co. agency is the last on your list of unexpected problems, especially because growing familiar with every one of its agents opens the door to truths you've long buried—even the one to your past you've locked away behind high-security steel doors with the intention to never cross its threshold.

Content (Warnings): canon typical violence & horror, angst, loss of family member, grief and loss, slight ptsd, slow burn, rivals to lovers, platonic lockwood & co/Reader, childhood friends! Kipps & Reader, found family, mature language, aged up characters (everybody is in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s)

◘ 01: let the dead hollers hum

• words: 5.1k • 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.”

◘ 02: for whom the bell tolls

• words: 7.3k • summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

◘ 03: wring those embers

• words: 4.3k • 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?”

◘ 04: there's a kind of calling

• words: 4.6k • summary: Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

If you would like to join the taglist, just let me know! Also posted on Ao3. If you enjoy it, I'll give you tons of kisses for some coffee!

#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 reader #reader insert #lockwood reader insert #l&c reader insert #phill.l&c #best friends reader and kipps

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [04]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader

Content: no warnings apply (except Lockwood being a lil dum-dum but we love him for it)

Summary: Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

Notes: [01] || [03] | [05]

Words: 4.6k

A/N: this is for @tangledinlove, my beloved, who without i'm not sure if i would be back to writing this as enthusiastically. or at all. your writing gives me a home to return to and tons of love. thank you for that.

after the cancellation of s2, i got really unhappy, especially with my writing/the story compared to the other gems on this platform, so if this at some point disappears or i stop uploading, i'm sorry in advance. until then, i keep going and creating for you guys a second home as best as i can. love you all ♥

04: there's a kind of calling

shoulder the sky (i can’t wait to show you how much) open those eyes (i know you can be, just let the rain come) there’s a kind (let the rain come down, darling) (can’t you hear it howling?) of calling, calling — The Amazing Devil: The Calling

He stands tall in the doorframe, like a praetorian from the elite Roman military force, spatula in one hand to strike, a saucepan lid, fogged from condensation, in his other hand to defend. Most importantly though, he is not wearing any pants.

Lockwood gives him a dejected look. “George. We talked about wearing no pants outside of your room.”

“I see you brought her back,” George replies, ignoring Lockwood. His small, dark eyes seem exceptionally sharp behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Why did you bring her back?”

Old retirees whose lawns you’ve trespassed on have greeted you more kindly. But as with any building you enter, the rule is not to hesitate at the threshold, so when Lockwood and Lucy walk inside, you follow right after them.

Portland Row at the edge of dawn was enticing like Sleeping Beauty. Now at evening it is something else entirely: a waft of warm, spicy smell engulfs you: tumeric, onions, safran. Roasted chicken, a lemony tang—the whole mix is mouth-watering and for a moment you get dizzy from hunger. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten; your stomach growls more horrifying than the rumbling of a Raw-bones at night.

“Look alive, George, this case is far from over!” Lockwood announces. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the rack, shaking out his wet hair. Cold water is trickling down the back of his neck, dampening his collar. A sudden shower has surprised you on the way back, making the ride back in the cab even more uncomfortable in addition to sitting squeezed next to Lockwood and making sure your knees don’t touch. “And she’s kindly agreed to lend us a hand.”

George eyes you, from top to bottom. His nose twitches a little as though he’s smelling a wet dog, but then he gives a twitch that vaguely resembles a shrug before he ducks into the kitchen. “I’ll get another plate out.”

“Oh, I can get take out—” you start.

“Nonsense.” Lockwood waves in the general direction of the wooden floor, signalling you to leave your bags in the hallway. “George’s food is something you have to try. Zereshk Polo, isn’t it, George? This will also give us an opportunity to decide on what to do next, and share everything we know.”

“Where’s she staying, Lockwood?” Lucy asks. Her wet hair sticks to her forehead and cheeks, and she brushes it impatiently behind her ears. “Last time I checked, we don’t have any spare rooms.” She narrows her eyes at him in a certain way that suggests she doesn’t want you bunking in her room. Not that you mind. You’re not too keen on sleeping in the same room with someone else either.

“The library was fine,” you say, dropping your bags where Lockwood has shown you. “And it’s only for this night. I’ll try and find another place first thing tomorrow.”

Lockwood purses his lips. “I would rather you stay here until we find whoever is out there thinking that you have the key. You have become an essential resource for this case, one I’d rather not put in danger.”

There’s a profound silence, only disturbed by the sizzling in the kitchen and George’s quiet, off-tune humming.

Responsibility. Lucrative agent. Resource. It seems everyone is happy to fit your whole existence into one word; put you inside a cardboard box, slap a postage stamp on your forehead as though you’re some ghastly parcel to be shipped off when taking up too much space; being too inconvenient. Looks like even Lockwood and Co. is no different from the other agencies, a sobering revelation that is surprisingly disappointing.

A flash of bitterness passes over Lucy’s face, but it fades quickly. “Lockwood—” she begins, drawing herself up. Her voice seems dangerously sharp like the edges of broken glass, and standing between them, you’re surprised that your head is not immediately razed off by the laser sharp intensity of whatever weird staring contest Lucy and Lockwood are currently engaged in.

Lockwood’s response is his dark eyebrows drawn together in a puzzled frown. But before he can say something, you speak up, voice sweeter than saccharin, “Your resource would love to take a shower first before we start. Is that OK?”

That’s when Lockwood realises. All colour drains from his face, then comes back as two crimson spots high on his cheeks. “I—”

“Yes.” Lucy’s eyes are still on Lockwood, her voice oddly distant. “I’ll jump into the shower myself, but the boys’ bathroom is just upstairs.” When she brushes past Lockwood, she sends him a glare that is sharper than the rapier she pulls out of her holster and stuffs inside the umbrella rack. “And Lockwood will wait for his turn.”

Suits you just fine. You leave your kit in the hallway and take the bag with your clothes upstairs, past the masks and curios mounted on the wall, wooden-framed pictures and newsletter pages showing a younger Lockwood wearing a full-body fencing suit and grinning into the camera like the Cheshire Cat after winning a fencing tournament. It must be from the memorable day when Kipps got his ass handed to him, one of his less favourite subjects to dwell on from his past. Your chest twinges at the sight—Matthew would have attended too; he had been the best with a rapier out of you three, making it almost look as easy and graceful as dancing.

You draw your shoulders together and follow after Lucy, banishing the thoughts and echoes from the past before they can rise to an awful noise in your head. A shower, some food. A plan. Brick by brick you can rebuild yourself.

Lucy drops you off at the threshold of a small square bathroom, simply gesturing into the room with an awkward wave of her hand. It’s completely white-tiled with simple furniture and a few dried out plants at the windowsill. The blinds are drawn shut and with the sun setting the room is turning darker by the minute. A few dark heaps of clothing lie scattered on the ground, hiding a square vine-patterned rug.

“Thanks,” you say, fumbling along the wall in search for the light switch. Lucy hesitates a moment, and you think she might say something. But then she turns on her heels and stalks another floor up, already starting to peel out of her soaked-in, woolly sweater.

You turn to the bathroom, standing still for a moment just to test how wild your thoughts run, how loud that creature inside your head howls. What a mess you dragged yourself into—or got dragged into, more likely. You’ll have to see Kipps soon and tell him what happened, and look out for a new apartment. You stand there, unmoving, shivering like aspen leave in high wind. One thing at a time. Rome wasn’t built in a day either.

Deposing your bag in a corner, you begin unpacking what you need. A cough from the door has your head whipping around. Lockwood is leaning against the doorframe. He seems to do that a lot, you think. Some guys are just meant to loom.

“Sorry we can’t give you proper accommodations. I’m sure you’re used to different things from the Rotwell dormitories.” His eyes glide over your head as though he’s taking in the bathroom for the first time. He’s playing with the ring on his right hand, twirling it around his thin finger. You force your eyes away from his slender piano-fingers and how hot they felt around your wrist this afternoon.

“Let’s be honest, all that Pomp and Circumstance means nothing.” You return pulling clothes out of your duffel bag. “They didn’t hesitate for a second to throw me out the moment I became an inconvenience.” The confession pries something open within you: an age-old chest of memories you’ve kept firmly locked and tucked away in the recess of your mind, now yielding in his presence. The same thing has happened at the first agency you worked for, shortly after Matthew’s death. Nobody wanted to deal with the broken girl, the grieving girl who wouldn’t leave her room, who was suspended from work and then released. Had it not been for Kipps and someone else, someone very important and influential, you probably would have kept wandering in that darkness forever.

Not wanting to see the pity on Lockwood’s face, you sort your things and move towards the shower, pushing the flowery curtains aside.

After a moment, Lockwood’s voice comes again from the door. “You might want to wait until Lucy’s done upstairs if you don’t want to use the shower George and I use,” he says, but it sounds a little wrong as if those aren’t the words he wants to say but doesn’t know how to get the right ones out.

Wondering what it is he can’t say, you reply without thinking, “It’s OK. I had a brother, I don’t mind sharing with boys.”

Lockwood is very still for a moment. His face has changed. “Had?”

Only then your brain registers what you’ve said. You keep your expression blank when you look at him. “Mind if I take one of your towels?”

Lockwood answers your look alike. Something passes between you in that moment, but you don’t have the words, or insight into him, to understand what it is. He slips past you and pushes a pile of towels off the toilet seat with the tip of his slippers. “Not those. They’re George’s.”

From a bottom drawer, he pulls out a fresh towel. “Here, I, ah … hope you don’t mind.” He hands it to you and immediately, you notice it smells like him—lavender soap and clean cotton. A little like … sunlight. Clean and warm. You quickly snatch it from his hands and turn your face away, afraid he can see what you think.

When there’s nothing left to say, he shuffles out of your way. “Well then, good luck.”

You snort. “With taking a shower?”

“Imagine slipping and breaking your neck on a shower tile. I wouldn’t want a Visitor like that in my house.”

“Fair point.”

He gives a little awkward smile.

You feel the corner of your mouth twitch.

Lockwood pulls the door shut behind him, and you wait until you hear him disappear downstairs before you peel out of your sweat-stinking top and sliced pants. The water is hot on your skin but a welcome change. During those ten minutes your head is blissfully empty and silent, granting you a moment of respite as you focus on how the hot drops pelt on your skin. After another ten minutes, you step out before they assume you managed to drown like a turkey.

You quickly scrub yourself dry and slip into some comfortable clothes. It’s a wonder what a little cleaning up and a set of fresh clothes can do to make you feel like a normal human again. Now, if Karim’s food tastes as good as it smells, you might sleep like a baby tonight.

The steam follows in wispy tendrils out onto the floor when you open the door. The sound of clattering dishes and voices draws you downstairs where you pause at the kitchen’s entrance, unsure if you should step in. It feels as though you’re about to intrude into their sacred space—their safe haven.

Before you can think of sneaking off and getting take-out, Lockwood spots you. He’s taken off his tie and opened the first buttons of his shirt. When he moves, you see the elegant curves of his collarbones, like the frail wings of a small bird. “Come on in,” he says. “You’ll love George’s cooking.”

You blink, dazed. Step in. The smell of exotic spices engulfs you. Your mouth waters at the sight of the colourful dishes—fresh tomato and onion salad, fluffy steaming rice, an assorted cutting board with nuts, olives, feta cheese and Gouda. It is a feast fit for royalty.

As they settle around the table, you take the seat at the other side of Lockwood. Someone’s already piled an enormous mountain of rice with a beautiful golden chicken leg on top on your plate. You prepare your stomach with some strong herbal tea and freshly backed garlic naan before you dive for the main course. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten a home-cooked meal, not to mention something this delicious.

“So, what did you guys find?” George asks with his mouth full. “I doubt she’d be here otherwise.”

You hardly care about his flippant attitude—not with the savoury, and slightly spicy rice dancing on your taste buts. So you just slide over the coin towards the table’s centre. Three heads lean forward. You keep chewing, blissfully relishing in the taste and texture.

“George, do you know what kind of coin that is?” Lucy asks, her lips curled around a straw as she drinks orange juice.

He picks it up, a piece of naan tucked between his teeth. In an instant, he is out of his chair and moves out of your sight. You hear a door to your right swing open, leading down to the cellar, you think, as you watch George disappear downstairs. The few minutes he’s gone you spent in polite silence, too engrossed in eating your way through the assorted finger food plates George has prepared. When he returns, he’s already inspecting the coin through a bronze magnifying glass.

“It’s not a coin, for starters,” George says. “I think it’s a … a badge? But the pins broke off, that’s why you mistook it for a coin.”

“And the symbol?” Lockwood leans closer to George, exhibiting more interest in the small object than his dinner plate. You’re already halfway done with yours. “Any idea what it could be?”

George chews on his bottom lip. “Hard to say. I mean, the symbols by themselves are pretty clear. The infinity symbol was first used mathematically in the 17th century, but it’s much, much older, dating back to Viking Age. In modern mysticism, it’s become identified with a variation of the ouroboros, that’s my closest guess. The cross is a lot more straightforward, but I doubt you want to listen to me going into Christianity in front of your salads.”

“You think you’ll have more luck finding something in the Archives?”

“The problem’s not the lack of books on symbology—it’s the opposite. It’ll take weeks to go through all and find what we might need. And for whatever reason there are even more in the restricted section; I know because Bobby Vernon doesn’t shut up about it whenever he thinks he has to be especially annoying.”

“I’m surprised he can reach the door handle.” Lockwood pauses, eyebrows furrowed. “And we’ve got no luck yet getting the access permit for our agency.”

Lucy leans over and helps herself to more rice. “Any specific reasons why?”

Lockwood scowls, and quickly glances your way. “It seems that we are too small an agency to have access to the restricted sections,” he explains, clearly unhappy.

Lucy presses her lips into a flat line. George keeps his eyes on the badge, his free hand draws the same symbol on the table cloth, his food forgotten for the moment.

“I could always ask Kipps to task Bobby to find out what this is,” you offer. “Kipps, remember him? The guy you were supposed to work with on this case.”

“It is easy to forget him, why with his little to no contribution to pretty much anything,” George replies.

Lockwood clears his throat. “Well, since technically the case is solved because we’ve contained the source, I don’t necessarily need him.” He pokes around his plate. “And since he’s paid his debt to me, I’d prefer not owing him in return.”

You shake your head. Men and their fragile ego. “In that case, I might have something for you.” You grab a handful of nuts from a small bowl and move to the hallway. Your kit is still where you’ve left it and a quick search gets you what you need.

Back in the kitchen, you flick the library pass in front of George, and relish in noticing his standoffish attitude wiped away by genuine surprise for a moment.

“Rotwell has its own research department for cases,” you explain. “We field agents don’t get access to the restricted areas, but someone didn’t pay attention when I applied. I’ve always had permission to enter.”

George touches the edges of the little plastic card as though it is a golden credit card. “You mean, I can just take it? And use it?” There’s a sparkle in his eyes, vibrant and strong and very much infectious.

“Unless you want me to ask Bobby—”

George beams at Lockwood. “I’ll go to the Archives first thing tomorrow.”

“There seems to be just one problem,” Lucy points out, tapping the plastic card with a black-polished finger. “Unless you’ve got a surprise prepared for us, George, you are not a girl.”

Everyone looks at your name in bright red letters on the card.

George scoffs. “Gender is just a social construct—”

“Luce, go with George and see if you two can find anything about that symbol,” Lockwood says. “Be discreet and cautious; don’t let anyone know what you’re looking into. Maybe you’ll find additional info on the case we have tomorrow. You know, the one for that man who looks like a rat. Best take your kit with you.”

Lucy hesitates for a moment, sharing a quick glance with George. “What are you going to do?”

Lockwood’s eyes find yours—you’ve had an idea about how to proceed next when he offered you to stay at Portland Row. Knowing what will come puts a damp on your appetite.

“We could go back to where we found the key,” Lockwood says to your surprise—something completely different than you have expected. “See if there’s anything where it could fit.”

“Who gave you the job?” you ask. “I want to know more about that Visitor. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing.” George goes back to wolfing down his food.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Lockwood repeats severely.

“You’re joking.”

“Last time I checked, we’re agents,” Lockwood says mildly. “Not comedians.”

“Kipps would usually say you’re more like clowns.”

Lockwood clears his throat. “It was supposed to be an easy job. Secure the source, stop the Visitor. DEPRAC had the job available for agencies but everybody gave up on it at one point. We read the file, so we knew what would wait for us. It got to one Dullop and Tweed operative, ghost-locked him. Another one died, unlucky fellow.” For a moment, Lockwood pauses and watches a drop of condensation run on the inside of his orange juice glass. “The client’s the Abbey Mills Pumping Station. About five months ago, they started undergoing reparations on their flooded C Station Pump House. We think that’s what laid the Source bare, it must have been submerged in the water until they started draining the station because that’s when the workers began reporting a permanent chill in one area. They started avoiding that area owning to feelings of faint depression and nausea, followed by strong miasma, ghost-chill, the feeling of being followed and watched while working. Some felt horrible anger towards their colleagues. Up to the point where they would be consumed by it, started beating each other with spanners and shovels. They found the first victim drowned, though it wasn’t clear if it was another employee or the ghost’s fault. Gave DEPRAC quite a headache, figuring out it’s a ghost problem, then finding an agency that can find the source. They dubbed him the Phantom of the Sewage Cathedral.”

You pull up your nose. “Quiet a title. That Visitor must have died there then,” you wager. “Have you checked the station’s accident log?”

“Of course not, we’re bloody amateurs,” George says drily. You bite back a sharp retort. “Nothing in the log stood out. Of course it had its fair share of accidents. It finished construction in 1868 and we all know they didn’t care much for worker’s safety back then. But during the flooding two years ago, there we no fatal accidents. No one died. And when we located the Source, there was no body.”

“You think the key got in there at some point? From where?”

George shrugs. “Anywhere? The pumping station lifts sewage from the London sewerage system into the Northern Outfall Sewer and the Lee Tunnel, which both run to Beckton Sewage Treatment Works. They key also doesn’t look like it’d fit anywhere in the pumping station. I assume it’s older than that. I’m talking 16th-century older.”

“But the thing is,” Lucy says, her hands pressed flat against the table. Her eyes are wide open, glinting. “The ghost we saw is nowhere near that old. The clothes he’s wearing are from the modern era, and he wasn’t decomposed or rotting. I don’t think he’s been dead for that long. It’s sad, isn’t it? He died and to this day, nobody knows he’s gone … nobody is looking for him.”

“Yes, yes, very unfortunate.” Lockwood waves her concern away with an impatient wave of his hand. “I am more concerned for the living though. Not only have we a dangerous Visitor on us. Whoever is looking for the key isn’t afraid of using violence to get it.”

“Maybe the ghost would find his peace if only someone brought him justice,” Lucy shoots back. You notice the anger flashing in her eyes when she looks at Lockwood, hear the impatience in his voice when he brushes her concern for the ghost off like that. Interesting.

“That’s not much to go on,” you say into the silence of Lucy and Lockwood glaring at each other. Your eyes trail around the kitchen, set on the window. Through it you see part of the garden, unkempt and overgrown. Somehow you can’t imagine them sitting out there and drinking apple juice from the apple trees, Lucy in a floaty knee-length skirt and sandals, and Lockwood with a blue cotton shirt, an enormously baggy pair of shorts with flowers on them, and sneakers. “We don’t have a name, no history, and the Visitor might not have any connection to where you found his source.” You chew slowly, cogs turning in your head. When your eyes catch George’s, he is watching you, calm but with intention. You lower your spoon, appetite ebbing away.

“Oh, but we do have one last thing that might help us.” George leans forward, brown eyes gleaming behind his spotless glasses. His face is predatory but his voice is gentle. “Our psychic Talents.”

The bottom falls out of your stomach. It’s like putting a foot wrong on a frozen creek, the crack of ice, the sudden stop, the knowledge that there is nothing beneath but dark water.

“So that’s why you guys really want me here.” Your accusation bears no malice, just the chill and composition of a sniper routinely loading a rifle before making her hit. “Did it ever cross your mind I might say no?”

George falls back into his chair, a deceptively relaxed posture but from the way he flexes his hands on the table it looks as though he’s gearing up for a fight. “It’s the best lead we got. A psychic connection to the ghost might give us a hint on who murdered—”

“We know who murdered him,” you snap. “The same person who wants to put me six feet under next.”

“Would be the logical conclusion, but we’ve made the same mistake once. It’s never that simple.”

“George.” That’s Lockwood’s voice, calm yet firm. You wouldn’t describe his posture like George’s, slouching in his seat; Lockwood is leaning back, fingers steepled. He holds your gaze, purposefully, and you have to look away from its intensity. “No more experiments with psychic connections, we agreed to that.” His brown eyes slide lazily toward Lucy who has her mouth open in what seems like protest, but immediately closes it. For a moment you think her gaze sets on the ceiling as though there is something beyond the brick and mortar, an area or room in this house that would underline her point.

The question mark must be evident on your face. “My speciality is Listening,” Lucy explains. “Touch amplifies it sometimes, but I didn’t get much except sounds from the key, rapid footsteps, shouting, a gunshot—”

“Yeah,” you quickly say before the tang of stale water and foul soil can spread on your tongue. You try and wash it down with tea, welcoming the scalding heat in your mouth. Absently, you rub the spot on your chest where you know the Visitor was shot. “Yeah, I know, it’s uh … not a pleasant source.”

“I’d like to deal with a pleasant source for once,” George mumbles. He’s finished his plate, fingers tapping now on the edge of the table. He flicks impatient looks at Lockwood, who pretends not to notice. “So basically, the only thing we can do now is trying to find something in the Archives, at least regarding that symbol. Oh, and hoping whoever’s after that key doesn’t break in here next. That would be annoying, since it wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m quite fond of our new rug.”

“I know what you’re trying, George,” Lockwood says, with the annoyance of a man who’s already said this often enough, and who also wants to move past this specific topic but can’t. “If this were our last resort, I still wouldn’t force her—or anyone to do something this dangerous.” He’s crossed his arms, eyebrows furrowed. The fact that he’s mindful of your discomfort using your Talent comes as a genuine surprise.

“You didn’t seem to mind the first time I did it,” you throw in, watching him intently. Lockwood’s shoulders draw together.

“Technically, it was Kipps who brought you in,” he says. “I do want this case solved, but I am against getting involved with ghosts in any way.” His eyes rest on Lucy for a moment, heavy and contemplative. She makes an impressive job of not meeting his gaze.

You look down at your hands as though the answer of all your problems lies within your gloved palms. Either you stick to Lockwood’s plan, keep your hands away from the key, or you stop running from your own Talent. If what you interpret correctly between the unsubtle allusions of Lockwood, Lucy’s Talent doesn’t appear to be your run-off-the-mill Listening either.

A muscle in your jaw clenches, as though you’re chewing on your words before you speak. Finally, you breath, “OK. Let me do it.”

Lockwood stirs in his seat. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. But I hate sitting around and doing nothing even more.”

“All right,” he says slowly. “That means you two stick to the plan and go to the Archives tomorrow. I’ll meet up with you down at the factory for our case.” Lucy and George nod. Lockwood turns to your next. “And you and me will try and see what else the Visitor can show us.”

“Are you sure it’s going to be OK with just you two?” Lucy asks.

“We should start right after dawn breaks,” you say, “when the ghost is at his weakest. What can go wrong?” It will turn out later the answer to that is simple: everything.

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[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [05]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Warnings: violence, death (minor character), ptsd and anxiety (but also sort of comfort)

Summary: Your name. He snarls your name; your name that is sharpened against the marble of his teeth like a weapon, a spark that rips into the marrow of your bones. Like a hook yanking you back into the present, the now. The fight leaves your body, you sag against the ground as you choke on adrenaline. And his—Lockwood’s nails dig deep, half-crescents of fire into your skin. “Come. Back.”

Notes: [01] || [04] | [06]

Words: 7k

A/N: a longer chapter cuz where i initially wanted to stop didn't feel like enough and i really wanted another cliffhanger. next chapter will be about reader's past and i can't wait to introduce you all to matthew. i also rlly enjoyed writing this (especially the whole possession bit, and after that it sort of turned meh). hope you guys enjoy!

05: carry whispers from the dead

You wake up hours before dawn, anxious and restless. The black bookshelves stand like dark, tall shadows around you, silent sentinels guarding you in your sleep. It’s the first time you’re alone with your thoughts; locking them away behind a brittle door works only for so long until they break out and descend like ravenous hyenas upon your despair.

Astonishing, how your whole life has turned upside down within two days. Working for Rotwell has never been your dream job, but it was secure, the payment always on time and there was prestige to it. If this is a sign to change professions, switch to a safer job with less risk to die a horrible death at the hands of ghosts and ghouls or any other occupational hazards, you’re blind to it.

Imagining yourself doing anything else than what you’ve done for more than a decade is near impossible—you’re good at getting rid of ghosts, swinging a rapier and chucking salt bombs across the yard with a sharp shooter’s precision. Anything else? Hopeless case. Your hobbies? None that you want to turn into a profession.

Freedom is a bitter, foreign taste, but one you know you will grow accustomed to. Getting your business running will have to wait though until you’ve solved the greater mystery. Into the dark, you draw the badge’s symbol with your index finger. Even with your eyes closed, you can still see it clearly, printed against the inside of your eyelids.

Why does it feel so familiar? Where have you seen it before? This feeling isn’t just curiosity; it is recognition and the profound desire to understand like hooks sitting deep beneath your skin.

Time trickles away, slowly like sand passing through an hourglass when behind the heavy dark curtains a slim sliver of grey grows as the world lightens. The house comes alive; wood creaks quietly as someone stalks downstairs. They pause in front of the library door, and you expect the door to creak open any second. But then they move back to the staircase, and down into the kitchen. You wait for a full minute before you get up, change into a new, fresh set of clothes and follow.

Morning light streams into the kitchen, softening every counter. When you enter the room, there is a voice talking—and then suddenly stopping. Lucy whirls around, her hands resting against the kitchen sink as she prepares to brew a pot of tea. Her eyes are wide, and then they pivot to something on the counter, something you haven’t seen until then. It’s a sealed silver-glass with a skull swimming inside the contained liquid. A skull menacingly cutting horrid grimaces your way.

Stopping mid-way to rubbing the remaining exhaustion from your eyes, you drop your arm. “That’s a Ghost-jar,” you notice, surprised. “You guys own a Ghost-jar?”

Lucy looks over—no, exchanges a glance with the skull inside the jar. Then she shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant as if that is nothing uncommon, but her shoulders are stiff. “It’s George’s,” she says quickly. “He’s erm … he’s doing research on it.”

“I thought only the big agencies have access to those.” You cross the kitchen to get a better look at it, bending down slightly so you’re eye-level. The skull manifests bits and pieces of flaky skin onto its bone, as though conjuring what it used to look like before it presses the masses of rotting flesh against the thick class, squashing its nose against it. “For something that’s dead, it seems very lively.”

Suddenly the skull stills. The skin peels back until it’s only bone, and the ectoplasm inside the jar flares in an ominous green light. You think it’s staring right at you, through you, even. Where its teeth stack neatly against each other, it moves them up and down, up and down as though . . .

“That’s funny. It looks as if it’s talking.” And then you remember a voice coming from the kitchen when you came downstairs. You look up at Lucy, brows furrowed. “Wait, were you talking to it?”

But Lucy is staring at you, a puzzled expression on her face. You’re sure your face must be a mirror of hers, because she couldn’t have had a conversation with the skull, right? She must have simply talked to it, like you talk to your pets when you’re alone with them and pretend as tough they understand you. Anything else would mean this is a Type Three ghost. Anything else would mean Lucy is able to hold a conversation with it and understand it. Something like this hasn’t happened since Marissa Fittes.

Lucy is relieved of an answer when her colleagues enter the sunlit kitchen, filling the tense silence between you with idle chatter. Your eyes draw involuntarily to Lockwood—this time not due to the early husky morning voice he unsuspectingly wields like a bludgeon, not knowing what effect it has on you, not because he just said “Stop sticking the skull inside the oven, George.”

You stare at Lockwood because this is the first time you see him not wearing his suit and tie, but a normal, plain, white T-shirt over grey sweatpants. It’s like seeing him without his armour, broken down to something so simple and casual, something so … intimate. The short sleeves end just under his shoulders, showing his arms which are . . . not particularly muscular, but he still fills out his shirt nicely. The neckline dips low against his collarbones, showing his long, elegant neck. He looks like any other boy—man, you think to yourself. Worse even, he looks exactly your type. You like to think of yourself as a very determined person, but nothing in the world can dissuade you from letting your gaze roam down his lean frame, and linger at this hips where his shirt hikes up to reveal a generous expanse of pale skin. Lower, against the grey fabric, there is a clear outline of—

“Let us know when you’re done.” George’s voice pounds like a sledgehammer against your eardrums. You whirl, stare at him staring at you staring at Lockwood, and hope the ground opens up under your feet and swallows you.

Lockwood locks eyes with you, and grins. A boyish, cheerful grin, showing the slightly pointy canines on either side of his teeth—which you find adorable. Why do you suddenly notice all these things about him? Maybe you need to plunge your head under the water tap to cool off. Or a nice punch to the jaw.

“Morning,” Lockwood says. “I see you’ve met our agency’s . . . mascot.”

The green light flares behind you, and when you look, the skull is spinning wildly in its jar, jerking up and down. You imagine if it could shake a fist at Lockwood, it would.

“Charming.” You clear your throat, making way for George who makes a face at you as if you’re an annoying fly that buzzes around his head. “Does it have a name?”

“We, uh . . . just call him Skull,” Lucy provides.

You look at the skull, which impressively manages to roll its eyes. Not that it has eyes. But you got the impression it is annoyed, which must be your imagination. This thing doesn’t understand you. “So you just hang out with it?”

“No, we—” Lockwood rests a pointed look on Lucy as he reaches for the jar and hefts it off the counter to store it inside a cupboard “—usually keep it away because it ruins George’s appetite. We’re no friends or comrades of ghosts.”

“Yeah.” George shuffles past you to put the kettle on. “It’s not like we can talk to it anyway. And it doesn’t talk to us. That would be weird.”

All three of you look at him as he sets four mugs on the counter, nailing the coffin shut with four distinct clings of porcelain on wood. You’re pretty sure they can talk to it, and it talks to them. That indeed is weird.

Breakfast is quickly done though you barely feel hungry, instead just push a lump of scrambled egg around the plate with your fork. It seems like any other day for the agents of Lockwood & Co. You watch Lucy take a huge bite off her avocado-egg-toast, and keep staring for a moment. From the other Rotwell girls you were used to seeing them taking dainty little bites out of their dishes, nibbling at them like soft baby rabbits.

There is nothing soft or delicate about the way Lucy eats. You feel your heart warm up to the sight, a knot in your stomach slowly untying until you relax into your chair.

When she notices your eyes on her, she pauses, even stops chewing as though you’ve caught her in a most horrible act. So you tear into a waffle drowned in maple syrup as if you’re a starving woman without any table manners. To your utter astonishment, Lucy begins to smile slowly, like the moon slipping slowly beneath the waves of a lake.

Now you wish you had agreed to her and George staying. After clearing the table to spread out everything they’d pack into their kit, watching Lucy and George ready and geared-up leaving through the front door after a few quiet words with Lockwood peels your nerves raw.

It shuts with a soft click, throwing the entrance hall in shadow, and then you’re all alone with Anthony Lockwood. A thought that sparks a shot of hot tingles crawling up your lower back, settling in your shoulders and turning the muscle harder than stone.

Lockwood, noticing how tense you’ve grown, draws slowly closer as if approaching a cornered animal. “It’s going to be fine,” he says, and for a moment it seems as though he’s reaching his hand up to—touch you? Place it on your shoulder to take some of the tension off? But then his hand changes course and settles at his neck where he rubs the skin under his jaw. “I—and Kipps—got you into this mess. I’m somewhat responsible for you now, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You are numb from tension. The word responsibility scrapes along your spinal cord like a jagged knife. “I’m nobody’s responsibility,” you say quietly. “Least of all yours.”

Lockwood leans away as though your words are a physical force pushing him away. You see his throat bob as he swallows, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Come on, Tony. Let’s get this over with while it’s not too bright outside.”

He doesn’t say anything but you have grown familiar with his displeased expression—pricked eyebrows, pursed lips, dark eyes unfathomable as though veiled by heavy dark curtains. You begin to understand why Kipps always riles him up; it’s kind of fun to see his composure crack, to get under his skin and see the restrain crumble—it makes him tense in all the right places.

“Wait here,” he orders and disappears back into the kitchen and through the cellar door. He thunders down a spiral staircase, and a moment later you hear a heavy iron door squeal open.

When Lockwood returns, a small iron box in his fist, he juts his chin towards the opposite door from the kitchen, meaning for you to follow. He leads you into the living room where you got patched up when you first arrived at Portland Row. He draws the heavy curtains shut, swallowing the room in shadow, then moves some furniture to the side, leaving the space in the middle of the room empty where he drags a single chair over and motions for you to sit down.

This is it. You take place trying not to look as if he’s asking you to sit in an electric chair to execute you. Lockwood towers before you, arms crossed, tapping his slender fingers against his biceps.

“You really don’t have to do it,” he says, surprising you again with how reluctant he is to go through with this plan. But what else can you do? You take your glove off quickly, like ripping off a band-aid before you can rethink your choice. Something so small and unremarkable like this key shouldn’t invoke so much terror and anxiety in you. It’s like a pair of hot tongues that if left unattended will burn a hole in the rug, but with nowhere to place, you don’t know how to get rid of it so you just have to hold and endure it. Instead of an answer, you hold out your hand, palm facing up.

Lockwood pauses, holds your gaze. “Ready?”

You’ll never be. But something about his dark eyes is like an anchor, and you stare at him, embossing the elegant lines and planes of his face into your mind and hope it will pull you back from wherever your mind will dive into in a second. You nod.

Lockwood takes your wrist gingerly, as if any hasty movement might draw you away. Not averting his eyes from you, he places the key into your open palm.

In that one second before your mind becomes blank, you think he pushes the rough pads of his fingers into your skin, a warm, solid weight in comparison to the ice-cold Source, but before you can wonder if it’s just your imagination, the world goes dark.

Touching is a lot like being suspended in water. Dark, murky water with no bottom, no surface. One moment you see your own face, and then it is another that you don’t recognise and then it just feels like drowning. The psychic whiplash pierces through you like a hot bullet. A roaring tide of emotions rolls over you, drowning you in overlapping echoes of the past.

Fury. Anger. Greed. But beneath all that, deeper than the roots of old trees: hopelessness. Fear.

Countless deaths and unspeakable violence is tied to this Source, but only the very recent was grave enough to tie a ghost to it—to have someone hold onto it with nails that now sink into your flesh and pull you down, down, deeper down as he claws his way back to the other side—your side, and you wonder Why, why, why and as you sink deeper, let your consciousness drop to the dark, bottomless pit, you find the answer inside a gnawing, razor-sharp maw that swallows you in one bite: Revenge.

The realisation pours like ice-cold water over your limbs; locks them tight, like a second skin stretching over yours—too tight, too cold; then too hot. Your heart shrinks to the size of a small, hard stone as the words pour from your mouth.

“It’s not fair,” you sigh. Your voice sounds strange, so feminine. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “It’s not fair, I worked for it. I went through Hell just to get it from this bloody Relic-man. It cost me a fortune, it almost cost me my life. My life.”

You have become lost to the world, a voice says, not yours, a girl’s voice, and you repeat it, in a sing-song voice, quietly, “I’ve become lost to the world.” It feels like something important is missing. “Ah, I wasted so much time.”

There’s sadness, but it isn’t a pitying sadness; it’s a larger sadness, one that seems to encompass all the poor striving people, the billions living their lives, a sadness that mingles with a wonder of awe at how hard humans everywhere try to live, even when their days are so very difficult, even when their circumstances are so wretched.

Life is so sad, you’d think in those moments. “Life is so sad,” you repeat out loud, “my life for that key, so many lives for that key and I did all those things, those things I did—”

“What is the key for?” a voice—a boy’s voice—asks.

You snap your eyes open. You’re in a living room, a small spacious one with comfy old furniture and curious things lining the walls. There’s a lanky boy staring at you, arms crossed. An iron rapier glints off from where it lies on a table, easily within his reach.

When you look down and see the key—the key for the box—the coldness in your chest doesn’t feel as suffocating.

“Oh.” You smile. “I thought—I thought I’d lost it. I thought I—”

You swallow. Your chest hurts, the coldness passing for hot, searing pain that makes breathing harder. Thinking harder. You scratch your arm, dig your nails deep into your soft skin. It’s an old habit, feeling like ants crawl all over your skin when you’re anxious—or is it his habit?

A sob tears through you as you try to force air into lungs crushed by grief. “I didn’t want—I didn’t mean to do all the things—BUT HE LEFT ME NO CHOICE!”

The boy reels back, hand swivelling towards the rapier. “Who?” he asks, his voice is raised and he looks spooked as if he can’t quite believe what is happening. You feel the same. You feel like something is trying to crawl its way out of your throat—black-ink in your throat wanting to spill out and tell and yield and become something (someone).

You press your fists into your eyes, hard. Why can’t you remember how you got here? Your head hurts, the ants—not the normal types, but fire ants—crawling all over your skin are on a death-march to put you under the ground and you need to get out, get out, get out—

—he needed to get out. The sounds of heavy boot slapping on pavement followed him all the way to Lee Tunnel. He thought Relic-men were an easy enough target, nasty people, ugly and disgusting like vermin beneath his boots, but nothing, and nobody, was ever easy when it came to money. And this was exceptionally Big money with capital B. No more debts, no more crawling in the dirt to beg for more time, more chances—he could finally move away with sweet Emily and build a new life after he split the profit. They dreamt of Italy, somewhere where the spring is warm and smells of the earth.

He just needed to get out and away and find— They were supposed to meet here, somewhere inconspicuous, somewhere nobody would ever expect to see esteemed—. The smell of foul sewage mixed with rainwater made him choke back on bile. Last time, this was the last time.

A blind end. He whirled around, all the way back then, but that’s when the Relic-man caught up to him, delivering a pipe right into his gut. He staggered down to his knees (not yet), sprawling on all four (not yet, not yet), spit blood onto the cold concrete ground. When he tried to get back up, the pipe came down again, hard, against his knee and he felt the bone shatter. He’s screaming (you’re screaming), and he presses a hand right against his pocket, that’s where he held the key, that’s where he held his future, but was this worth dying for?

They were supposed to meet here. So he screamed. A soundless scream (you’re no Listener after all), a wailing scream for someone that from childhood on, had been trained to respond to it. To rise from bed when he cried, to run to help him when he fell down (and you recognise this feeling as you crash into the ground—the ground is a mirror, a lake inside an ocean inside a world filled with turmoil, and you’re so, so scared, why is nobody holding you).

The first shot rang out. A heavy body fell on top of him, and grunting, he pushed it aside. The pain in his leg was excruciating now. Saved. He was saved by—.

Reaching into his inside pocket, he pulled out the small box with the key, rising to his feet under so much effort he felt like might faint from it. He lifted the box. He smiled.

The second shot rang out. His heavy body fell to the ground. He was confused. His chest hurt. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But nothing, and nobody, was ever easy when it came to money. Not even—, but how could he? How could he?

No more debts, no more crawling in the dirt to beg for more time, more chances; he won’t move away with sweet Emily and build a new life. Confusion. Betrayal was its own death by a thousand cuts.

He was aware—was drawing closer. He was aware of the rushing canals under the ground; the labyrinth-belly of a monster running beneath London. With trembling fingers, he opened the box. He picked up the key. That wretched, wretched key. His future. My life, he was thinking, my life. And then he threw it into the sewers.

There’s a hand around your wrist, shaking you. When the room comes back into sudden focus, the boy is looking at you, eyes wide. He looks almost frightened.

“Give me the key,” he says with an impatience to his voice as though this isn’t the first time he’s asking for it. You see red.

“No!” You jump to your feet, bearing your teeth. “Nobody except me can have it, it is mine!”

“No,” he replies, calmly. There is something about this voice, a part of you remembers, something calming and alluring like a cup of warm milk with honey. “This is not you. You are trapped in an echo, these are the Visitor’s feelings and memories. You need to let go.”

You look at him, a pressure behind your eyes wants to remember, wants to trust him. You shake your head. “No. Not again.”

The door is to your left and you charge for it, surprising the boy enough he lets go of your wrist—but you only make it a few steps before hands catch your arms in a vice-grip and he’s shouting a name—not his name, whose name is that, it’s a woman’s name.

You drop your head forward and then swing it back. There’s a crack when the back of your head smashes against his nose. He lets go, loses his balance and falls. Another step towards the door.

Again, his hand, this time around your ankle. The world spins as you fall to the ground, bracing for impact with your hands—don’t let go of the key, never let go of the key—your knuckles scrape along the rug as you twist your hand and kick out, but the boy is already on top of you, pushing you into the hard ground, your wrists next to your head as he pins you down.

“Look at me, hey— Look at me!”

You thrash around, shake your head, if only your hands were free you could curl your fingers around his throat and make him let go—

Your name. He snarls your name; your name that is sharpened against the marble of his teeth like a weapon, a spark that rips into the marrow of your bones. Like a hook yanking you back into the present, the now.

The fight leaves your body, you sag against the ground as you choke on adrenaline. And his—Lockwood’s nails dig deep, half-crescents of fire into your skin.

“Come. Back.” Two single words, punched out of him and hitting you deep in the gut. There’s blood, on his nose and lips, on his white shirt. You’ve never seen this expression on his face, his dark eyes are haunted, his cheeks hollowed as though he’s an empty shell.

“Lockwood,” you croak. He flinches, and something in his face changes. “Lockwood, why do you look like shit?”

Lockwood stares at you. Stares some more. His lips are slightly parted—he’s a mouth breather, you realise. And then he sags with relief, his head falling forward. His face disappears behind the fringe of his dark hair and you want to reach up and brush it away but he’s still holding you. You can feel your pulse hammering against his palms.

He lifts his head back up, eyes locking with yours. His right hand slowly moves to your clenched fist, fingertips grazing your skin and sending shivers up your arm to your spine. He taps against your curled fingers. Like a flower opening her petals, your fingers unwind from the key and he takes it from you.

Lockwood leans back, his body leaving your space. He settles on his heels, his chest rising and falling. His tongue quickly darts out, the tip running over his bottom lip and he flinches from the blood on his mouth.

You keep lying on the ground for another heartbeat, pressing your back harder into the surface to remind yourself this is your body. You’re in control. The memories are rushing back right about now, rising up your throat. You sit up in a rush, and stare at Lockwood who looks dead tired.

He only raises his eyebrows at your expression—seeing something waiting on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t speak around the words, choke on them.

“Matthew. Wake up, my brother. Please wake up.”

Your voice was insistent, and from childhood Matthew had been trained to respond to it. To rise from the bed when you cried, to run to help you when you fell down (is this your or the Visitor’s memory?).

“His brother.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “His brother killed him.” The words were out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Your breath catches, and a sharp pain cracks in your heart—perhaps the worst kind of all. And then you break down crying and you don’t care that you’re crying in front of Anthony Lockwood because how could he. How could he?

“So that’s how the key got into the sewer system and eventually landed at the flooded C Station. He did all that so it wouldn’t fall into his killer’s hands.” Lockwood reaches into the open package tucked between your and his thigh, pulling out a few dried apple rings.

You’re sitting on the living room’s floor, legs stretched out on the rug, backs leaning against the back of the sofa, arms pressed against each other. It seems possession from a psychic connection and nearly breaking his nose brings people closer than you’ve expected. Your mugs long cold, your eyes puffy and red from crying, you watch him press the cold compress against his face. He winces slightly when he turns to look at you.

“Sorry,” you say for the third time. “I wasn’t aware a Visitor could even do that.”

Lockwood waves you off. “Come off it,” he says. “That wasn’t you.”

“Well. Maybe I did feel a little satisfaction knocking you out like that.”

Lockwood grunts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “We’ve had something similar happen to Lucy.” He drops his hand into his lap. He’s cleaned the blood from his face, but the collar of his shirt is still stained dark. “It was nowhere near this violent, but . . . I’ve seen it. And I still agreed to this. I shouldn’t have.”

“It was my decision.” You stare down at your gloved hands. Dried apple crumbs stick to the fabric. “And it did give us some answers.”

“But not where the key fits.” Lockwood nibbles on an apple piece. “Let’s hope Luce and George have more luck at the Archive.”

“And there’s still the matter of the man that attacked me. I think Karim might be right. He doesn’t necessarily have to be the killer.”

Lockwood chews on that for a moment. “You said he smelled of what? Liquor? What if he’s another Relic-man?”

“Tidiest Relic-man I’ve ever seen.” You scrunch your nose. “It was . . . something heavy. Whiskey, or rum, I’m not sure.”

“I can ask someone about that.”

“Ah, dragging someone else into this case? Good idea.”

Lockwood flashes you a bright grin—you categorise it as his signature Lockwood grin. “I’ve always been a big fan of the more the merrier.”

You tilt your head, your mouth slowly curling into a mocking curve.

Lockwood dips his head to you, and his voice is husky when he murmurs, “Thank you. For helping us out.”

You didn’t expect this. Heat crawls up your neck, but you have a hard time looking away from Lockwood’s dark eyes. He’s beautiful. The thought rattles like a marble inside your head, a pretty, shining marble that is very hard to catch.

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Your voice matches his volume, low and almost a whisper. “I’m doing this for personal benefits only.”

“I didn’t expect anything different from someone who’s worked for Rotwell.”

You smile at each other. It feels safe, it feels good. Professional. Which is why you ignore the weird flutter in your stomach, the treacherous feeling of hunger and more that is just the post-adrenaline settling. Maybe you should have a second breakfast.

Outside, the phone rings. Lockwood picks himself up, groaning slightly. When he leaves to pick it up, you inspect the marks he’s left on your wrist, from his nails, his fingertips, pretending you don’t like his imprints on your skin as though you’re a thing fashioned from a potter’s—his—hands.

When Lockwood returns, he leans against the doorframe, both hands tugged into the pockets of his trousers. “Luce just called. Seems like your little library pass didn’t just get them insight on the symbol, but also additional info on the case booked for tonight. George found new information that leads him to believe this might be a double haunting.”

That would prove more difficult for only two agents, especially if it’s not clear yet which Types the ghosts are. You think you know the question Lockwood is about to ask, so you beat him to it, “Want me to tag along?”

Lockwood smiles. It seems like a challenge. “I trust you’re capable of working in a team?”

You climb to your feet, using the sofa as support. “We’ve already been through this. We are in this together,” you echo back his words from the previous day. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me now.”

“Tragic.” Lockwood doesn’t sound as if he’ll lose sleep over this. “Meet you back here in fifteen. I’ll call a cab.”

You quickly finish the apple crumbs left in the package and hurry up to the library to change into your gear. A dark turtle neck, comfortable pants, and sturdy boots you’ll put on downstairs. You’ve put on your gear harness, arming yourself with everything you’ll need on the case in quick and easily accessible: one canister of Greek Fire, two vials of lavender water, a couple of salt bombs. In your kit are stowed your other utensils like different thermometers (depending on which one still works), a flash (you’re not sure when you’ve last changed the batteries), two chain nets (at least one is without holes), a long rope of iron chains (newly purchased). Last but not least, your rapier. The Solinger Rapier is a good piece of work, you can give Lockwood a little credit for that. It feels good to be ready and in gear, you feel like donning your armour isn’t just a physical thing but putting your mind into a high-defence vault too.

If you think too much back on what you’ve seen in the Visitor’s memory, it’ll shake you up again, and just for the rest of tonight, you want to be a functioning agent doing your job.

Grabbing your kit, you vault back downstairs where you find Lockwood in the kitchen refilling the last of his salt bombs. He’s changed as well, wearing his signature suit and a long trench-coat. His socks peek out from his slippers, a bright pink.

“Take some of those,” he says without looking at you, nodding towards the counter. There’s gum, chocolate barns, cookie bags and a box full of tea bags. You stuff the cookies and tea bags into your kit. Lockwood stashes the rest when the door rings. “And that’s our ride.”

There’s an energy you feel strumming in his bones as though he’s a high-strung fuse read to blow. He turns around—and stops. Lockwood just stares. He stares at your uniform, which isn’t really a uniform because you don’t wear a jacket anymore. He seems particularly interested in the gear harness hugging your upper body, sitting snugly around your shoulders, your chest, your shoulder blades.

You raise your eyebrows to your hairline. “Everything all right, Tony?”

Lockwood clears his throat. “Please stop calling me that.” You might be wrong, but it looks like he’s a little flushed. Maybe all the blood he’s lost from his nose injury earlier is finally rushing back to his head.

“Why, you don’t like being called Tony?”

“I really, really don’t.” He takes his kit and moves to the entry hall, putting on his shoes. You follow and mirror him. “Why? Because of Kipps?”

“Because of my sister.”

You almost topple over. You didn’t know he has a sister, and Kipps has never mentioned her either—and that’s not strange at all, lots of people have siblings. What makes you pause is the way Lockwood said it. He makes it sound as though having a sister is tragic.

When you look at him, his expression is already a shut door, his eyes closed windows. He will not say anything more on that subject, his whole body language makes that pretty clear: he’s drawn a line and he drew it hard, using it as a blueprint to build a brick wall. Whatever door he feels like building in, only he has the key and you don’t think he’ll allow you back in anytime soon.

You wonder if he accidentally slipped up. If he said something he wasn’t planning on saying, and now he regrets it. He regrets that you know.

It’s like the last two hours didn’t happen when you found some sort of solace in each other after the Visitor possessed you. You’re used to rejection, but this still tastes bitter. This tastes like a whole bloody basket of lemons turning your whole mouth inside out.

So you don’t say anything, just follow him outside and into the cab where Lockwood gives the driver clipped instructions where to go. The car speeds off, the silence between you stretches on and settles like an unwanted animal scratching at the closed door between you. You wonder what happens if the door splinters and the creature creeps inside.

Through the late afternoon streets where the citizens deal with their last errands and the city sidewalks begin to thin out of people. Curfew is in another two hours. Soon, only agents and ghosts will roam these streets. The cab halts near Bermondsey station. Lockwood pays the driver and turns sharply to the meeting point. You trudge along. Years previously, when Bermondsey was a centre of industry instead of a trendy neighbourhood full of art galleries and coffee shops, the Crawford Ironworks were a textile factory. Now it is an enormous brick shell whose inside has been emptied and left vacant. The floor is made up of overlapping squares of rusty steel; slender steel beams arc overhead, wrapped with ropes of grimy black wires. Ornate wrought iron staircases spiral up to catwalks decorated with hanging plants. A massive cantilevered glass ceiling opens onto a view of the steel-grey sky. There is even a terrace outside, built out over the Thames, with a spectacular view of the Tower Bridge, which looms overhead, stretching from Bermondsey to Whitechapel like a spear of tinselled ice.

Lucy and George are sitting on the main iron staircase, their conversation is too quiet to hear when you approach. They don’t seem surprised you’ve joined their case, but you don’t miss George’s eyes squinting behind his glasses when he sees you.

“I heard you found something,” you say, holding out your hand to George who reluctantly gives back your library pass. “Hope you had fun while it lasted, Karim.”

He mutters something under his breath. Lucy juts her elbow into his side. “The Leviathan’s Cross,” she says aloud, pausing, you think, for dramatic effect. “Ever heard of that?”

Lockwood and you exchange looks. You both shake your heads. You ignore your heart stumbling over itself. The symbol is familiar, but the name is not.

George’s eyes pin Lockwood to the wall. “They’re something like our dear Orpheus Society.”

“Ah.” Lockwood straightens his impeccably straight tie. “And I assume there was no address? No membership list, no picture of the CEO and their phone number?”

George rolls his eyes. “Don’t try to be funny, it never works.”

You raise your hand like a little kid at school. “What’s the Orpheus Society?”

George, Lucy, and Lockwood hold a full silent conversation with their eyes and facial expressions only. In the end, Lockwood says, “You know, let’s save this for later and get the job done first. After that, we can pour all our resources into figuring out what we’ve learnt.”

“Fair enough.” You clap your hands, rub them together in anticipation for an evening out doing what you do best. “Where did you set up base?”

 Command centre, as George likes to call it, is in a former employee kitchen alcove tugged right between two open-plan offices that take up both floors above the main hall. Lucy is cleaning up the empty mugs after you all had tea while George and Lockwood fill you in on the job, explaining that a couple of days ago the owner of this factory (a small man with a slim face reminding them of a rat) asked for their services. He plans to sell the compound, but it’s always been haunted and he needs to get rid of the ghosts before handing the building over.

“At least one ghost was definitely seen on the top floor by the night watch,” George says between two ravenous bites into his cookie. “Worker’s garb, they hear machines going off at night, and there are two cold spots up there. I think the ghosts manage to work in shifts. That’s why everyone thought it’s just one.”

“That’s impossible,” you say, breaking off another piece of chocolate with your teeth. “They’d have to be intelligent to work out something like changing when one appears and the other doesn’t. Ghosts don’t care for that, they haunt simultaneously.”

George raises both hands. “I don’t make the rules.”

“But you research all this, you should get your facts straight.”

“Want to bet? When we’re up there, just start screaming when two ghosts start killing you, OK?”

“It’s not impossible,” Lockwood chimes in. He spends the time until evening falls with a crossword book spread over his lap, his tongue tucked between his teeth. You focus on any part of his face except his mouth. “Remember the two Spectres we got down in Lambeth? Someone put their bones together and when one stirred, the other came back too.” Your eyes land on Lockwood’s crossword puzzle, which he is poorly hiding, and you see that he isn’t solving the puzzle but merely colouring in the empty boxes.

“It’s almost time we go up.” Lucy looks at her watch. “Sun’s setting.”

“All right.” Lockwood slaps the book closed happily, flicking his pen into his kit. “We’ll go up and measure the temperature first, place our iron chains and put up defence rings.” He stretches, that high-strung energy back. You get the feeling if Lockwood isn’t on a case or his mind not occupied with solving a problem, he might combust from all that need to act; to do something.

You’ve got everything you need when you notice Lucy hauling a hefty, bulky backpack onto her shoulders, readjusting the straps.

“Looks heavy,” you notice. “They’re not forcing you to carry all the equipment, are they?”

“No, it’s—” She shakes her head as if trying to shake off cobwebs. “I just like to be double careful. Better have one iron chain more, you know?”

You nod. That makes sense.

All geared up and ready, George leads you past the inoperable lift to the staircase at the end of hallway. He opens the doors and you fill into a rectangular room that you think might have been pearly white once, but years of decay and neglect have darkened the walls. Huge dark rings from water damage stretch like growing mould alongside the iron staircase that you ascend to the upper floor.

Lockwood stops at the door, turning towards you and Lucy. “Ladies, if you don’t mind.” He puts his hand on the handle and pushes it down but doesn’t open the door yet. “I think your Talents might be more useful than mine.”

Lucy and you exchange a look. She nods towards Lockwood, and he slowly swings the door open. Lucy ventures inside, you hard on her heels. You can immediately tell she zones out right then and there, trying to pick up any psychic auditory echoes. You put your gloved fingers to the wall, brushing along the crumbling masonry. Dried, dusty mortar sticks to the tip of your fingers. Exhaustion washes over you, tiredness from overwork, from a general unhappiness of working too hard, working too long but it’s never enough, never enough. If you could sum it all up it would be a feeling of depression, a hopelessness settling deep into your bones.

Unease pokes its crooked finger into your stomach, stirring its contents. Misery. One wave, then another—much deeper, a twin echo that doesn’t quite feel the same. The second echo hits deeper, plummets steeper, the sudden realisation that someone who has been part of your life is gone and why would you remain in a world where they are not?

You rip your hand back from the wall, and slowly turn to George.

“Karim.” You voice is nothing but a whisper. “What did you say those ghosts were? To each other, I mean.”

George scratches his belly under his shirt. “I didn’t. But nice of you to ask. They were twins.”

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse, @ettadear, @a-candle-maker, @cassiopeiia24, @tangledinlove

i think some tags might not work anymore, so keep me update d if you changed your url! ♥

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

[philliam-writes]

i reread you are in the earth of me (as one does) and nearly died all over again you are The Writing Goal

Babe, you are INSANE for doing this 🥺🌸

Thank you so so much

I cant wait for vacation in 2 weeks, I will become SO UNHINGED and read all the good Lockwood/Reader and finally continue writing NO ONE WILL BE SAVE

#i miss writing so much 😭😭 #I miss reading fanfics too omg #Why do i make so many social plans #Fingers crossed i can write this weekend l #But no promises i am saving up for 4 weeks of vacation #You'll get sick of me and My updates #phill.ask #phill.l&c #moot.tangled #Lockwood x reader

[philliam-writes]

Just popping in because I just found/binge read all of your Lockwood fic, and really just wanted to sing your praises

The angst. The tension. The reader character starting to fall for Lockwood and feel the burn of a cold shoulder.

*insert a fangirl’s screech of delight here*

Thank you so much!!! 😭

Oh man, I miss it so much, you have no idea.... I guess it's time to binge watch the series again and swoon all over again for Lockwood 😳💖

#phill.ask #sweet anon #phill.l&c

[philliam-writes]

ARE YOU STILL WRITING YOU ARE IN THE EARTH OF ME PLEASE 🙏🙏🙏

Give me a couple thousand bucks and I will dedicate a whole year to solely writing that fanfic.

Life has been hectic, I've been sick for like. e a whole month and now midterm exams are approaching.

It will continue, but I can't exactly say when.

#If this comes off weird or harsh i'm only half sorry for it #People be screaming everywhere for content but i have a 41h job to do and i earn less than the minimum wage bcs it's an apprenticeship #So please be Patient and dont cream at me like that i'm very Baby rm #phill.ask #phill.l&c

[philliam-writes]

hey there! idk if you're still writing 'you are in the earth of me' but could i please be added to the taglist? it's fantastic :)

THANK YOU SO MUCH!

I still am, but I've been sick for like... over a month and recovery is goign very slowly, so I can't say when I'll upload next ; ;

But thank you so much for your support!

#phill.l&c #you guys are just really the sweetest

[philliam-writes]

I am on my knees begging you to add me to the tag list for you are in the earth of me. When I tell you I binged that shit. Devoured it. Left not a single crumb. I am hooked

OMG. HI

I saw it lmao (you left likes everywhere, thank you) !!! I was like, "Is she going to leave a comment??? Is she going to say anything???"

Welcome haha 🌼🌼

Ofc, I'll put u in the taglist right away, I'm so happy you're enjoying it this much!!! ❤️❤️

#phill.ask #phill.l&c #you guys are the Best #This fandom is the Best #Look at us all uniting and simping for lockwood

[philliam-writes]

i did not mean to scream my apologies good luck on your midterms. looking forward to new content but take your time!!

I didnt expect a reply.... Thank you for understanding and your support 🌼

#phill.ask #phill.l&c