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neverendinglabyrinth · 9 months

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Analyzing 35 Portland Row:

Back at it with my set decoration posts, but lets overanalyze 35 Portland Row, shall we?

I love the way most of the house seems untouched, like it was frozen in time. Presumably, Lockwood never really "redesigned" the home from its original state, maybe a couple of changes here and there (which are more noticeable as we move on to other rooms) I say this, because of the contrast between pristine and messy in the areas.

The entryway:

I assume that the perspective pictures were taken as a way to assess how the set was going to look, in perspective 1 you can see the pillows on the bench missing, and in perspective 2 the clothing rack/hanger are completely missing.

On screen, we see that contrast I was talking about, you can see the way the clothes are almost stacked on that clothing rack (we can see George's coat, for example) I regard this as the kids respecting the space, since it is Lockwood's house they, most likely, don't want to trash it with their personal mess (or maybe George is the one that sets the 'mess-boundaries' to lighten the cleaning work).

On the other side of the spectrum we see the neat decorations and respected vases (respected as in, not using them as holders or trash bins) and the well cleaned masks and antiques hanging on the wall.

The Living Room:

This room is the "look how professional and neat we are" room, it is (by far) the cleanest one of them all, here is where they receive people and it is evident that they don't use it much by themselves, I know this because of the alarming lack of books laying around. I promise you, in Portland Row there are books EVERYWHERE.

Proof:

(these are just from the first couple episodes)

The Library:

I would argue that this is the "let's talk" room of the house, because it's the place where all of the information is. This is the room with the most "Lockwood flare", plus it's the perfect place for me to talk more about the messiness contrast.

In the scene where Lucy goes to talk to Lockwood, she has an apple core in her hand and this madwoman sets it ON THE TABLE (outrageous) but she looks for a spot where she wont ruin the table OR the books beside it. THE SELECTIVE MESS, PEOPLE! And Lockwood doesn't care, he just smiles, thankful.

Also there's a piano on the corner. (Hey! Locky, play Piano Man!)

The Kitchen:

Lockwood & Co's kitchen my beloved <3

By far my favorite room of the house, it is so cozy! From the spice rack, to the pot holders, to the kitchen utensils, the DETAILS. I'm in love, I love it.

And of course, the thinking cloth. The kitchen is the heart of Portland Row 35. And the crumbs on the table mean the world to me. LIKE DO YOU GET IT? DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE SIMBOLYSM OF CRUMBS ON THE TABLE?

I love kitchens, and I love set decor. That's all I have to say.

The Rooms:

Last sections of me nerding out about set decor, I promise!

Lockwood's Room:

It's safe to assume that Lockwood doesn't spend much time in his room, so it stays mostly neat. Probably only in use when he's sleeping or getting changed, and most of his time is spent in the library or in the kitchen with the others.

Lucy's Room:

Okay, this room is a set decor work of art. Why? Well, because it is a prime example of a characters personality shining through in a new space.

Not only does it show what it was before (a storage attic) but it also shows what it is now (a personal room) AT THE SAME TIME! You can see the way Lucy organizes everything contrasted with the way it was laid out before.

(look at the shopping bags she was carrying when talking to Kipps beside the bed, CONTINUITY!)

George's Room:

One thing about George is that he is way too excited about The Problem to care about actually cleaning and organizing his own room.

I think that his room is a physical representation of how his brain works. Books on the floor, papers stacked over anything, post it notes on the wall. You can just see the way his brain jumps from one thought to the other by the way his room is laid out!

The set decorator credits: JUDE FARR

So that's it! Im sure i missed a couple of things so if you want to add your observations, please do! And if i made any mistakes or incorrect assumptions I apologize, i am by no means and expert, I just like the subject.

#l&co #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #locklyle #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #george karim #l&co. netflix #set decoration #35 portland row #neverendingthoughts #lockwood & co

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thegreathuxton · 6 months

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Came and Never Left

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (No use of Y/N)

Inspired by "The Day That I Met You" by Matilda Mann.

Summary: "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know... Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

Warnings: I'VE READ THE BOOKS SO THERE MIGHT BE SPOILERS. Cannon-typical violence. Reader has parent issues (Father isn't in the picture, and mother just passed). Depictions of death/homicide. Slight mentions of the reader being bullied/put down by coworkers.

A/N: Maybe series incoming? Idk, we'll wait and see. BTW, don't worry about the little numbers. I like separating my work into sections, just in case you accidentally close out and lose your place. Just remember Chapter/Part Whatever, Section 69, or something like that.

(PART 2)

It was pouring outside and just minutes before curfew. You cast a nervous glance at the phone book, sitting on a table by the door. The yellow pages glared with agency ads, especially from Rotwell's and all of their new technology developments, such as iron tape and ghost alarms. The ghost alarm was bogus, you found. It was nothing but a rod, some spiderweb, and a bell attached to the end. It did ring, sure, but incredibly late. Your mother had bought it before she died. It rang an hour after her apparition attacked you in your living room, late one evening. And the iron tape was something you had bought on your own time. It now lined your bedroom walls.

The page the phone book was open to had another agency ad in particular that made you antsy. The silver and black stood out against the vomit-yellow color.

A. J. LOCKWOOD & COMPANY.

Beneath was a phone number, provided for leisure. They were small and they were cheap. And you knew no one from that company, which made you feel better.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke your attention away from the book. You took a deep breath, fixed your wool cardigan so it covered you (you didn't think about the way this was a very grade-school English teacher moment), and unlocked the door. You expected a team to be at your front door, but no. Just one boy, about your age. Tall, strikingly handsome, and charming without having said a word. He was dressed in a fine-pressed suit, which was only kept dry by the stark black umbrella looming above his head.

"Good evening," he said. His voice emulated milk and honey. "My name is Anthony Lockwood, head of Lockwood & Co. I've been informed of your situation, and I'm here to help. May I come in?"

You brought him to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He sat down at the table and had a few biscuits that you politely offered to him before sitting down across from him, nervously twiddling your thumbs and trying to act natural. You didn't want to make yet another enemy from an agency other than the one you were currently employed at.

He ate while flipping through the week-old newspaper. Once he was done, he sat back and smiled at you. It was like the sun had just come blasting right through your window. You sat up straight, and he fixed his tie.

"So, you're an agent as well?" He asked you so bluntly, but his smile never faded.

"I am..." You murmured back, unable to meet his gaze now.

"I'm sorry to sound so rude. I just noticed the rapier and work belt hanging by the door when I first stepped inside. Which agency are you from? Rotwell? Fittes?"

"Bunchurch," you said. "My mother worked there when she was a kid, as a researcher, and she was one of their biggest donors and contributors into their own research of The Problem before she passed."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. What talent do you possess?" He showed a brief amount of sympathy before moving on.

"I'm an all-rounder, as my supervisor likes to put it. I'm pretty mediocre at everything there is. I do some field work, but..." You trailed off. "They usually stick me on the research end of things."

Lockwood nodded, once again, sympathetic.

"Again, I'm sorry to hear that, but I must ask you something." He then leans forward. His hands come together, and he rests his forearms on the table. "Why did you call on us rather than Bunchurch?"

You stiffened at the question. He was forward and all business. You obliged him, not wanting to be a burden.

"They don't exactly treat me as well as some would want to think," you began, fingers now mindlessly picking at your mother's choice of tablecloth. You stuck your pinky finger through a small burn hole, left by one of her cigarettes. "And if I told them I couldn't deal with one measly ghost on my own, they'd probably laugh and put me out on the street..."

You look back up again, and Lockwood's eyes are glued to you. His eyes are such a pretty brown color. You look away again.

"What makes you say you can't deal with the ghost on your own?" Lockwood was very quiet when asking this.

"It's my mother," you said back, equally as quiet. You both sat in silence for quite some time. He took a patient breath.

"How did it happen?"

"Burgurlary gone wrong," you whispered, still picking at the cigarette burn. "I was out on a job. Mom had horrible hearing. She lost the ability to hear out of her right ear when she was fifteen. Some idiot on her team had horrible aim and hit her with a salt bomb. It went off when it hit her face. Robber came right in the dead of night, and she didn't hear him. She woke up and went downstairs just to get some water. Guy thought she had seen him, and just..." You made a gun with your hand and put it to your forehead. You slowly lowered your hand. "Neighbors called the cops. Cops called DEPRAC, and DEPRAC called me while I was on the job."

"And she attacked you?" He asked. You nodded.

"Three AM, just a few nights ago. I went downstairs to get a glass of water, just like she had, and there she was..." You sighed. "She could be rather cold, personality wise, but I never imagined her coming back as a cold maiden."

"Type two?"

You nodded once more, and Lockwood does as well. The kettle started to scream from the stove. You quickly stood up and tended to it.

"English breakfast or Earl Grey?" You asked.

"Earl Grey, please, with a dollop of honey, if you have it."

You helped him set up in the living room. It was the least you could do in exchange for his kindness and patience.

As you laid out a circle using the iron chains he had packed in his dufflebag, he examined the room, all the pictures that hung on the wall, and the traces death-glow left on the wooden floors. Your mother, unfortunately, had been shot on her favorite white carpet. DEPRAC had rolled it up and took it to the furnaces to be incinerated, along with a few other items that had been spattered with blood. Many other items were packed in cardboard boxes.

"Planning on moving, I assume?" He hummed.

"Just to the quarters within Bunchurch for the time being. I can't afford to keep up with rent on the house on my own," you explained and linked the chains perfectly together, just as you were trained to do. You then went to stand beside him as he admired a piece of artwork, just above the fireplace and resting on the mantle. Your mother would always stare at it when she was home. It was like a piece of resistance in her eyes.

When Lockwood tuned to face you, his scent, unburdened by the rain, washed over you. He smelled strongly of freshly clipped lavender and clean laundry. There was also a faint trace of burnt toast and magnesium. He smiled down at you.

"Do you have a safe place to go while I do my business here? Or would you feel better if you supervised?" He said, still smiling and making your heart beat a little faster.

"My room should be safe," you said to him. "As long as that iron tape from Rotwell's holds up."

He laughed at your answer. "One of my associates has a habit of buying that junk too. He rambles all the time about all of that Rotwell nonsense. Can you believe it?"

You smiled back up at him and blushed.

"You have to give them credit. A lot of the stuff they sell is junk, but it can be useful some of the time."

"Oh, spare me," he openly joked with you. "George will definitely get a laugh at that. He went on this huge rant just the other night about the stupid ghost detector stick he bought with his entire paycheck."

You continued with the small banter and kept him company until the old grandfather clock that sat in the corner struck twelve. Lockwood had been sharing jammy dodgers with you that he had tucked in his coat pocket, when the metallic twang rung and had the two of you in a spellbound trance.

Lockwood looked at the clock, checked his watch for the accuracy, and then unclipped the thermometer from his belt. The black box read 17.2 degrees Celsius. He let out a small laugh, chuffed with himself.

"I suppose you best be heading to your iron tape fortress rather quickly," he said while showing you the reading. "It was twenty-four degrees in here about 10 minutes ago."

With that, you both stood. He went to his iron circle and dug in his bag for a moment. When he stood back up, he turned to you.

"I'm sure you have a million and one of these stashed somewhere, but just in case you can't reach one of yours, take one of mine," he grinned and placed a salt bomb in your hands. "It'll give me some peace of mind when you go upstairs."

You smiled down at the thing in your clutches, then nodded, grinning just as big as he was.

"Don't let her bully you," you teased him, tucking the salt bomb in your pants pocket. "She was always kind of mean to strangers."

Lockwood shrugged and kept smiling. He waved you off and watched you disappear upstairs.

You couldn't sleep. You kept thinking about the boy downstairs, doing God knows what in your living room. He was probably sitting in his little protected circle and eating another biscuit. You smiled at the very prospect.

You sat in bed, one hand resting over the salt bomb still sitting snuggly in your pocket, while the other held open a book, but your eyes didn't bother reading anything. Your ears were too busy listening, which took up most of your brain power.

The grandfather clock would echo up the stairs and to your bedroom. One passed, then two, and before you knew it, it was two forty-five. Fifteen minutes before things began to happen.

Each night, at precisely three in the morning, a horrible scream would rock the house. You gave these details to the company working downstairs over the phone. You never dared to explore more, always too terrified of dying at the hands of your mother's spirit to try. Your thumb twitched over the salt bomb again.

You stared at the pages of your book until the clock struck three, and the seconds seemed to slow. Like clockwork, the scream came rippling through the house. It was louder this time. Loud enough, it made you cover your ears.

Five seconds after came the loud BOOM of a magnesium flare and then the CRACK of a salt bomb. Another terrible shriek tore the house asunder and had you putting your house shoes on. You glanced at the clock.

It read 3:06. Another bomb went off, and you heard furniture start to crash and rumble. You gripped the salt bomb in your pocket and then rushed to your closet. The thought that scared you more than facing your undead mother was the thought of another agent, dealing with a dangerous type two ghost and thinking they could do it alone.

You found your grade three rapier. It was shorter than the one you used now, but that one was downstairs by the door, and you couldn't possibly go for it now.

You threw a robe over yourself and threw open your door. The temperature change was horrendous. Your room was a comfortable and warm temperature, but as soon as you stepped beyond the door, you could see your breath perpetrating in the air. Thin layers of ice grew on the walls and cracked at the crumbling wallpaper. Another terrible shriek pierced the air, but it wasn't feminine. It was Lockwood.

You rushed down the stairs and turned to see the scene before you. The walls were burned from salt, magnesium, and ectoplasm. Lockwood had been knocked on his back, and his coat was steaming from the ectoplasm burns. The iron chain had been snapped in two. His rapier was far across the room, stuck in the wall like a decorative art piece. Above him was your mother. Her apparition was blue and terrifying. You could hardly look at her without wanting to turn away and sob. There was still a bullet hole in the center of her apparition's forehead. Tentacles of ectoplasm lashed out at Lockwood as he laid on the floor, and he was trying his best to dodge each one. He was out of flares and out of time.

That was, until you rushed to his aid.

You unclipped the salt bomb and threw it. It exploded and blinded both you and Lockwood. Your mother screeched and disappeared briefly, but she was quick to start reforming. You ran to Lockwood and helped him stand up by his shoulders. His eyes were wide and wild and he loomed at you with his mouth agape. You stared back, just breathing hard and speechless. Your heart was going a mile a minute. His eyes suddenly flicked away from you. He grabbed you by your waist and pulled you to the side quickly. He slammed his back against the wall and kept you tight to his chest. You realized he had just pulled you out of the way from another lash from an ectoplasm tentacle.

"I thought you wanted to stay with your iron tape fortress!" He panted, smiling at you as he let you go.

"I couldn't let you deal with her alone," you said back, then turned to face the bigger problem in the room. Your mother had reformed herself, right in front of the chimney. She screamed again, and it rattled your brain inside your head. You screamed back and threw your rapier.

The point of the blade struck her blue chest. Her apparition disappeared as the blade went entirely through her and landed in her favorite painting on the mantle, like a dart in a board. You watched the blade shake and then still. Steam bellowed from it.

"The fireplace," Lockwood muttered and he came to stand beside you. "The source has got to be in the fireplace."

You nodded in agreement.

Lockwood approached his dufflebag quickly and retrieved a silver net. He pulled his rapier from the wall and looked to you.

"You go up there, and I'll watch for her. Okay?"

He gave the silver net to you. It wasn't an option anymore. You both cautiously approached the fireplace, and another screech rang from the house and shook the ice-chipped, ectoplasm stained walls.

"Not getting any younger here, Bunchurch," he said cooly, keeping his rapier steadily pointed while his eyes flickered all over the room, carefully watching.

You wasted no more time, climbing into the fireplace with no light. You relied on your hands, feeling the bricks and only finding thick grime and soot.

"Lockwood!" You called. "I'm not getting anything! I don't think it's here!"

"I think it is," Lockwood said, now sounding tense. "Because your mom's back, and if you thought getting a spanking with a wooden spoon was bad, you're definitely going to hate what she's about to do here in about ten seconds or so."

You searched all the more frantically, and you stretched up on your tippy-toes. Your fingers dived into a mesh of spiderwebs suddenly, and it took all of your willpower not to pull your hands away and wretch with disgust. You dug deeper, wincing as you heard the visitor scream again. Your hands then felt something wooden lodged between a couple of bricks. With no hesitation left, you grabbed it and yanked it down. You wrapped it in the silver net, and as soon as you did, all was silent. You could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and Lockwood's loud panting.

You crawled out of the fireplace, and the first thing you saw was Lockwood's smiling face. He put both of his hands on your shoulders and beamed so brightly at you.

"Well done, Bunchurch!"

You began to beam, too.

He took the silver net from you and set it somewhere safe, where it wouldn't be disturbed.

"Did you see what it was?" He asked you and took a seat on the floor. The couches were still thawing from the bitter cold and the walls now dripped from melting ice.

"No," you sighed. "A box, I think."

He hummed. You sat on the floor with him, next to him. He produced a bar of chocolate from his now near-empty duffle bag. He split it with you, and you made a new kettle of tea in the kitchen, where you both soon moved to sit more comfortably.

"Hang on a second," he suddenly mumbled to you. "You've got soot all over your face. Let me get it for you."

He wet a napkin and then approached you. The smell of lavender was overwhelmed by the magnesium, but still there all the same. He wiped at your cheeks and forehead with the wet napkin and got as much grime as he could while the water in the kettle started to boil. He was so gentle with you, it made you blush profusely, and his eyes had a new gleam to them that you hadn't seen when he first stepped foot into your house.

"If you want," he spoke softly while using his other hand to tilt your chin up more, "I could stay with you until dawn and we can see what the source was in the morning, when it's safe."

You thought about it for quite some time, then shook your head.

"No... I don't think I really want to know what it is," you sighed and looked up at him. He had paused with dabbing the napkin and now just mindlessly rubbed your chin with his gentle thumb. "I've spent the past two weeks trying to heal after her death. I think seeing what it is will put me back quite a bit."

Lockwood stood there for some time, just gazing at you while you spoke. He dropped his hands and nodded, finally, after some time of thought.

"As you wish, Bunchurch. I'll take it to the furnaces first thing," he smiled at you, and you smiled back. He placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, and you placed your hand on top of his, in return. You saw the pink rise to his pale cheeks, and he gave you the faintest hint of a laugh. He stayed with you for some tea and a light, congratulatory breakfast. Not long after that, he was packing his things and getting ready to leave.

"You know," he spoke softly as you walked him to the door. "You saved my life tonight. You'd be surprised at how many people there are in this world who wouldn't do the same."

You smiled at him.

"From one agent to another," you said with sincere warmth in your tone. He smiled back at you.

Dawn was just beginning to peak in through the window above your front door. He turned to face you just as you reached for the handle.

He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and brought out a small business card. Scrawled on it was the same name and number you had gotten from the yellow pages.

"What is this?" You murmured, confused. It took you a moment to realize that the number on the card was different in the slightest of ways.

"It's my personal phone number. We have two phones. One for business and one for other things. Give us a ring sometime, using that number," he spoke and pointed to the card. "You're wasting your potential at Bunchurch, you know. The way you acted tonight more than proved you deserve to work on the field rather than some dusty library. Lockwood & Company will always have room for more people like you." He cupped your hand, the one holding the business card, and curled your fingers around it for you so you could hold on tight to it. His hands were warm and comforting around yours. His warm, brown eyes never left you. "Call me, and I will take care of you. I promise."

It seemed like only a few heartbeats before he was gone. You watched from one of your living room windows as he went to the corner of your road and hailed a cab. You sat and watched his cab drive away, still clutching the card, just knowing from the feeling you got, you'd be leaving your job at Bunchurch very soon.

#anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #george karim #lucy carlyle #Anthony Lockwood and you #Anthony Lockwood/you #anthony lockwood/reader #35 portland row

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