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We Both Were Screaming (You Couldn't Hear Me) Part 2

Anthony Lockwood x reader (probably uses some female pronouns, but hopefully written as gender neutral.)

5.9k words

Summary: Lockwood wakes up to an empty house and the consequences of his actions. The aftermath in Lockwood's pov.

Warnings: A heck ton of swearing, poorly written angst, panic attacks, blood (not gore, but it's there).

A/n: This is going to be long so buckle up.

Sorry this took so long! Lockwood has always been a really hard character for me to write, and writing a full part 2 of his perspective was daunting. Also, the Ao3 authors curse is so real, in this month and a half between chapters i went on 5 trips and my great uncle died.

Somewhat beta read, rushed ending, i never proof read it.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86564441/chapters/236403001

Anthony Lockwood woke up grumpy, exhausted, and hoarse. In the library. On probably the worst arm chair to fall asleep in, but also the one he always seemed to fall asleep in. Slight warmth emanated from the fireplace, the fire long dead.

Someone was moving around downstairs, and knowing Lockwood's luck it was you. Fury was still tightened around his ribs, slowly constricting his chest and airways. It consumed every breath and every thought, a beast that could only grow. Lockwood wanted to scream, even though his throat protested at the thought. He had yelled plenty last night, and even now it didn’t seem enough.

The sight of your held back tears flashed across his mind. He would apologise. Eventually. Once you had apologised. He wasn’t the one who had almost killed them all last night. He wasn’t the one who made them quit a case. Lockwood and co had just stopped living paycheck to paycheck. Ruined cases led to a bad reputation, and reputation was what got cases. Your mistake could have ruined it all.

He blocked out the rest of the case, anger was easier, it was always easier.

Hopefully it was George downstairs, he couldn’t bear to be alone with you right now. He was still wearing yesterday's clothes, his suit rumpled. Caring wasn’t a thing he could do any more.

The stairs let out their usual creak, suffering under any weight. An obvious tell for anyone going downstairs. George was humming something downstairs, pots clattering as he cooked. “Lockwood!” He called out, how he knew it was him was perpetually a mystery. “Breakfast is ready, go grab them.”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, you would be so mad if he had to wake you up. If there was one thing you couldn’t do it was go to bed at a reasonable hour. Lockwood hadn’t walked up the attic stairs since the day he confirmed Lucy had left. The thought added to the simmering mix of emotions strangling him. Childhood drawings of his danced across the walls, he could still remember his parents chewing him out for the small carvings.

Taking a deep breath he knocked. The sound resounded around the small hallway. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing. “Breakfast is ready, if you’re not down there soon George may behead you.”

Usually that would have prompted some sort of response, no matter how much sulking you had done or how mad you were. The silence hurt him more than anything you could have said.

He gripped the doorknob tighter, noting that it’s unlocked. “Fine, I’m coming in there,” The door opened up with scream, like it was trying to warn him what would come when he opened the door.

Two perfectly made beds.

You were never a still sleeper, lockwood had shared to many rooms with you on away cases to not know how light of a sleeper you were. and the only person would ever make your bed would be Holly. Holly hadn’t been here since yesterday.

The thought slammed into him. You had never slept here.

Instantly all the anger he was caring dropped into the pure panic and fear that had always been bubbling under it. “George!” Lockwood’s voice cracked as he yelled, something that he rarely let happen.

The shelf where you kept your kit bag was empty. His mind was going wild with the last time he saw this room empty, only months ago. He’d lost both of you now.

George’s rushed footsteps pounded up the small attic steps, “What’s wrong?” His voice trailed off slowly. “Lockwood?”

“They’re gone. They both are gone.” His voice sounded hollow, like your absence had stolen everything from him.

“Let's be rational. Where would they go? The two of them reached the same conclusion at the same time. “She went back.”

Lockwood wanted to scream. Of course you would go back, that was who you were. You were desperate to prove yourself in any way possible, especially to him. You were willing to die just for someone to tell you that you did well.

The attic could have collapsed on him with how heavy he felt. He basically told you to do this, his words may have killed you. You could very well be dead.

George was gone by the time he fully opened his eyes. Likely to go call a taxi. It wasn’t fast enough. Lockwood wasn’t being fast enough. Ghost touch, in a best case scenario -although the worst case was all he could think of- only took a few hours to kill. Time was ticking.

How did you get out? When did you leave? He was in the library all night, he would have heard you on the stairs. Did you wait for him to fall asleep?

He was frozen, forced to take in every cruel detail this room forced onto him. Your bed was made perfect, sheets perfectly pressed, lavender sprig on the pillow. Clearly Holly’s work. You hadn’t slept, or even sat in that bed. Lucy’s bed didn’t look near as neat as yours. Tiny things, only someone who was looking could see. The sheets were lightly rumpled, and hell, the pillow was damp. You had cried there last night.

You were seeking Lucy out last night.

George’s voice snapped him out of his stupor, “Lockwood, taxi’s here!”

Lockwood was in the taxi before he knew it, gripping his rapier tightly in sweaty, trembling hands. George was talking to the driver, his face in a rare look of fear. Everyone cared for you, why would you think you had to prove yourself at the risk of your life?

If you had been smarter we wouldn’t be here.

You should be sorry.

I’m done with you.

I can’t bear to look at you right now.

Fuck, how had he been so stupid? He ignored all your apologies, ignored how you slowly got quieter as he yelled, ignored the tears in your eyes.

He should have just let you know how afraid he was. He shouldn’t have hid it.

}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Hillstead house seemed larger this time, big enough to be a beast that would swallow a person whole. The door swayed open in the breeze. Lockwood was sure he closed and locked that door. You -and your lockpicking skills- had been here.

He threw probably too much money at the taxi driver, but he couldn’t care anymore. You had been here, that was the only thing that mattered anymore. The wind whipped at him, and his legs complained at the speed he was moving. His body was only slowing him down.

The door knob was covered in blood.

Cold, and infuriatingly sticky, covering his hand. Your blood.

Were you hurt when you came home? Did you leave? Did you get hurt on your way here? Was this even your blood?

The blood on his hands was his fault. His anger, his poorly thought through anger was the reason you came here.

George came up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Is that theirs?"

“I don’t know. I can’t tell.” Lockwood was lying, he knew that this was your blood.

Inside wasn’t much better. Dying light from a discarded flashlight barely lit up the area. You didn’t like being in the dark, you would never leave your flashlight. The room was warmer than it should have been at this time, a distinct lack of spectral chill. These ghosts were type twos, there was still enough darkness for them to form.

You had finished the case.

But where were you?

Step. Another step. Yet another step. Lockwood didn’t even know where his feet were taking him anymore. Only further into this nightmare. One he didn’t know if you had walked out of.

Before he knew it the nursery door was open in front of him. A roadblock on his way to madness. Inside laid a sight that would haunt him in every nightmare for the rest of his life.

Anthony Lockwood had never seen so much blood in his life. It dripped on the walls. The toppled armoire had a medley of scorches and blood. A coppery sourness invaded his nose.

He wasn’t proud of the scream he let out, half terror, half desperation. Every unsaid word seemed to strangle his neck, a noose he made himself. This was too much blood to possibly survive.

You had to be dead.

He killed you.

He fucking killed you.

The ground was under him quickly, his legs collapsing. His head was spinning, warping his perception of the room. It would never be the same. Yet another life lost to this awful house. A knife lays next to his trembling hands, wrapped in a bloodstained silver net. Even more blood sat on the blade. What had happened? How much pain had you been in?

Lockwood never heard the scream he let out, but George would comment on how it haunted him weeks later. His throat hurt. Fine. It was only a fraction of the pain he had put you through.

When George finally put a hand to his back, he wished it was a ghost. Lockwood would follow you anywhere, especially to death. That knife could surely take another life. The only willing death it would cause.

“Lockwood, mate, this isn't helping” George's voice was soft, but he could hear the pent up tears hiding behind the iron walls of his glasses frames.

Lockwood could barely speak the way his throat was closing up. Words felt like battles he didn’t fight. “I killed them.”

“You can't honestly think that. This isn’t your fault.”

Protests came up quickly. He was the one reckless enough to take up the case. The one who yelled at you. The one who heard you crying and didn’t do anything to stop it. For all that's worth he could have been the one to drive this knife through your chest and the blame would be equally the same.

“Come on, let’s walk home and see if they stopped somewhere on the way.” George didn’t want to admit how manipulative the idea felt. He knew rationally if they found you it wouldn’t be a pretty sight -and it was likely you would be dead- but they honestly couldn’t afford another taxi. Plus, maybe a walk would be nice for Lockwood.

The air outside was still as cold and jarring as it had been earlier. Now, Lockwood greeted it gratefully. He deserved to be cold after what he did.

}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Home felt wrong. Your coat wasn’t on the hook. Your keys were still there. Were you even planning on coming back?

“Do you want to call DEPRAC or should I?” George finally spoke, closing the door behind two boys.

Lockwood nodded, but it didn't feel like it was him controlling his body. It was like you had taken every drop of life with you. Did you know how gladly he would have given his life up for you? You were the life within his heart beat, the only thing that brought a little warmth into this frost ridden winter. But he burned too brightly, and with that the frost turned to ash as everything was ruined.

George understood him. He always had. It took one look at Lockwood’s hollowed out face, and George knew. Lockwood had felt hollow before. It was all he knew after Jessica died, until he had met you and George. And now you were gone, and just like then, this had been his fault.

George reached for the phone, dialing Barnes' number. “Go put some tea on, mate”

He collapsed the second he was out of George’s sight. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. His heart had broken, stabbing into his lungs.

He

Couldn’t

B

R

E

A

T

E

His hands were shaking as his nails dug into his skin. It was the only thing that felt real. It hurt. And if it hurt it meant he wasn't dreaming. Which meant this actually was happening. You had actually bled. That was actually your blood. You had done it. But at what cost? Your life? His? How many people would have to die because he yelled? How much had he fucked up? Would he go to jail for this? Did he deserve it? Hell yes, he deserved it. For the second time he had killed someone for not paying attention to them. What if he had been there? What if for once in his ignorant life he paid attention to what people were saying? Why couldn’t he stop? Stop yelling, stop messing around, stop being reckless, stop pushing people away because he was afraid.

Why couldn’t he show his emotions?

He was afraid.

That's why he yelled.

Because last night had been the closest he had ever been to losing you. And for a second he had to deal with the possibility that you wouldn’t always be there. He couldn’t lose you. Not like this. And just because he couldn’t just fucking let you know he cared, he turned it into his biggest nightmare.

You were still gone.

Lockwood didn’t cry often. He hadn’t cried since Jess had died all those years ago. But now, flaming bits of emotion dripped down his face and all he could do was squeeze his arms tighter. Blood dripped off his nails. Tears dripped off his face. And like them he was

Falling.

His calm mask had shattered, under it leaving the broken, hollow boy inside exposed. Raw and unfiltered. The Anthony he hid far down. There was no Lockwood now, just the truth. A brilliantly pale one, after never seeing the light of day. Anthony was just Anthony again. Stripped of all his bravado and easy grins, and laid bare to rot.

Everything hurt.

His chest.

His arms.

His hands.

His head.

Lockwood had known about panic attacks sometimes. His mother and Jess had them sometimes. But he had never had one himself. Honestly, for as long has he had wanted to die, this was the closest he had ever felt to dying.

Life was all dark without you. The once clear skies of his mind had gone hazy with the smoke of his actions. It had all burned, and he was left scared.

Tap.

George’s familiar knock beat against the door. George was hesitant to enter the room, it didn’t sound anything like Lockwood making tea, and when Lockwood got like this it was best to leave him alone.

Lockwood was grateful for this. George had seen enough of Anthony when he first joined the company, he didn’t need to see more. But Lockwood wasn’t sure how long he could keep the shattered pieces of Lockwood up.

“Lucy called. She has news.” George's tone was hard to read, like he was hesitant of what Lockwood needed to hear right then.

“Luce?” Lucy hadn’t called since she left. Nobody had heard from her.

“They’re alive. Lucy has her.” He said it so quickly it was hard to pick up the words he was saying. But this was lockwood, and this was you.

You were alive. You were actually alive.

“Did she say anything else? Are they alright? I mean they have to be breathing. When’d they show up? How much does she know?”

“Slow down, mate.” Hypocrite. Lockwood knew he couldn’t hold it against him though, he was only trying to help him. Slowing down took time. Time Lockwood had no intention of wasting. “She gave me the address, taxi’s already called. Should be here in a few minutes or so.”

Lockwood sprang to his feet, disregarding the emotions that had consumed him moments prior. There was no use for them now. You were alive, and that was all that mattered to him. He took one deep breath, and promptly pronounced himself okay.

He was lying to himself. He was nowhere near fine. But if there was one thing Lockwood was good at its lying. Or as he preferred, acting or slyly concealing the truth. Panic still hit him like waves hitting a shore. Every few minutes he would have another thought about what state you could be in, and it was killing him.

He needed answers. He needed to see you alive. And he probably needed to be yelled at.

{}{}{}{}{}{}

Lockwood had never been so impatient and hesitant about knocking on a door. George stood behind him, quietly offering support as he let Lockwood make his decision. Lucy’s flat number shone in the dying light offered by an old lightbulb in the ceiling. One door. Just one door. That's all that stood between him and you.

But he didn't know the you the door would open too.

He did know, however, whatever he saw was fully his fault. Lucy would have things to say. He didn’t even know if you were awake enough to say anything to him. One breath. Two. And in the middle of the third, the door swung open.

A disheveled and grumpy Lucy Carlyle stood in front of him.

“Were you ever going to knock?” Her voice was as sharp as he remembered it. Not the broken one he heard the last time they talked. Her hair was done up in a messy ponytail that was falling out, the small band barely hanging on. She looked like she used to after cases, exhaustion worn deep into the creases in her face. Dried smears of blood stained her hands, that she quickly hid after she saw Lockwood looking.

“Where are they?” Lockwood had no other words on his mind. It was you. All you.

“Not even a hello any more? You’ve gotten sloppy Lockwood.” Literally. He was still in the clothes from yesterday, tie untied and hanging loose around his neck, his hair and collar were sticking up at odd angles a composed Lockwood would despise. There was nothing similar to composure left in him. He left it back in the house with your blood.

Lockwood didn’t glare often. It was typically reserved for people who he really despised -Kipps and the occasional DEPRAC operative- but now Lucy got the full heft of his anger.

“Fine, alright. We can talk later. And we will talk. I have some strong words for you, Lockwood. They’re on the bed here. Don’t mind the mess. It’s a little hard to keep it tidy when your best friend comes in the middle of the night half dead.”

Lucy’s flat was cramped. But all the little details faded into the back of Lockwood's mind. You were asleep on the bed.

Bandages covered the arm hanging off the bed. From the skin he could see it was clear you had been ghost touched. The all too familiar stain of blue coated your arm. Your face was twisted into a pained expression, even in sleep. A few plasters were sprinkled across your face, angry cuts peaking out behind them.

“A few broken ribs, a nasty gash on her side, scraped up skin, and ghost touch on the shoulder.” Lucy’s voice, much softer now, sounded from behind him. “Didn’t tell me much. Only that you were being a bastard and were about to fire her.”

Fire you. You thought he was going to fire you. Did you know know that his heart beat for you? How without knowing you were okay Lockwood wondered what the point of life was if not to love you? He could never let you go. It would kill him faster than any ghost could.

Damn, he was pathetic.

He was moving before ever deciding to do it. Stepping just close enough to take your hand, and hold it to his chest. He could feel your pulse against his chest. And just like that, all was right in the world again.

He could hear Lucy talking to George, both in that quiet, exasperated tone they used after he did something stupid. They were right, Lockwood had never done anything that fucking stupid before.

“Yelled at her after she aggravated a haunting”

“Been tense for a few weeks now. Been snapping more”

“Found her room empty this morning”

“Sick of calling taxi’s”

George’s words faded to nothing in Lockwood's mind. You blurred everything until the only thing that was clear was your face. You always had a way of sucking Lockwood in, and asleep and in pain was no different. You took up everything in his head until everything turned into mush.

“Right. Time’s up.” Lucy’s voice cut through, sharp and unforgiving.

Lockwood just guffawed. How. How could Lucy do this? What was she doing? “What?”

“You and I need a chat. And I'm not waking her. Come on, outside.”

Lockwood followed. It's all he could do.

{}{}{}{}{}{}

There wasn’t much space outside, but there was enough for whatever Lucy was planning. The air outside had warmed up since Lockwood’s earlier ventures, but it still seemed to bite at his skin, stealing little bits of emotion like it was trying to make him numb.

However, Lucy’s anger seemed to warm up the space just fine. She was livid, and the cold was doing nothing for her temper.

“Talk. Explain to me why they showed up on my door step at two in the morning half dead, flinching at the mention of you.” Lucy wasn’t yelling -at least not yet- but the words were nothing like the way she usually spoke. Lockwood certainly knew; it had been haunting him the past two months.

There were to many words to explain the massive fuck up lockwood had managed to do. Too many ways to explain how he had ruined things, likely beyond recognition. Too many ways to say how he hated himself for it.

“Hillstead House-” Lucy cut him off before he could continue, so much for hoping to get it done quickly.

“Anthony Lockwood, you didn’t. That case has been known as a death trap for weeks. What do you mean you took it?” She phrased it as a question when it really was a threat. Lucy was not messing around.

“You know we needed the money.”

“I know you needed the thrill. Don’t lie to me, Lockwood. You may be able to fool everyone else with that cocky smile of yours, but I know you too well to fall for any of it.” Lockwood couldn’t tell if she paused for dramatic effect or if she was that done with him. “I see the papers. I know how well Lockwood and Co. is doing. I also know that you are a liar. This isn’t for money. This is you thrill seeking. You just cover it up, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t trying to put you into an early grave, and bringing everyone else down with you.”

Lucy was right. She was infuriatingly right. She always seemed to be the most rational one.

“If you seem to know me so well, what's this conversation for?”

“I want the truth. I want you to look me in the eye and either fess up or tell a lie so convincing I believe it. I want something real, damn it!”

“I didn’t mean to hurt them!”

“They thought you were about to fire them. They thought that their life was less important than a paycheck. I know how you are with them, you look at them like they hung the stars. So tell me, what did you do to make them think they were disposable?”

“I held on too tight with you, Luce." Lockwood hadn’t been this vulnerable to someone else since his parents died. It hurt him, every word unweaving more of the lie he carefully weaved all those years ago. “And you left. Everyone always leaves. I thought if I gave them space, they would stay. I couldn’t survive if they left. They’re all I have left.”

“Then why are you trying to leave them? They love you, Lockwood. You ever think what they would do if you died? They will follow you.”

“That’s it! I don’t think! You know this. I push everyone away, I ruin everything. I’m too caught up in my head to ever think, and I hate myself for it. I hate that it hurts to open up.”

Lucy went quiet, brushing away the tears of pure emotion in her eyes. “Then fix it. Go back up there and prove to me that you deserve them. They won't stay here forever.”

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Lucy’s flat was smaller now, or maybe just his mind was bigger. The bed sat in the corner, taking up a fourth of the place. Books, old mugs, and takeout wrappers littered the nightstand which was coated in rings from old tea. A dresser was on the opposite side, doors closed, but clothes burst out the seams, like everything had been quickly cleaned. A small kitchenette was on the opposite corner, cupboards empty and splayed.

George sat at the small table, tea in his hand and a haunted look on his face. He started out, unblinkingly out the window, his mind running without his body.

Lockwood tried to look away, at anything other than George’s hollow expression, and what state he knew you were in. He only lasted seconds before he dropped the notion that things would be alright, glancing over to your spot on the bed.

The sleep that still had you grasped tight looked natural, the sleepy expression on your face the one Lockwood had grown to memorise. It was the only time Lockwood ever got to see your lips without the typical smile on them, or the rare pursing you did when you were frustrated. Hell, he almost lost this today.

His feet were moving and his hand was on your before he knew it, his other hand reaching to brush a stray hair away from your forehead. “Hey, sweetheart. It’s alright, I'm here now, and I'm not making the same mistake twice.” Your forehead was cool, not a great sign, but better than the fever an infection would bring.

He could hear Lucy quietly slam the door behind her, clearly still pissed -even if her fury had faded away to fear for both of you-. George started talking about something with her, but Lockwood tuned it out. The only sound he heard was your steady breaths. A repetition he slowly memorized, while promising himself he would never part from it again. It felt like it would be the only thing he would need the rest of his life, something that he would willingly devour, even if it poisoned him.

Lockwood held your hand tightly, rubbing small circles on your shredded knuckles. He didn’t seek out knowledge insatiably like George does, and he rarely asked for people’s stories like you did, but now, not knowing how you had spent these hours away from him was eroding the few rational thoughts in his head. A rush he was hooked on, but killed the mask he tried to put out

Hours passed slowly. Lucy and George seemed to be productive at the small table behind him, but he hadn’t spared them a single thought in what felt like forever. He wasn’t quite sure, but he knew at this time you had frowned ten times and started to stir twice. You weren’t awake yet, but it was clear you were fighting. Now it was the question if he was worthy of your effort.

“I know you’re quite deep into the yearning now, but I want to check if the bandages have bled through yet” George seemingly suddenly appeared behind him.

“Geez, Mate, give me some warning before you scare me like that.” Lockwood wasn’t feeling like the fearless agent he presented to others fully, but he felt himself properly for the first time since he found Lucy’s bed empty. Happiness and normality felt better than anything else. Even if he didn’t know what he really was feeling under the thick masks, and today showed him how he didn’t ever want to see what deep feelings hid under all the layers.

“It’s not my fault that you’re deaf when you’re set to something.”

Lockwood just rolled his eyes, moving over a bit, keeping your hand intertwined with his.

Lucy, who was standing next to George made a putrid expression, the one you had teasingly nicknamed her Skull face. “That is so wrong in so many ways!” Her voice was lifted in a way Lockwood had feared between her anger and leaving that he would never hear again.

“Luce?” Lockwood's signature grin leaked into his voice, in a way he would have begged for you to hear genuinely.

“Nope. Nope, not repeating that. I don’t have to let you out to not hear you.” She walked across the room to where Skull sat, a rotten expression of glee on his face, she smirked, and flipped the tap and threw a raggy dishcloth over the jar.

Silence lulled the mood in the room, all of their eyes drifting and eventually falling on you. George took a deep breath before undoing the carefully wrapped bandages on your shoulder. Lockwood’s grip tightened around your chilled hand -that refused to warm no matter how warm his hands were- but other than that he was perfectly still, transfixed on you.

The bandages fell away quickly, revealing the frosty blue color of your swollen skin.

“Okay, okay, that’s ought to be painful, but it’ll heal. It’ll heal,” Lockwood didn’t know who he was talking to, and he realistically knew it was just him who needed to hear.

A strained noise was drawn from your pursed lips, and it caught Lockwood in battle of wondering if he really wanted you to wake up. Fuck, he wanted you to yell, he wanted you to be furious at him. He wanted what he deserved from you. Selfishly, he wanted you to be okay, he wanted to apologise, and he wanted to fix it. He wanted you back.

It started with a twitch. One tiny twitch of your hand. Then another, and then a groan. And suddenly, Lockwood got concrete proof that you were alive. It finally happened, you were awake.

After countless hours of wishing he and you could switch places, it finally happened, and Lockwood was the one not breathing. Lucy took charge, pushing Lockwood behind her, and giving him a look that clearly said, Lockwood, don’t screw this up. He could only nod, and stay behind her.

“Luce…?” Your voice was thin and weak, but there.

Warm tears grew in Lucy’s eyes, a brilliant grin lighting up her face. “Welcome back, honey. You had us all worried. How are you feeling?”

George stood next to Lockwood, the first bit of happiness on his face Lockwood had seen since Chealsea. Lockwood looked around at the four of them, at the look of joy on Lucy and George’s faces. He had been the one to show you that none of the people around you cared, when that was so clearly the opposite. He knew he would be spending the rest of his life making this up.

“Hurts a lot. Cold, so cold.” Lockwood knew he would be remembering the weakness of your voice right now for the rest of his life. It was so cold, it felt like he was being ghost touched just by hearing it.

“Yeah, that's ghost touch for you.George, grab some tea for us will you?”

Lockwood saw the exact second your eyes landed on George. Relief turned to questioning, and the questioning turned to realization as your face froze up. Lockwood had been expecting a lot of things when you woke up, anger, defeatedness, relief, shit even he was expecting a bit of joy. The one thing he hadn’t prepared for stood infront of him. When your eyes finally fell upon your face, pure panic lit across your features. You were afraid of him.

No. No. No no no no no no no.

You started to draw into yourself, and your eyes, fuck, your eyes looked so fragile. Lucy noticed quickly, flashing Lockwood a sharp glare, and drew you into her arms.

“Hey, it’s alright. Don’t try to move much, we don’t want to agitate your side. What’s wrong.” Lockwood was so upset, he could laugh at this. Lucy knew whats wrong. He didn’t even know why she was asking.

You seemed afraid to answer. Lockwood's frustration with Lucy quickly dissipated. His face quickly paled, and he begged, please, please don’t say it.

“I’m sorry,” You practically squeaked it out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lockwood. I’m sorry I messed it up. I’m sorry I got hurt. Please, just please don’t yell.”

Lockwood would rather be shot again than hear this. You were apologising to him. You thought he was going to yell at you after you almost died for his mistake. You thought he was mad. Lockwood was mad, but it wasn’t at you, not a single drop of the feeling. All the anger he had felt last night, was fully directed upon himself. He had never been so mad at himself.

Lockwood didn’t feel like reading into the look Lucy was giving him. It was bad, he knew that. There was no point in looking deeper. He just pushed past her, keeping his most neutral face on -it was the best he could do to look okay right now- and sat down next to you.

“I’m not mad, and I don't want your apologies,” he paused, not knowing how to continue. “I should be the one apologising.”

Lockwood rarely apologised deeply, just a random sorry. Lockwood also didn’t often fuck up this badly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I took the Hillstead case. I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry for leaving you alone. For yelling at you, for not coming up to check on you, for not noticing until too late how far I had taken it. I’m sorry I made it seem like the only way to fix things was to risk your life. I’m so sorry.” Tears filled up in his eyes, and for the sake of being honest, he let them fall.

You were shocked. Almost convinced Lucy had set Lockwood up for this. “W-what?” If it weren't for the pain wickedly pounding through you, you would have thought this to be a dream. He didn’t hate you?

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. You don't ever have too. I fucked up, and you suffered for it. But, just know I still love you,” Shit. Shit. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to say it like this. He wasn’t even supposed to say it at all if he had his way. “Sor-”

Before he could even finish his sentence, you cut him off, pressing your lips against his.

Lockwood could have screamed. This was a dream he had had for years now, and it was finally happening. The shock faded quickly, and he melted into it, one of his hands coming up to cup your face, while the other rested on your shoulder.

You broke it first, lungs weak from what you had survived. “I forgive you, now shut up with all your apologies.”

Lockwood hadn’t been happier in his life than he was now, you in his arms, a weight off his chest and knowing, even if you were still mad -which he hoped you were, while promising to make it up to you for the rest of his life-, things would work out. Even if it meant Lucy and George teasing them for weeks to come after what they saw.