AN EXTRA PAIR OF HANDS───────
SYNOPSIS: you're in need of a job, and your rival is in need of another agent for a case
THEMES: slowburn, rivals to lovers | REQUESTED BY: @that-choir-girl | WARNINGS: none
NOTES: first of all, my apologies for being so incredibly slow with updates, I rarely write much anymore. although i had pre-written much of this series, i re-read it all and honestly have no idea how i ever thought that was good enough to post-so here is an updated version that is hopefully much better. i'm aware a lot of people did enjoy the previously posted parts of this season, and so i'll still leave those available at the bottom of my masterlist if anybody does want to read them
speaking of, here is my updated masterlist! || leave a comment below to join my taglist. my taglist should be at the very bottom of this post, you can check if you've already joined there. i can't find the copy of my taglist I had in my drafts, so these are just whichever ones I found in comments on my posts. please comment to join or leave the list. requests are currently closed but you're more than welcome to leave any in my inbox, though i can't guarantee they'll be done anytime soon :(
My work is not to be reposted, copied, translated or used in any form without explicit permission from myself.
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For years, I’ve made a conscious effort to avoid Lockwood and Co.
Healthy competition is practically non-existent around here. Fittes drill that into you from day one. At the very beginning, Lockwood and Co. hadn’t been the kind of agency that anyone would look at twice: lacking funding, fame and supervisors. In my final few months at Fittes, however, they’d somehow managed to work their way up into notable circles, appearing in papers and parties I’d have never associated them with. Soon, they were taking jobs from some of the biggest names in London.
In return (though Penelope Fittes may have feigned smiles publicly), tension had skyrocketed at Fittes to the point of eruption. We were thrown into case after case in hopes that the tales of Anthony Lockwood would be displaced from the morning papers. My team had been massively overworked by superiors as it was, so when push came to shove, my tongue slipped.
To cut the story short, after some back and forth, they sent me packing.
Since then, as though flaunting his role in my dismissal, Anthony Lockwood’s face has been plastered on the front of the Times atleast once a week. Some days, he was posing for photos with pleased clients, and on others, he was standing aside, deep in staged discussion with his team following a catastrophic case. A disgrace, Fittes would say, but any publicity was good publicity to Anthony Lockwood–everybody in the game knew that.
I, however, had no such thing going on. Not a single response from any applications, from any other agency around. I’d even applied to places outside of London, in my desperation, but it was futile. No agency wanted an agent unfamiliar with their local area. And no “prestigeous” agency wanted anything to do with an agent laid off from Fittes for running their mouth. Word spreads quickly between rich people, apparently.
My mum, waving an article in my face one Sunday, had brightly suggested “the ones who set that house on fire” —a very specific description, yes. One that clients should have found to be a push factor if they had even an ounce of intelligence. But no, somehow they were finding case after case.
Again, any publicity was good publicity as long as it got your name out there, right?
Though I told anyone who asked that I was a freelancer, that was probably an exaggeration. Yes, I had no ties to any companies, but running around beside scrawny little nightwatch kids was hardly a job. Paid little to nothing.
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It was quiet, for once, that afternoon. The cafe had emptied out, save for the odd elderly lady nursing a warm cup of tea, clicking spoons and talking gently. Waiters were beginning to tidy away, wiping down surfaces, sweeping beneath free tables as they hummed.
I crossed off yet another name from my list of potential workplaces, crumpling up their response letter in my other hand in agitation. Some rubbish about concern over whether I’d been laid off for losing talent.
“Forgot to bring you sugar!”
With a start, I sat up, snapping my notebook shut.
One of the younger employees stood some steps away, a little chinapot of sugar held out in one hand, and a spoon in the other. I’d seen him a fair few times now, easily distinguishable from the row of freckles that bridged across his nose, and the striking contrast of his dark hair from his pale, blue eyes.
“Sorry,” he grinned apologetically, placing the pot down on the table with a light thud. “I’d have expected an agent to be less easily spooked.”
I forced out something between a chuckle and a cough. His lips twitched as though the sound was amusing.
“How’d you know I’m an agent?” I asked, a stab in the dark attempt at keeping him in conversation.
The boy laughed again, this time smoothing back the little apron and glancing toward the counter of the cafe, which was empty. He dropped into the chair across from me, and suddenly I could feel a pulse in my ears.
“You normally pop in quite late. I’m sure you did once with a rapier, too.”
He seemed to realise how that made him sound, and paused to scratch at his neck awkwardly. “Not that I watched, or anything, that-that’s creepy. I’m not a creep-I just–” he rose from the seat, shaking his head, “i’m so sorry…”
“No!” I exclaimed, far too quickly for my mind to process.
His brows furrowed slightly as he hovered mid-air, head tilting just a fraction to the right. Could he hear my heart beating so fast?
“No, sorry, I mean, I get it.” I assured him, face burning and certainly red. “I’m quite observant, I just–I do that sometimes too.”
He smiled warmly, gradually sitting back down. His eyes wandered around the table for a moment as though scouraging for a topic of conversation, tea and sugar forgotten. “So, er, where do you work? Fittes? Rottwell?”
“I worked for Fittes,” I replied, feeling something tighten in the pit of my stomach. “Left a while back.”
“Oh, really?” He tilted his head again. “I’ve heard it’s supposed to be the best. How come you left?”
I pressed a hand down on my notebook, as if it would magically burst open and relay its contents out to him.
“I just wanted something new, harder.” I lied with a nervous laugh. “Got bored of it.”
He hummed, planting an elbow on the table and his chin upon his palm. “You seem like you’re quite talented then. Where are you working now?”
Nowhere. I got fired, and now nobody wants to employ me.
“Rotwells, I imagine,” he continued absently, “Or maybe Tendy&Sons? Theydo all seem quite snobby to me though, their lot.” He tilted his head yet again, and to me, he now resembled an odd bird of some kind. He looked straight past me, out of the window of the cafe. “No, you don’t seem like that. The newer ones, maybe… Lockwood and Co.?”
“Yeah,” I lied through my teeth, a painful smile on my face. “Lockwood and Co.”
“Not very observant, then are you?” he grinned, tapping his fingers on the table, and I frowned, a pang of sudden dread rising in my chest in confusion. “Because I think your boss just walked in.”
My head snapped towards the door. Boss?
A tall, dark haired boy stood by the counter, dusting off his abnormally long coat. His hair looked greasy, slicked back with an ugly concotion of gel, his nose in the air as usual he peered around, as though seeking someone.
His brown eyes passed over me and then did a double take. He stood taller.
Anthony Lockwood straightened his tie, and headed this way.
I cleared my throat, looking elsewhere as I waited for Lockwood to pass by so the conversation could continue without interruption, but it seemed he wasn’t here for a lone warm brew and cake; he paused by our table, hands in his pockets, and with a slight rock back and forth on the spot, he cleared his throat.
The boy across me rose politely, with another one of his never-ending smiles. “A funny colleague, you’ve got, Mr. Lockwood.” he chuckled. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I didn’t have to look at Lockwood to know his brows had knitted together as they always did. The boy, brushing his hands on his apron, turned to me momentarily as if weighing words. Whatever those words were, he decided against them, and went off instead to attend to an elderly man who’d just smashed a plate.
“What the hell do you want?” I demanded, scowling up at Lockwood, who followed the waiter with his gaze, a smirk playing at his lips. It went as quickly as it had come.
“Just need a quick word,” he replied, monotonous, dropping into the free seat, drumming his fingers on the table.
“A word?” I huffed, grabbing the spoon on the table far too vigorously, and dashing sugar into my certainly cold tea.
“It’s about a case,” he replied, unfazed.
“If this is Karim again, tell him I can’t get him whatever it is he wants from the Fittes library again.” Another spoon of sugar. “I’m freelancing now.”
Lockwood scoffed. “We’re well aware, thank you. We need an extra pair of hands for a case.”
My brows rose. “My hands? Why’s that?”
“They’re not particularly attractive, believe me, so don’t get ahead of yourself. But we don’t have many options.” He twisted the silver ring on his finger. “Barnes isn’t on the best terms with us right now.”
“And you think I'll help you?” I asked as tediously as I could manage, mixing in another sweet spoon just for something to do with my hands.
“For double the usual rate, yes, I do. That’s far too much sugar, also, I’m not sure how you’re still alive if you find that normal.” He flicked something off his shoulder, before folding his arms on the table and rocking forwards. “You like jumping on big cases don’t you? ‘Had a real knack for turning up whenever it’d look good for Fittes.”
“I’m still not convinced.” I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. A disgustingly sweet taste flooded my mouth and ran down my throat. Too much sugar indeed. Lockwood looked away, his tongue pushed against the wall of his cheek, clearly resisting a snigger. He gathered himself quickly.
“Like I said, double the usual rates. And if George is correct, an even more handsome sum once we can convince the owner of the estate to let us have a quick peek around the rest of the building. It’s bound to have more visitors than we've been told about .” He stared at me, waiting for a response. “Well?”
But another question had risen in my mind.
“How’d you know I was here?”
He blinked, like that was besides the point. “Knocked at your door. The girl next door was in her garden, told me you’d gone for tea, and this is the only place around.”
I stared at him, in astonishment. “How do you even know where I live? That’s creepy.”
“It’s not creepy to know who lives around here. I'm observant.” He clapped his hands together. “Now, agree to join the case so I can leave you to your date.”
How entitled could someone possibly sound?
“Still a horrible person, aren’t you?” he shot, with a look of annoyance. “Do a good deed, for once, how about?”
“For once?” I hissed, pushing my chair back, much louder than intended. “You don’t even know me, you insufferable little prick!”
He smiled, leaning back as I rose up, shoving my belongings into my bag aggressively. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes flitting from the table to me as I zipped the bag shut.
“Not having that tea then?”
His brows knitted together.
I grasped the handle of the cup and tossed out its contents over his slicked hair.
For the head of a ghost-hunting agency, Lockwood did seem to have a slow reaction time. Tea flooded down his head as he spluttered, over his eyes, sinking down his neck and into the crisp white collar of his shirt. His mouth was agape like some trout, and for a second he looked unbelievably daft.
It took me a moment to process it. My hand still holding the cup mid air above him, the look of disbelief on his face as he looked up, and blinked slowly, wiping at his wet lashes with a pale hand. The cafe had fallen silent.
“What on earth are you two doing?” cried a voice by the till. “We’ve just cleaned in here!”
Lockwood stood abruptly, skidding slightly on the dampened floorboards, holding himself back upright by the table. He raised his hands apologetically as a middle-aged woman stormed over.
“Out!” yelled the woman, nostrils flared in anger. “Out now!”
I stole a glance around. The room was silent,all eyes upon us, and there by the row of window seats stood the boy from earlier, an unreadable look upon his face. The bell above the door sounded as the lady ushered the two of us outside wielding a mop in a firm-looking fist. The door slammed shut behind us. Silence.
I looked away, praying the cold air would erase the heat in my face.
“Ruined my coat too,” he scowled, gripping his upper sleeve to eye the damage.
“It’s as hideous as you are.” I told him, pulling my bag tighter against the chilly breeze and turning away to walk home.
There was a patter of feet behind me, and a sideways glance told me he jogged very briefly to keep up.
“Look, just help us on this one and I’ll leave you be for life. Two times your usual rate!” He paused poiintedly, but there was no response. “Fine. Three times it then, but that’s the very best I can do.”
I bit my lip in consideration. I needed a way back into the business–perhaps this was it. Even better if this case made it into the papers too. Perhaps I could get him to mention me to the media.
“What’s the case?” I asked, with a sigh.
“Simple one,” he began, standing taller, eyes twinkling. “Wealthy client, huge house, loads of cash.”
“And dangerous, I imagine.” I finished for him.
His mouth opened and closed. “Yes, but that’s hardly an issue. The client clearly said he wanted us to bring additional support to avoid any problems.” He smiled. “He didn’t specify how many, so technically, we’re doing as he asked. And according to George, three people is a suicide mission, but that’s just him being overly cautious.”
I bit back a smile. “So you’re taking me along to kill me too?”
He tutted. “So negative. I just thought you were good at your job.” He paused, and grimaced as though he’d betrayed himself with that statement. “I’ll write up the contract and get it to you.”
Lockwood reached deep into his pocket, face scrunched in concentration.
“Had a business card,” he muttered, now turning his trouser pockets inside-out. “Hold on.”
He searched endlessly, shaking out his coat, humming gently.
“Just give me the number,” I told him, reaching for the notebook in my bag.
He froze, eyes widening just a fraction, hardly noticeable.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know the telephone number for your own company.”
“Fine,” I sighed, fishing out the black pen in my bag. “Write mine, then.”
I held it out, and he extended a pale, stained hand to take it. I squinted in disgust, pulling my pen back. “Is that tea?”
“You threw it on me,” he grumbled, pulling back a sleeve slightly and extending the back of his hand. “Write it down. Please”
I clicked my tongue, taking his hand as loosely as possible, scribbling down my number quick enough to make it illegible. I crossed it out, and began again. Once it was done,I let go immediately, and he stepped back, clearing his throat.
I nodded. I debated a farewell, for a moment but he had already turned and crossed the road, his coat billowing in the wind behind him.
I hadn’t even managed to get that boy’s name at the cafe.
Anthony Lockwood was terribly talented at ruining perfectly good days.
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“Why’s there a number written on your hand?”
It was one of those rare nights where the house was quiet, bar the distant rumble of traffic from the main roads, or the buzz of the kettle every so often in the kitchen. The living room was littered with papers, books, and an array of absurdly coloursful pens, some laid out across the rug, and others strewn on the sofas, miles from their caps. Lockwood sat closest to the door, sifting through a pile of never-ending forms that had gathered recently, with rising demand for Lockwood and Co. In twin armchairs sat Lucy and George, each digging through works of their own.
It had been a long few days, filled with endless research and trips to the archives in search of any hints on their latest case—a huge home in the countryside with a disturbing history in far too many ways for this to be an easy win. They’d been recommended to the owner through a mutual friend with pockets deeper than words could describe, and so Lockwood was more than determined to prove the agency deserved the name it had racked up lately.
The question had sounded so absurd at first Lockwood hadn’t even acknowledged it. He continued, tapping his socked foot rhythmically against the floorboards as he signed the corner of a form.
Lucy’s brows were raised, her hand paused mid-motion as she reached for something across the battered brown coffee table. George’s dark eyes were narrowed, his face unreadable.
“The number,” repeated Lucy, and her lips tugged upwards slightly. “On your hand.”
Lockwood paused, and suddenly the collar of his shirt was painfully tight. He looked down at the pen tattooed on the back of his hand, as wel as the scribbled first attempt. He forced his brows up, feigning mild surprise, in a desperate attempt to mask the embarrassment he just knew was visible on his face.
“Oh, nothing,” he told them far too quickly; it came out as a weird sort of croak. “It’s for a case.”
“For a case?” repeated Lucy with an air of incredulity.
“For a case, yes.” He tugged at his tie, loosening it in a bid to ease the suffocating feeling that had wrapped a hand around his windpipe. “Would you pass me that jug and cup off the side, George?”
George wasn’t so easily distracted. He shuffled in his seat, crossing a leg over the other.
“For a case…as in a client’s number? On your hand?” He glanced in Lucy’s direction, as if searching for some sort of support from her. “That isn’t hugely appropriate, Lockwood–you do know we have an entire book to store these things?”
Lucy snickered. Lockwood’s lips pursed, gaze falling as he shook his head with a tut, spinning the pen between his fingers as nonchalantly as he could manage. “It’s nothing like that.”
Lucy exhaled loudly, sitting back in her chair too with a teasing smile. “It must be private, George. Let him be.”
Lockwood tutted. “It’s not—“
“You’re right, Lucy,” agreed George, with an upward tug of his lips. “I wouldn’t want to pry.”
“I’ve just told you it’s nothing like that!” exclaimed Lockwood with an air of outrage. “Infact–”
He paused, mouth closing. Was this worth explaining? He’d interrupted a date, been doused in tea, kicked out of a cafe and then held out his hand for the phone number of a girl already liked to insinuate he liked. This would only add fuel to the fire they liked to start every other day.
“Infact what?” asked Lucy, her brow raised.
Lockwood sighed. “Nothing.”
Now felt like an appropriate time for tea.
He’d barely shut the living room door and crossed the hallway when he heard a fit of giggles from Lucy inside, and a muffled response from Geroge. Lockwood huffed, rubbing at his temples in exasperation when his gaze fell upon the phone sitting on in the hallway. He flipped his hand and looked down at the phone number again.
Was this really necessary? Was he just embarrassing himself, asking her for a hand, when his team could probably more than manage on their own?
But their client had been clear–sufficient numbers.
Four people sounded better than three, right?
Besides, Lucy had been the one to bring up her name. This was her idea. Not his own. He was doing what she had suggested, like any good leader would do. Even if Lucy hadn’t actually expected him to follow through.
Yet he was the one who was going to make all the phone calls. How desperate, how pathetic he must look, going to the most jarring girl he had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Was she sitting somewhere right now, smug, ready and waiting to ruin his case when presented with the opportunity? It disgusted him to think of it, to know he’d have to endure that judging, distasteful nose in the air, that quick mouth that jumped on his every fault.
It was the world’s way, perhaps, of getting back at him after he’d laughed, practically celebrated, her sacking from Fittes. He had invited around anyone he knew, anyone willing to come—even Arif had popped in for a while— filled with a sudden sense of festivity, and he knew exactly why. Drinks, food, he’d planned it all over a number of hours. Her sacking was a symbol of success, proof that even the biggest agencies were beginning to see him work his way up.
Yet here he was. Lingering by the phone in the hallway, debating how desperately he did need the money, the case, the name. It wasn’t even a question, and he knew it. Lockwood reached for the phone, and began to dial shakily the numbers on the back of his hand.
He raised the phone hesitantly to his right ear, his heart drumming a fast beat similar to the ringing of the phone line. Every moment of waiting only seemed to trigger his thoughts more and more.
Why on earth was she taking so long to pick up? It felt like the phone had been ringing for a lifetime! A surge of outrage shot through him; had she given him a fake number? Had he been made a joke of?
Oh, he was going to kill the girl.
“Hello?” sang a voice in his ear.
Nevermind, he wasn’t going to kill her yet. Perhaps after the case itself, he’d have a fleeting chance to grab her, shove her down a set of stairs and bolt. Or maybe he wouldn’t need to– maybe she’d rusted over the months working as a freelancer. The thought spread a grin across his face.
“Hello?” The voice repeated again, time with an air of slight impatience. Typical. Lockwood cleared his throat. “It’s Anthony Lockwood…of Lockwood and Co.”
Oh God. He slapped a hand to his forehead, his eyes clenched shut, and there was an awkward silence on the other end. When it didn’t cease, Lockwood cleared his throat, recollecting himself. “You’re still up for the case I asked you about?”
There was a pause. “Yes.” Her voice had lost all the initial emotion, suddenly void of any feeling, monotonous.
Lockwood hummed in response. “Well then, two days time. Mapelwood Manor, just off Kent.” He waited for a response, but it didn’t come. “Be there by curfew. Don’t make us late.”
She scoffed sharply. “You’ve got nerve. Don’t set the place alight before I get there.”
It was Lockwood’s turn to feel disrespected.
Lockwood paused, cut off by a muffled, distant voice in the background. The voice was slightly louder this time, indistinguishable but certainly calling her name.
“If that’s all?” She spoke again, with an air of hurriedness.
“Yes.” Lockwood lowered the phone slightly, debating how to end the call. A farewell?
But the buzz told him she had already put down the phone.
Lockwood jumped at the sudden voice of Lucy. He turned, and there she stood by the door of the living room , leaning against the frame in a way that suggested she’d had time to make herself comfortable. Lockwood scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “I did, yeah. She’s, er—“ he tried to manage a casual smile “She’s coming with us to Mapelwood.”
Suddenly, his face was burning again. He headed into the kitchen for that cup of tea, but the footsteps behind him said she was close in pursuit.
“What?” Lucy asked, incredulous. “How?”
Lockwood didn’t reply, turning away to fill the kettle—or to hide his face.
“Didn’t really have much of a choice, Luce.” He said, jaw tight. “And besides, you’re the one who told me to do it.”
“Told you?” He could practically hear her grinning. “I didn’t tell you to do anything, Lockwood, I mentioned her name in passing.”
Lockwood leaned back with a sharp exhale, recognising the look on her face. “Don’t even–“
“You’ve been telling us for years that you hate this girl…” She smirked. “Yet you’ve gone and asked her to join our case.”
“Don’t make it weird,” he warned, brows raised. “We’ve got no one else, and we need the cash.”
Lucy raised her hands in mock innocence. “Of course. Nothing more.”
“Lucy Carlyle.” Lockwood straightened up, meeting her gaze seriously. “This is one case. Once it’s over, we never see her again. She can go back to whatever she does when she isn’t pissing us off.”
“Now that’s mean,” interrupted Lucy. “And she doesn’t piss us off.“
“Well, she’s mean.” Lockwood sat back again, crossing his arms. “And she pisses me off. Let’s just hope she doesn’t mess anything up for us.”
“She wouldn’t, Lockwood. Not everyone is as petty as you.”
“It’s not about being petty.” Lockwood shook his head. “She thinks she knows it all. Can’t follow orders either. I think she’s got issues, if I'm honest.”
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