Harry hates being a celebrity. Draco cannot find a single model that fits his vision for his latest line. They both make the debatable choice of trusting one PA extraordinaire/best friend, Pansy Parkinson.
What could possibly go wrong?
E, 14.6k
Read on AO3
omg i have been desperate to talk about this for so long!!!!!!
I was super excited about Tumblr Year in Review because who doesn't love a cutesy wrap-up post filled with all the witty things you've come up with during the year? And then I remembered that I've posted like... 5 things this year. Work burnout and pandemic fatigue have kicked my butt, and I haven't done much more than lurk on any social media. Needless to say, it was a very uninspiring review.
But, there is always hope. Because of the pandemic, my old book club is still meeting over Zoom and I can join every week from 1000 miles away. We celebrated a year with our rescue dog, the best quarantine buddy anyone could ask for. A brief holiday visit with family and friends was the kick in the pants we needed to remember the important things in life, and we've decided to start job hunting closer to home. Moving sucks and change is hard, but it's time, and maybe next year we'll be able to spend more IRL time with the people who matter most.
Anyway, thanks for sticking with me this year. Thanks for sharing your headcanons and 1am thoughts and editing skills and F1 reactions and science facts and fandom moments with the world. You always brighten my day!
Long Way Up (1301 words) by the_one_that_fell
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Leverage (US TV 2008), Leverage: Redemption
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Parker & Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Characters: Parker (Leverage), Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Additional Tags: Minor Alec Hardison/Parker, Heart-to-Heart, Episode Related, Coda, Angst with a Happy Ending, Light Angst, Late Night Conversations
Summary:
After her return from Colombia, Parker finds herself sharing a beer with Eliot in a precarious place.
It wasn’t that they got in the way during jobs. On the contrary, Lucy seemed to have the best range of motion out of everyone at Lockwood & Co. George’s baggy jeans tended to catch on corners and trip up his steps, and Lockwood’s and Kipps’ tight trousers did, admittedly, restrict their flexibility. A short skirt with leggings underneath gave Lucy the freedom to duck and jump and spin without issue.
“Why are you telling me this?” Holly asked, stirring a dollop of honey into her tea. “Are you seeking my advice?”
“Yes,” Lockwood said. George was at the Archives, Kipps was out meeting Flo, and Lucy was picking up a Satchell’s order. It was the perfect time to consult his only rational, discrete friend. “The skirts are distracting. How do I ask her to wear trousers without coming off as-”
“-as a raging misogynist?” Holly sucked the remaining honey off her spoon. “Can I ask you something?”
Lockwood nodded. “Of course.”
Holly gave him a cruel smile. “Did you realize I also wear skirts on jobs?”
Obviously, Lockwood knew this. But Holly’s skirts were different! They were longer and, er…bright colors…and…and…
“You do,” he heard himself say. “Why aren’t your skirts distracting?”
“Hmm.” Holly hummed into her cup, looking far too smug. Lockwood had the childish urge to tug on her ponytail. “I don’t know, Lockwood. Why aren’t my skirts distracting?”
“Shit.” Lockwood ran a hand through his hair. It was bad enough he was probably being sexist; now he was treating his employees unequally? “I don’t- What is wrong with me, Hol?”
To his surprise, Holly laughed. It was a pretty sound, light and tinkling; it reminded him of Jessica’s. His sister had been just as sweet, and just as amused by his failures. “What about her skirts distract you?”
“They’re so- I don’t know.” Lockwood sighed. “Short? People are always staring.”
“Are they?” Holly sipped her tea. “I’ve never noticed.”
“Well you have manners,” Lockwood insisted. “You wouldn’t. But other agents do-”
“Other boys?” Holly asked innocently.
He paused. He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth. Holly did not break eye contact.
“Maybe,” he finally relented.
“Okay,” she said, setting her cup down. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I feel awful about it,” Lockwood said. “It’s never caused a problem on the job. I just hate the way they look at her.” He traced his fingers over one of Lucy’s sketches on the Thinking Cloth, a rather rude caricature of George. (They were currently fighting over the brand of digestives Lucy had bought during her last grocery run, he believed.)
“Do you hate it because you’re afraid for Lucy’s safety?” Holly asked slowly. “Or because you’re jealous?”
The back of Lockwood’s neck burned. “Jealous?” He asked, clearing his throat. “Jealous of what?”
In a moment of surprisingly unladylike manners, Holly rolled her eyes and huffed. “You like her, Lockwood. You love her. When other boys look at her legs you get insanely jealous and it’s distracting you.”
“No!” He gaped at her. “I’m not- It’s not-”
“Boys look at my legs, too,” Holly said smugly. “They ask me out all the time when we’re on jobs. They do it in front of you and you don’t even notice. But if Kipps speaks to Lucy for too long…” She trailed off.
“Kipps is a prick,” Lockwood said crossly.
“Kipps isn’t the issue,” Holly countered.
“Fine!” Lockwood let out a sharp huff. “Fine! I’m jealous! But what can I do about it?”
Holly looked like he’d finally cracked. “You ask her out,” she said. “You talk to her.”
“Right.” He paused. “And I don’t ask her to wear trousers, right?”
“No!” Holly rubbed at her temple. “Just tell her how you feel. About her. Not her skirts.”
“Of course.” Lockwood gave Holly a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
“Trust me,” she said. “I’m doing us all a favor.”
Lockwood didn’t want to think deeply on what she meant by this. He wanted to find Lucy as quickly as possible.
They both started as they heard the front door open. “I’m back!” Lucy called down the hall. “Come help me carry shit!”
Lockwood jumped to his feet, making Holly laugh again. He ignored her and the way she smirked at him as he left. Lucy was home, and he had some things to say.
was thinking about how different lucy’s reaction to the skull talking is in the book versus the show and also how her relationship with the boys is in a much different place at the end of tss because of how long she’s been working with them, so then i got curious as to how exactly she might have told them she could talk to ghosts. and well. then i had to write it.
(also on ao3)
Lucy seemed a bit distracted after she returned from the basement, fizzy drinks and crisp packets in hand. Lockwood couldn’t blame her—after everything they’d gone through at Combe Carey, he often found himself drifting off a bit, replaying the moment he found Lucy teetering at the edge of the well, the moment he opened his eyes and, for a second, thought he’d been reunited with-
See? He was doing it now. “All good, Luce?” Lockwood asked, pouring himself another glass of lemonade.
Lucy looked up, half-startled, and nodded. “Do either of you…?” She paused, a small frown on her face. Lockwood bit back a grin. Lucy’s frowns were as myriad and varied as the ways in which George cleaned his glasses. Each downturn of her mouth had its own meaning and after months of working and living side-by-side, Lockwood was proud to realize he knew them well. This was her deep thinking frown, the one she often had at the Archives when George was speaking too quickly and she was struggling to make sense of his findings.
“Spit it out,” George said, tossing a crisp at her. Her frown morphed into her trademark Carlyle Glare. A lesser man would quiver in his boots, but George simply raised an eyebrow.
Lucy cleared her throat. “Do either of you believe in Type 3s?”
Lockwood and George exchanged curious looks. “Never really thought about it,” Lockwood admitted. “Can’t say I do.”
“You think Marissa Fittes was lying?” Lucy asked. She cast her eyes away to study the Thinking Cloth, picking at a hole in the fabric where Lockwood had dropped a lit match.
George scoffed. “If she wasn’t, she did a shit job trying to convince anyone,” he said. “No third party experiments, no scientific proof, just her word. Enough to convince the terrified masses that Fittes was a better choice than Rotwell.”
“Risky marketing move,” Lockwood said. “Could’ve backfired. Made her look loony.”
“She was a charismatic woman.” George shrugged. “Or people are stupid. Both, maybe.”
The boys laughed, but Lucy’s frown remained. Now it was her I disagree but I’m not sure I should say it frown, more of a pinching of the mouth and furrowing of the brows than anything. It didn’t surprise Lockwood that Lucy wanted to believe in Type 3s. She was so convinced that there was any remnant of humanity left in those monsters, and a talking ghost would prove that. Her optimism was admirable but, ultimately, misplaced.
“What’s this about, Luce?” Lockwood heard himself ask. “Even if they are real, how would any of us know? Marissa Fittes was the only person who could ever hear them.”
“Allegedly,” George muttered.
“Right.” Lucy looked up at him and gave him a wide smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Any bacon butties left, George?”
George passed the last of the sandwiches over. “Now, just because Marissa was probably a fraud doesn’t mean Type 3s aren’t real.”
Lucy paused with the buttie halfway to her mouth. “What makes you say that?”
George picked up a donut and took a bite. “Other people have researched Type 3s,” he said. “Nothing conclusive has ever been proven, obviously, but there’s a spectrum of electromagnetic output that indicates that the classification of Type 2 is far more broad and varied than the classification of Type 1. That is to say, some poltergeists can’t do much more than toss around a tea set, but others can level an entire building. Should the stronger ones be classified as Type 3? Type 2b? And do they display more sentience than the weaker ones? It’s a fascinating field of study.”
Lucy’s thinking frown returned. Lockwood, truthfully, had stopped paying attention after the word “electromagnetic.” You could present him with a Type 100 Visitor and he’d tell you to chuck in the furnaces all the same. Ghosts did not belong on this side of the veil.
Around a mouthful of buttie, Lucy asked George, “If Marissa Fittes were still alive…how would you want her to prove she could speak to Type 3s?”
George’s eyes lit up at the challenge, but something niggled in the back of Lockwood’s mind. It wasn’t like Lucy to encourage George’s weird obsessions like this. The closest she ever got was asking ridiculous “would you rather” questions on long cab rides or while waiting for nightfall on a job site.
“I suppose the easiest way would be to tell the Type 3 something where she couldn’t hear and have her tell me what it said,” George answered, tapping his fingers on the table. “But that would be a difficult environment to control and you never know how a woman of her means could cheat in that situation. We would need several impartial researchers, a third-party location that’s been swept for bugs and cameras, a sound-proof room, maybe some legal documents drawn up-”
Lockwood looked to Lucy, who clearly regretted her question. “What if it wasn’t Marissa?” She asked, interrupting. “What if it was someone you trusted?”
George snorted. “What, like you or Lockwood?”
Lucy nodded and something finally clicked in Lockwood’s brain. “Luce…” he said. “What’s this really about?”
Lucy looked between him and George with a grim expression, the kind you saw in war movies before the protagonist did something very brave or very stupid. Finally, she blurted out, “Theskullinthejarspoketome.”
Both boys were silent for a long moment. Then, Lockwood asked, “Pardon?”
Lucy let her head fall to the table with a thunk. Words muffled against the Thinking Cloth, Lucy repeated, “The skull in the jar spoke to me. Just now. In the basement.”
Another long silence. Lockwood considered laughing. Perhaps Lucy was pulling some terrible, yet elaborate prank. It would be rude not to laugh, surely. George’s face was as impassive as ever, sharp eyes trained on the top of Lucy’s head.
Without a word, he stood and walked towards the basement door, leaving Lockwood alone with Lucy, who now had her face in her hands. It seemed too late to pity laugh now, but he wasn’t sure if he should pat her shoulder or if that would make things worse. Girls could be sensitive about things like that.
George returned seconds later, skull jar in tow, putting Lockwood out of his misery. “Alright,” he said. “I told the skull something Lucy could never know. What is it?”
He plunked the jar down right in front of Lucy, who did not move. She mumbled something Lockwood couldn’t understand.
“What was that?” He asked.
With a heavy sigh, Lucy raised her head. She hadn’t been crying—thank God—but she seemed resigned to a fate Lockwood couldn’t even fathom. “I can’t hear him. The valve is shut.”
Lockwood and George peered at the top of the jar, where a valve could be found. “I’d opened it once or twice, when I first started my experiments,” George said, tapping at it. “But it never changed anything so I stopped bothering. Plus, I got bathwater in there once.”
Ignoring that horrifying image, Lockwood reached over and slowly opened the valve. Nothing happened for a second, then Lucy gasped and covered her ears.
“Shut up!” She roared at the jar. “Shut up! Shut up!”
Lockwood tried to close the valve again but George grabbed his hand to stop him. “For science,” he said solemnly. Lockwood had never wanted to hit him more.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy snapped at the jar. “Oh, boo-hoo. Tell me what George said and I’ll listen to whatever- oh! Fuck off, you nasty skull.”
The boys exchanged bewildered looks. This was possibly the first time anyone had spoken to a ghost since Marissa Fittes and she…was telling it to fuck off. One for the history books, truly.
Lucy drew close to the jar and jabbed a finger against the glass. “You want to talk, then talk. I’ll listen.”
Silence. Lucy stared at the skull, enraptured by whatever she was hearing. Lockwood began to feel a bit awkward, like he was interrupting something he shouldn’t. Then, Lucy stood and walked over to George who watched with bated breath.
“You called my old job after the Hope House?” She asked quietly.
George nodded. “Wanted to know if you’d been sacked for setting anything else on fire. If it was a pattern, I’d have told Lockwood.”
“But it wasn’t a pattern,” she said.
“It wasn’t.” George showed no emotion on his face, but his tone was almost gentle when he said, “I’m sorry.”
Lockwood didn’t quite understand the interaction, though he found himself a bit miffed that George had gone around him to follow up on Lucy’s employment history—-and months after she’d proven herself as agent, to boot. He’d known the moment she’d walked into that interview that Lucy was more than qualified; he hadn’t bothered to follow up on her previous work at all.
“You never said anything.” Lucy took a step closer.
George did not back down. “What was there to say? I confirmed you’d not set any other houses on fire. It was all I needed to know.”
“And now?”
“Now what?”
“Do you know what you need to know now?”
George huffed a laugh. “I do.”
Lucy’s frown—her defiant one, Lockwood’s favorite—melted into a relieved smile. “You believe me?”
“I’d like to run some more tests,” George said. “But yeah. I believe you.”
Lucy turned to Lockwood then, eyes bright and pleading. “Do you…?”
The idea that Lucy would lie to him for this long, even for a joke, was laughable. Lockwood grinned. “Of course I believe you, Luce.”
She looked away, a pleased flush on her cheeks. Lockwood wanted to tease her, make her blush harder, but before he could Lucy was whipping around to scream at the skull to shut up.
“That’s not true!” She hissed, replying to words Lockwood could not hear. “Take that back!”
George sidled up to Lockwood, the last of his donut in hand. “Suppose we’ll have to get used to this.”
Even with her irritated frown and one-sided argument, Lucy shone with a fire that warmed that cold, frozen place in Lockwood’s chest. He grinned and clapped George on the shoulder. “Suppose we will,” he agreed, and he found he looked forward to it.
Illegitimate heir to the Rotwell name, Lucy finds that it's rather lonely at the top. Then she meets her father's newest assistant, Holly Munro, a girl she hates and envies in equal measure, and realizes there is more to life than familial obligation.
