Lover, Please Stay - A Lockwood x GN!Reader Fic
AHHHH ITS MY FIRST EVER FIC
So, some backstory. This fic has been in the works for years, at one point I lost the original file and had to re-write the entire thing. But this song is based off of a Nothing But Thieves song. A very sad song, so I think that explains how this fic is gonna go. This is my first fic I've written, so you are not allowed to judge me in the slightest. Most of this is just a flashback, but oh well. 2K words :)
LMK if you want adding to the tag list :D
List: @maraschinomerry @uku-lelevillain @bella-rose29 @oblivious-idiot @neewtmas
TW: Character death, a panic attack, Written after THB
It was two in the morning. He still wasn’t home. You were going to tell him off so bad he wished he’d never even thought about going out to this case alone. Ever since Lucy left he was different, they were so close it was almost painful to watch him destroy himself this way.
You looked up and realised your tea had gone stone-cold, as had the one you made for Lockwood. George was going to be so annoyed at the waste of a teabag. Somehow, he knew when a cuppa wasn’t drunk, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he counted the teabags left in the box. You’ll have to ask him one day.
You stood up and poured the tea down the sink, thinking about Lockwood. Stupid Lockwood, with his cheesy smiles and his secrets. You really hoped he was okay; all you needed was for him to stay. To stop giving up on his life and just stay. You would give him anything, whatever he wanted, if it meant he could stay with you. You were so lost in your own thoughts that you automatically started making another cup of tea. It was a second nature, and the process was oddly soothing. You ended up on the kitchen floor, the tiles beneath you adding even more goosebumps to your shivering figure. You pulled your jumper tighter around your shoulders and clutched the mug in both hands, holding onto the warmth like it was a lifeline. If you didn’t focus on that, you’d end up panicking. What would you do if you lost Lockwood?
*Your mind flutters back to your first meeting*
You knocked on the door of 35 Portland Row, already regretting every decision that had brought you to this moment. Your parents always told you being an agent was dangerous, and you weren’t cut out for it, and you believed them. But you saw this advert in the paper, and on a whim got on the train and didn’t look back. If you didn’t get this job, you were fucked. You had already quit your previous job and given the keys back to your landlord. He was a lovely man, but you could tell he wouldn’t let you move back in.
You knocked again, huffing with impatience. “Hello?!” You shouted at the door. It quickly opened, and a scruffy bespectacled boy took up your field of vision. “Hello,” you stuck your hand out. “I’m Y/N, I’m here about the advertisement in the paper.”
“Right hello, come on in.” He stepped aside and you walked through the doorway, immediately greeted by the sight of many antiques lining the walls. Next to those were newspaper clippings, showing a very smug boy doing many different activities. “Interesting decorations” you murmured, and glasses gave a shrug before indicating for you to enter the room opposite you.
When you walked in, you were instantly met with the smell of cake, tea and sandalwood. Which was good, as you liked all three of those things. A guy sat on a dusty sofa, but once you walked in, he got up and stuck his hand out, sticking a grin on his face and starting the conversation with “Hi, I’m Anthony Lockwood, and this is Lockwood and Co.” You replied with a quick start, all the nerves clearly shown in your tone. You rambled “Hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N and basically I have no agent experience, and I really need this job as I’ve quit mine and handed my keys in and I really want to do this also why are there no supervisors?” You ended with a sharp inhale, finally remembering to breathe. He looked amused, and he sat down and indicated for you to do the same on the couch opposite him. “Has George offered you a hot drink yet?” He questioned, looking at the first guy with a raised eyebrow. So that’s his name. You filed that information away as George replied, “not yet, I wanted to see how they do with the tests.”
“Come on George, let's give them the benefit of the doubt and stick the kettle on. It’s just a teabag.” Anthony responded, looking at you apologetically before settling in and stretching his legs out. “So, Y/N, you have no previous experience. What do you have experience in?”
You explained your job at the cafe, and how you always had a talent but never got into the business. You were practiced with a rapier, only by going to secret lessons, although you didn’t share the secrecy. The last thing you needed was to unload your family trauma onto a possible employer. He took everything in, nodding as you went along and offering a quiet thank you as George set the tea down on the table, along with a plate of biscuits. There was a wide selection, but you didn’t reach for one. Not yet. After this George sat in an armchair and picked up a book, trying to covertly eavesdrop on your conversation. You glared at him until he focused on the book, but you could tell he wasn’t really reading.
Anthony cleared his throat, and you remembered why you were here. “Honestly, I don’t really mind what experience you may or may not have, the way I like to test people is seeing what they can do. I’m going to show you a couple of objects, and I want you to tell me what you feel.” With that, he removed a towel from the table with a flourish, revealing a small pocket watch. You picked it up and was instantly transported to the past. A man's voice repeated the same phrase repeatedly, slowly getting louder until you could hear what was being said. ‘I’m sorry’. There was a slice, and everything went silent. You focused in on the room again and said with a tremble “this belonged to a very unhappy man. He... killed himself. I presume this watch was beloved to him, and he still had unfinished business when he committed which meant it turned into a source.”
“Excellent work Y/n, that is exactly the story. This belonged to my uncle, very sad man. But that happened years ago, old stuff. Next up is this ring. Tell me what you feel”
You picked up the ring from the middle of his palm and held it close to your heart. That
always gave the best results. Connecting to the source made the emotions multiply in
severity. This ring contained anger and betrayal. A lovers quarrel that ended in murder. It
was vile. The loss of trust was so devastating to feel, even twenty years later. You explained all this to Lockwood and he nodded. “But there’s something else,” you announce. Lockwood raises his eyebrows and George leans forward, book long forgotten. You reached even deeper into the emotions and felt relief. “This ring has so many different feelings,” you explained. “There is also a feeling of relief, and smugness. I think the original owner of this source got their revenge. Which from what I can tell was absolutely deserved. The range in this tiny ring is so shocking, I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
Lockwood looked excitedly at George and as they made eye contact you stole a biscuit. All of this use of your talent made you hungry. They seemed to have a telepathic conversation and as soon as George nodded his head Anthony quickly stood up and held out a hand. “Welcome to Lockwood and Co Mx L/N.”
There was a jingling outside the door, and you instantly rose to make another cup of tea. You’d recognise those footsteps anywhere. There was a murmured “fucking shit” as the key slid into the door. You got busy making the warm drink, listening out for Lockwood approaching the kitchen. There was always an order to him getting home and you checked it off mentally as time passed.
There was the sound of keys being dropped into a bowl.
The familiar scrape of the rapier being put in that second hand stand you managed to find a few months ago. The boys just left them on the floor, and you’d tripped over them enough times to start bruising. That was when you decided enough was enough and off to the charity shop you went.
The thump of a gear bag finding the floor. Good, he at least tried to keep himself safe.
The shuffling of feet as he takes his coat off and hangs it up. That was a Lucy edition.
You went to add the sugar but realised something was wrong. Usually, he then came into the kitchen. Why isn’t he in the kitchen? You rushed to see what was happening and found him leaning against the wall, eyes shut in displeasure.
He opened his eyes are stared at you, pupils getting wide. “Hey Y/n. Did you make tea?” You nodded. He started shuffling towards the kitchen (there it is) and leant against the counter. He picked up the mug with a groan and took a sip. “Where’s the sugar? I know I’m already sweet enough, but this is so bitter.”
“I was about to put it in before I realised you were still in the hallway. Sit down and I’ll get the sugar.” You moved towards the counter watching him and quickly ran to his side when he swayed. He sat and you grabbed the sugar, keeping as far away from him as possible as you sat at the opposite end of the table. “What the fuck were you thinking?” You whisper-shouted, not wanting to wake George.
“Y/N its three in the morning can I please answer your questions in the morning?”
“No, you bloody can’t. Why are you swaying? Are you injured? And why would you go out to a type two ON YOUR OWN?” Your voice was getting louder, the fear piling up from this evening into anger.
“Number one, I am just tired. It has been a long night. Number two, I am not injured. Just scraped my chest a little but nothing concerning. And number three, because I could handle it. Are you happy now? Can I have my sugar back?” He asked, reaching forward to retrieve the pot. He groaned and you moved it even further away. “Y/N this is ridiculous,” he stood up and came round the table, “I am fine…” he tapered off, swaying even more. You rose, but you weren’t fast enough. He was on the floor, the cup smashed on the tiles and tea slowly surrounding his body, mixing in with the blood that had started oozing out of the cut on his side you hadn’t noticed till now. The red was such a stark contrast to the white of his shirt, it was jarring.
This was exactly how you had imagined he would die. Overworking himself to the point that his body would give up. You started breathing heavier. Your vision was getting darker, the tea slowly starting to look more and more like blood. Oh god. You felt the beginnings of a panic attack start to emerge, your head pounding and heart beating faster and faster. How could this happen. Aren’t you supposed to do something? Call someone? You were stuck on the floor beside him in fear, hoping and praying that he would wake up. You would do anything. Please. You grab his hand, but it slips through, and you’re shaking so much that there’s no point in trying again.
He could have had anything from you, whatever he needed. But he didn’t, and you lost him. He was gone. Why couldn’t he just ask for help? You would have given him anything.
