bad was the blood - episode zero
series masterlist
pairing: anthony lockwood x fem reader
word count: 10.9k
episode content: canon typical violence, lockwood gets on your nerves, arguing
episode summary: you finally turn your back on fittes. it’s a good thing george karim is there to help you glue your life back together
notes: i first posted about this rewrite in june… it is now september lol. thank you guys so much for the patience and waiting and support on this lol i hope u enjoy episode zero!
It takes two near death experiences for your life to finally start looking up.
The first time, it is side by side with your closest friend. There’s a ghost, obviously. But it is not your impressive rapier skills that save you — it is pure luck and chance. If you had arrived a minute earlier, you would have met the same fate as the rest of the unfortunate twelve-year-olds you knew.
You don’t stick around much longer after that one.
The city is exactly what you need. It’s the opposite of that small town where everyone knows everyone and everything. You’re faceless here.
(You were faceless together.)
Mistakes at Fittes give you a slap on the wrist. Errors are quickly forgotten among the countless other slip-ups made by the hundreds of other child agents. It’s different. It’s good.
The second time you almost die is side by side with your best friend, again. There are even more ghosts, because of course there are. But there is now the sickening feeling of overwhelming fear that you are starting to associate with the smug grins and blonde curly hair.
For the first time in your life, you found that you couldn’t stick around it for much longer. An hour later, you quit your job at Fittes Agency, cold turkey.
Probably not your smartest move, but definitely your best.
The ectoplasm stains were fresh on your uniform when you had turned it in, along with your key to your room.
“I’m quitting.” You dropped your personal items onto the desk, uncaring of the dirt. The key clanked loudly against the wood, but you weren’t thinking of anything other than leaving.
Your supervisor glanced at your soiled uniform that was no doubt dirtying her pristine desk.
“You’ll have to go through the proper channels,” she drawled, pulling out a stack of papers from her desk. She dropped them on the desk somewhere in your direction, like she was too busy to hand them to you herself. “File for your final three weeks, and then you can quit after that time is over.”
You shook your head adamantly. “I’m leaving now.”
She raised one of her weirdly drawn eyebrows at you. “You understand this is a breach of your contract, right?”
Of course you didn’t know that, you were thirteen and desperate when you signed that stupid paper. “I know.”
She gave you one last glance before shrugging. “Suit yourself.”
George Karim finds you at the Archives six hours later.
You are sitting at your usual table, a stack of books piled next to you. Each one of them is pointedly ghost-free and written pre-Problem.
You think you’ve had enough ghosts for one lifetime.
A stack of newspapers that might be even taller than your pile of books gets thrown down across from you. The table wobbles dangerously.
“Awfully funny seeing you here,” George says, as if you don’t see each other everyday at the same time.
You smile. “What a coincidence,” you joke, and it comes out flat.
Thankfully, you don’t think George picks up on it, because he continues to ramble on. “What are you researching today?”
“Nothing,” you answer truthfully. You wonder if it’s better to rip the bandage off and tell him now or wait until you’re both leaving. He’d have less time to intervene, that way. But George is tilting curiously, and you find that you can’t outright lie to him.
“Er— My schedule’s been cleared until further notice. No research for me.”
Probably the nicest roundabout way to tell your friend you quit your job.
George whistles. “Never thought I’d see the day where Fittes went easy on its agents.”
No one has, you want to say. But you instead smile passively and gesture to his pile.
“Enough about me, though. What are you working on?”
He begins sorting through the old papers as he explains. “Only some last minute stuff before our case tonight.” His expression sours as he thinks about it. “Lockwood says he’s confident that we’re capable of handling it with the information we have, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something missing.”
Ah, Lockwood.
You’ve never met George’s mysterious employer/boss/coworker/friend in person, but all utterances of his name tend to be in a slightly irritated tone. His name has begun to take on a negative connotation with you.
From what George has said, you've gathered that he’s a great leader, confident enough to inspire anyone to follow him into likely death. But he’s oddly secretive, and has a tendency to be head-strong and a little too brazen.
(The thought reminds you of crooked Fittes uniforms and slamming doors, and you quickly shut your brain off.)
You don’t think you’d like Anthony Lockwood very much.
Or, maybe you would, and that’s what annoys you.
“Too much research never hurt anyone,” you tell George, already taking one of his carefully divided piles. “I’ll help.”
He gives you a small smile, but you know it is appreciative. “Thanks.”
You guys speak aimlessly about whatever comes to mind. He accidentally found this good pizza place somewhere nearby when he fell asleep on the bus. You saw a Raw-bones for the first time on Wednesday and forgot to tell him about it.
Eventually, he gets to telling you about the job, about how Mr. Shelby on Carford Street insists on the presence of a Visitor. He hasn’t had much to say about it, just that at night time, ‘there's something in his backyard that’s definitely not alive.’ There’s no evil history connected to the house or the land itself, which makes it difficult to know what to expect.
“Lockwood thinks the obvious cause is a death on the property from years ago, long before Mr. Shelby’s neighbourhood even existed,” George explains, after two hours or so of going through the papers. “He says we can only do so much with the limited information Mr. Shelby gave us, and that going to the property is the only thing we can do.”
“And you don’t agree?” you ask, picking up a fresh set of papers from your pile.
You don’t voice it, but you’re starting to agree with Lockwood. It’s been hours of research with no breakthroughs, and the Archives are set to close soon due to curfew. As a non-agent, you have no business being out after dark, although George is free to return home whenever he’d like.
The thought looms over your head, a gloomy reminder of the decision you had made earlier today. But still, the familiar feeling of remorse does not make itself known.
You are content in your decision to leave Fittes. There is no regret.
“I don’t disagree, but… Entering any case completely unprepared isn’t easy.” George shrugs. “Let’s just say that Lockwood and I don’t share that unshakeable confidence about everything always being perfectly fine.”
The familiar warning bell sounds — thirty minutes until curfew. George sits back in his chair with a sigh, and you study your surroundings.
The Archives are basically emptied out at this point, and you count one stray person sitting at a table. He’s fast asleep, his face planted in a physics textbook.
George begins wrapping up, reluctancy slowing his movements. “I best be heading back. I promised Lockwood I’d be back by fifteen after.”
“So soon?” you ask, helping him collect the materials on the table.
“Unfortunately.”
You buy yourself some time by tapping the papers against the table, setting them into neat and even piles. You’re reluctant to leave too, but for a different reason. When George leaves, you know that it will mark the end of your day. Researching with him was a good enough excuse to ignore the more pressing issues you had, but he will soon be gone, and you will be on your own. When night falls and the Archives close, you will be out on the street, looking for accommodations. You have money — being an active Fittes agent doesn’t pay nothing, after all — but how long would those funds carry you?
(He’s back in those stifling rooms, probably too upset to wonder what you’re up to. The idea stings somewhere deep inside.)
The two of you talk more on the way down the steps, and you wish him luck on his case tonight. He tells you to enjoy your newfound free time, and you actually laugh at that. He really has no idea how free your time is, now that you’re unemployed.
You and George usually part ways outside the door, but he’s lingering today.
“I’ll walk you to your bus.” George tells you, smiling.
You startle.
“Oh, that’s…” Researching with George was fun enough that you forgot to bring up your situation again. “I’m not taking the bus back to Fittes, George.”
He snorts, looking smug. “You think I don’t know that? You’ve been acting weird about leaving this entire time. What happened?”
“What? I haven’t been acting weird,” you defend.
“You were dragging your feet so much you nearly tripped on the carpet.”
“There’s no way you could’ve seen that,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. You didn’t think it was possible for him to have eyes in the back of his head, but here you are. “You were literally walking in front of me.”
“But I heard you trip. And now I know it happened because you just told me.” You wish you had one of those thick books from the really high up shelves in the Archives to hit him with.
George doesn’t give up. “Why are you acting weird, and why aren’t you going back to Fittes?”
He adjusts his glasses innocently, before squinting at you in thought. The sight makes your palms grow sweaty. George is one of the smartest people you know, and it is only a matter of time before he guesses correctly.
“Was it your roommate again?” he asks, his brows furrowing. “Did she leave her laundry in your bin again?”
“George—”
A lightbulb goes off in his head, and you notice the second he realizes what’s wrong.
“Was it a bad case? Did Nic—”
“I quit,” you confess, before he can go any further. Very quickly, you add, “It wasn’t any of those things, I just quit.”
Your face is growing hot, and you cross your arms defensively. He doesn’t believe that shit explanation — you know he doesn’t, and it frustrates you to no end.
George is clearly about to ask something, but keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he smiles. “Welcome to the club, then.”
You laugh dryly, scuffing at an old stain on the pavement with your shoe. You had almost forgotten George had gotten fired from the place. “The Fittes Failures. Some club we are.”
He shrugs, a small smile on his face. “Well, we’re free from that prison, and they aren’t, so.”
You think of that ‘prison,’ the only source of stability you’ve ever known for the last few years of your life. You must have some sick version of Stockholm Syndrome, because you frown at his words. You can’t help but defend it even after the fact, a nasty habit.
“It wasn’t perfect. But I think we were just too big for that place,” you say, studying your shoes instead. The knot on your left shoe is about to come undone.
“Maybe,” he says lightly. He seems pleased to have gotten any bit of truth from you, even if it’s a half-truth. “What’re your plans now that you’re free?”
“Haven’t quite thought about that,” you say, another truth. It’s slightly embarrassing, considering the sun is already setting steadily behind the building to the west of you. You’d wasted an entire day moping in the Archives before George had shown up. Heaving a sigh, you start walking in the direction of the nearest bus stop, letting George fall into step next to you.
In your head, you run over the bus lines and which one might take you away from the heart of the city. The nice touristy hotels are all close to the busiest parts, and tend to be much more expensive.
“Maybe get a hotel for a few nights while I go job hunting,” you tell him after a few moments. “Could you see me as a barista, George?”
“A hotel?” he repeats, and you think he seems slightly disgusted by it.
You purse your lips, annoyed with his haughtiness. Who knew George Karim was so prim and proper he was afraid of staying in a hotel?
“Unless you can convince the Queen to let me room with her, then yes, I’ll be staying in a hotel.”
He gives you a smile, thinking your misfortune hilarious. “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Last I checked, you aren’t the Queen of England.”
“No,” he says, laughing now. “I mean we’re friends. And friends can ask each other for favors.”
“You’ll put in a good word for me with your friend the Queen, then?” you ask, giving him your best sarcastic smile. You can’t tell why he’s joking about this. It may not be obvious, but you’re stressed.
From behind his form, you see a familiar red bus turning onto the street. You speed up in the direction of the stop, making him jog to keep up. “Stop taking the piss, George, it’s not funny.”
“I’m not,” he insists, tugging on your sleeve to pull you to a stop.
“Then stop being cryptic and say what you mean.” You gesture to the approaching bus. There is a sizable amount of people waiting for it to pull in, the night rush of adults and non-agents rushing home before curfew. “I’m going to miss the bus.”
“You don’t have to take the bus,” he says, exasperated. “I’m your friend, with a house, who’s asking if you’d want to stay with him.”
“You don’t actually mean that.” The bus whooshes past you, blasting you and George with cold air. A stray piece of litter tumbles past your foot. “You’re actually inviting me to stay with you?”
He nods, as if he had made it obvious from the start. “You’d be able to take time to find a job and not waste sixty pounds a night on some unsanitary hotel. And you’ll owe me a massive favor, of course.”
The bus screeches to a halt, and after a second, the doors swing open. The already full bus grows even more full as everyone piles in, standing room only. If you’re getting that hotel, you need to go now.
The warning bell rings again. Fifteen minutes until curfew.
“Your choice,” George tells you, not impatiently.
You cast another glance at the bus, the last of the crowd settling in. There’s still room for you if you go now, and you take a step closer.
Turning back to George, you see that he’s waiting ever so kindly. His rapier hangs at his side, weighing heavy on his belt. Your own rests at your hip similarly, the only physical souvenir you have from Fittes.
You already know you aren’t getting on that bus. Being an agent is your life, the thing you have been training for since as long as you can remember. It’s as big a part of your life as your name or your birthday. You could leave Fittes, but not this.
The bus doors swing shut and it speeds off into the night. You do not look back as it does.
George smiles knowingly. “I’ll lead the way, then.”
—
He briefed you quickly on your walk back to the house.
“And he won’t care?” you’d asked. “It's his house and his company, after all.”
“Lockwood’ll care. But if he wanted to invite one of his random friends over, I’d let him, and it’s likely he’d do the same for me.”
Likely.
It’s also likely that Lockwood would decide to turn around and kick you out on the street.
“That’s it on the corner.” He nods to the building on the far right.
It’s a part of a string of row houses, all of them nice and uniform. They all seem to have three floors and an attic, and you marvel at the size of it. The house George is leading you to has a gorgeous green door, and just above it, the house number shines on a piece of glass. Thirty-five.
“You didn’t tell me your friend was rich,” you say, slightly breathless. You had seen your fair share of London homes to know this one was obviously large. Your home before the Fittes houses wasn’t all that big either — you used to dream of living in a place like this.
“He’s still trying to figure that one out himself, I think.”
After a few seconds, George’s key finds the lock and he pushes the door open. You smile tensely as you step past him, letting him lock the door behind you. When you turn to the rest of the hallway, you can’t help but marvel.
There are tons of things adorning the walls, and the first thing you see is a collection of masks that cover the left wall. Next to it is an interesting purple tapestry, and below it is a small accent bench complete with pillows and an orange blanket. You give George a funny look when you notice the plant pot filled to the brim with spare rapiers and umbrellas.
He continues just past the archway, stopping opposite a big rectangular mirror.
“Lockwood, come here,” George calls up the stairs.
“Something wrong?” the boy responds, his voice quiet from how far away he is.
“Just come here,” George says more insistently.
You can’t help but look around some more. It’s not often you’re in an actual house for non-case reasons, and George seems undisturbed by your snooping.
The walls over here are just as full as the ones closer to the door, and you notice various papers and pictures are framed and hung about. To the right of the stairs is another door with frosted glass windows.
Finally, there is the tell tale sound of footsteps on the stairs. You shift uneasily, listening as the steps get louder and louder. It’s painstaking — it sounds like he’s taking his time.
“You can relax,” George murmurs. “It’ll be fine.”
You nod, a little embarrassed that he could see how nervous you were. “Do you think he’ll say no?”
George cracks a grin. “If he does, it’s two against one. We could always kick him out.”
You laugh, looking away to the floor. The tiles have just been cleaned, and the ones under your feet are tinted blue and green from the light hanging above your heads. When you lean against your right foot, you notice that your shoelaces are sitting undone on the shiny tiles. Just as you bend down to tie your shoes, the sound of the wooden steps creaking comes to a halt.
“Oh, there’s no need to kneel for me.”
Your neck cranes up, and up, and up — really how tall can one person be — and your eyes lock with his.
It’s a mistake, because you nearly choke on your spit.
Anthony Lockwood is a lot taller than you expected, and much nicer on the eyes. Even though you’re looking up at him from the floor, you can tell his features will somehow look even nicer from up close.
…
Up close as in when you’re standing, of course, not like— Yeah. Anyways.
You must’ve been staring for too long because his eyes brighten after a second. Then his lips begin pulling upward into a smug smile.
The sight is all too familiar. Your jaw tenses without you meaning it to.
You think you might end up hating Anthony Lockwood.
You can not push yourself up from the floor faster.
“I’m Anthony Lockwood.” He is still grinning, and your eye nearly twitches. “It’s nice to meet you.”
You give him your name, and force a smile back. You doubt it looks as squeaky clean as his.
His eyebrows lift by a fraction of an inch. He repeats your name, your full name, and anxiety forms in your chest.
“You were the Sensitive with Touch at the Emmerton House,” he says, impressed. “The reason your team survived. One of the best current Fittes agents. I’d kill for a sense of Touch like that.”
The fact that your team would’ve died at Emmerton House without you was very much real and true, and you ease up a bit at the flattery. And it’s also not the only time you’ve had people tell you that last part. Your Listening was always below average and your Sight was considered alright, but your sense of Touch was a different story.
It was like it had adjusted accordingly based on how weak your other senses were. To compensate for what they couldn’t pick up, your Touch had been magnified tenfold. Even the lightest of contact with objects could show you psychic echoes. Oftentimes, even objects very loosely related to a death gave you clues. It was no doubt helpful, but could make work absolutely unbearable. Something as mundane as a trash can could show you visions of someone’s last moments, and it made you wary of everything.
People, too, could set off your senses. It was bad with agents especially. That part of your Talent had developed over time — you found out when your roommate at Fittes got back from a case and gave you a pat on the back. You were walking together in the middle of the cafeteria one second, and were keeled over with sounds of gunfire in your ears the next.
She had just helped deal with a battlefield cluster case, where all of the Visitors were soldiers who had been gunned down in war. For some reason, your sense of Touch picked up on whatever ghostly residuals she had gotten from the case, and you were reliving those soldiers’ last moments in front of everyone you worked with.
It was safe to say you avoided coming into contact with other people after that.
You hadn’t mentioned this part to your team back at Fittes, but it could happen with non-agents, too. Even those not physically close with a death could give you a reaction. Emotions like grief and strong thoughts of the deceased often gave off their own echoes, although you couldn’t tell if those were real or not. You hadn’t met anyone else who experienced the same thing, and were a little convinced they were just tricks of the mind.
The strength of your Talent had effectively put you inside your own bubble.
“I’d kill for a sense of Touch like that.”
If only he knew.
“Didn’t know you did research on Fittes agents,” you say.
“And she’s an ex-Fittes agent now,” George cuts in, and you snap your gaze to him. “She quit.”
Suddenly, George is a big fan of getting straight to the point.
Lockwood’s face is colored with surprise and slight intrigue. “Really? Why?”
“No particular reason,” you say, but your answer may have come a little too quickly, because he tilts his head in interest. “I’m glad to be free of those ridiculous uniforms, though,” you add on, eager to talk about literally anything else. “For the most renowned agency in London, they need to choose better laundry detergent.”
George smiles at that. “They were so scratchy, weren’t they?”
Lockwood gives you a smile. “Then you’ll be pleased to know that Lockwood & Co. doesn’t mandate uniforms.”
“Oh. I’m not— I’m not looking for a job, or anything,” you say quickly.
No offense to Lockwood, but you could not imagine going from being one of the best agents at the most respected agency in Britain to the smallest agency in London.
“She needs a place to stay while she looks for another job, Lockwood,” George supplies helpfully. “We have more than enough spare space, so I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”
The easy expression flickers off of Lockwood’s face and you nearly wilt. You knew he wasn’t going to take this news lightly, and it’s further confirmed when his mouth begins pulling down into a frown.
Crossing his arms, he says, “George, I admire your charity. But this is a proper psychical investigation agency, not a hotel.”
You bristle. Charity? He’s making it seem like you’re someone George found under a bridge.
What an impertinent prick. It’s like you’re not even standing in front of him while he speaks.
“This isn’t an act of philanthropy,” you grit out, trying to keep your composure. He seemed to be filling the pretentious rich boy mold quite well. “I can be more than helpful, and I’d be happy doing anything asked of me—”
“I appreciate the effort.” He tells this part to you directly, like he has just now remembered you’re here. “But unless you became an operative under the company, there’s not much you could contribute.”
You want to knock one of those perfect teeth of his into the back of his throat. Of all ways you expected George’s friend to act, being unsympathetic and heartless to someone’s face had not been on the list.
You feel embarrassed and irritated and an array of other emotions all at the same time. You get where Lockwood’s coming from, but his word choice has your eye twitching. Smug operatives like him do not have a great track record with you, and he’s just making it worse. You straighten, puffing your shoulders out slightly.
“Well, you said it yourself.” The words are coming out before you can stop them, an endless stream of your thoughts spilling from your mouth. “I’m— I was one of Fittes’ best agents, and that hasn’t changed overnight. I can help you with cases in exchange for you letting me stay here.”
Now you’ve done it. Tied yourself to yet another cocky and callous agent in the same dangerous career. You’ve traded your old life for a new one that’s the exact same. You can’t help but think this is what you’re destined for, and this is the world’s cruel way of showing it.
Lockwood leans back against the railing of the staircase, deep in thought.
“We could use her help, Lockwood, whether you want to admit it or not.” You’re glad George is willing to fight in your favor. “We’ve been swamped ever since Robin… you know.” He glances sideways at you for a split second before continuing on. “Having her around could make our load lighter, even if it’s temporary.”
You aren’t sure how Lockwood doesn’t crack under the pressure of the looks you and George are giving him, as neither of you seem keen on leaving without him agreeing. He stares long and hard at you, and you stare right back, unblinkingly.
“Fine.” He caves, but the uncertainty is still there. “You have a rapier, I see, so you can join us on our case tonight.”
“I can?” This surprises you. “You don’t want to see what I can do first? Test me?”
Lockwood shakes his head, before pushing himself off the railing. “I’ve heard more than enough about you. I know what you can do.”
—
George had taken it upon himself to give you the tour of the house. Lockwood had offered, but you had declined as politely as you could through gritted teeth and strained smiles. You were still caught up on his weird comments and needed to cool off before being in his presence again.
You couldn’t quite tell which part of him ticked you off. His thinly veiled snobbishness left a bitter taste in your mouth, although his confidence in your abilities was nice to hear. It was weird how he seemed to know everything about you, but you didn’t have a clue about him. The unknowing irked you.
George showed you the library, which was just behind where the two of you had been standing. The shelves were piled high with just about any book you could imagine, and you understood why he enjoyed spending time in there so much. The kitchen was what was behind the door with the frosted glass window, and just up the steps were the bathroom and bedrooms.
Your temporary room was squished just between Lockwood and George’s. It was slightly smaller than the size of your housing back at Fittes, only this time, you had it all to yourself. You were once again reminded just how rich Lockwood was, as all three of the rooms on this floor seemed to be just as big.
The inside was furnished with a full sized bed, although it was covered with a plastic wrapping instead of sheets. It was clear that this was a guest room that was unused, as the dresser in the corner had collected a thick layer of dust over the top. You shut the door before you got too lost in thought. You wouldn’t let yourself entertain the idea of what it might look like if the room was actually yours.
He took you up to the attic, too, breezing past one of the doors completely. He didn’t mention it again on your way back down, and you assumed it was one of those things no one talked about. You didn’t press, although your fingertips itched to brush over the doorknob. Curiosity was always hard to ward away.
When George led you back to the front of the house, you finally saw Lockwood again, who was heaving the kit bags to the door.
“Ah, there you two are.” He tugged one of the bags over his shoulder, which was covered by his dark coat. “Enjoy your look at the house?”
You knew that it would be impossible to live with the boy if you weren’t amicable with him. After all, he was a total stranger who was doing you a huge favor by letting you stay in his massive house. And, it wasn’t even Lockwood’s fault cocky agents had a bad rep with you. You had to stop your scrutinizing, because whether you liked it or not, you would be living with him until another agency was kind enough to pick you up.
“It’s nice.” You try for a smile, and it’s not nearly as strained this time. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
Lockwood smiles back as he pulls the door open. “Thank you for offering your service.”
—
Mr. Shelby’s house is nice. The cab pulls into the development, and you notice that each house is a little different, but all are decently large with a big yard. The houses on Carford Street specifically, like Mr. Shelby’s, all open up to the woods. The neighbourhood is also far enough from the noises and pollution of the city that you’ll be able to see the stars when it’s dark.
A starry night is a sight you didn’t realize you missed so much. That’s one thing you miss most about your hometown — nature. Fittes was like a concrete forest. The closest you had to nature there were the potted plants on your window sill. You take in the sight of the clear sky. You can’t remember any of the constellation names, but you can tell some of the ones you used to see are going to be visible tonight.
“You alright?”
Lockwood is standing behind you, looming just over your right shoulder. Without meaning to, you stumble back a few steps, and he levels you with a curious look. He had been swaying his duffel bag back and forth as he watched you stare off into space.
“I’m fine.” You pull the second bag out of the boot of the car and shut it. The one you’re holding looks significantly heavier than the one Lockwood’s carrying. “Just thinking.”
George is already at the front door, reading off the paper from Mr. Shelby with instructions on how to get into the house. Apparently, he had declined when Lockwood had asked if he would be there to show them around the house. Ever since the first sensing of the ghost, he had taken his daughter and fled to his mother’s house, hence the minimal information available.
You hear George mumble a bit to himself as he reads the note aloud. Then, he moves a garden gnome out of the way, revealing a dirt covered key.
Lockwood checks his watch, not pleased with what he’s seeing. “It’s best not to delay. We’ll have to squeeze in tea at this rate.”
“It’s nearly dark out,” you protest, struggling to keep up with his long strides. He halts behind George as he works the door open. “I don’t think there’s any time for tea.”
Lockwood & Co. must take this aspect of their work very seriously, because even George frowns at this. “There’s always time for tea.”
Without an ounce of hesitation, he unlocks the door and steps inside. Lockwood follows behind him with you close behind, the three of you like a mother hen and her chicks.
The inside of the house is nice and homey, and thankfully much warmer than outside. The door opens up to a staircase straight ahead and a living room to the right, but George and Lockwood move straight past it, clearly in search of something. At the back of the line, you don’t get much say in your destination, but you realize after a second that the two boys are making a beeline for the kitchen.
Although it is nearly dark, Lockwood and George insist there is still enough time for tea and whatever dilly-dallying it seems that they want to. You place your bag onto the table at their insistence.
Your eyes take a few minutes to adjust to the unlit room, so you listen while the two boys shuffle around. After a few minutes, there is the click of the lantern, and the area around the table bursts into a muted light.
From his bag, Lockwood takes out three brown tea bags while George puts the kettle on, both of them working silently. You sit down awkwardly while Lockwood searches the cupboards for mugs. He doesn’t find any until the fourth one he checks, and scoops up three big cups in his right hand.
“Is this some ritual of yours?” You feel out of place watching them work, and feel oddly bad for not doing anything. If you had even suggested having tea during a case to your old team leader, he would’ve laughed at you. Honestly, you would’ve laughed at yourself.
“I don’t know how you Fittes agents don’t go mad.” Lockwood places a mug in front of you. It’s cute and handmade, the outside painted to look like a house. Off to the side are two blobs you think are meant to be people. You nearly coo over it, the cup clearly painted by a little kid. “I’d probably go crazy from all the waiting without any tea or biscuits.”
You think back to your old cases, and the painful silences as the group of you would wait quietly for nightfall. None of you were to speak unless necessary, and you can still remember the unease, the creeping fear before the actual creeping fear set in.
Interestingly enough, there is none of that here.
“You brought biscuits?”
From the same bag Lockwood took the tea out of, George brandishes a long tin. The familiar shape of a Minkell Sweets biscuit is printed along the side, much to your delight.
“Nice.”
“Would you mind setting up the rest of the lights?” Lockwood points to the same bag, and you move quickly, eager for something to do.
Inside, there is a box of candles and matches, an extra torch or two, and a small oil lantern. You place the various light sources about the kitchen while George begins to pour the boiling water into your cups.
The brown duffel must be a bottomless pit, because Lockwood manages to take out a small box of sugar packets as well. He pushes them in your direction. “Help yourself.”
You nod once, a quiet second before you find your voice again. “Thanks.”
It still feels weird speaking so freely in the house, knowing a Visitor could make its appearance very soon. But Lockwood and George relax easily into their chairs, adding their own respective mix-ins. You try your best to do the same, but still feel on edge. Although they seem reliable, you have no idea what Lockwood and George might do. Securing sources is generally pretty methodical, but it’s weird working with relative strangers. You’ve learned to always expect something to go wrong.
“Four minutes until the sun is officially down,” George remarks, glancing at his watch.
“I trust George updated you on what we know?” Lockwood asks you. His tea is almost finished.
“I thought we knew almost nothing.”
He smiles. “Then you’re all up to speed.”
“Does that not worry you?” you ask, stirring around the sugar at the bottom of your cup. “Doing this all blind?”
“My specialty is Sight, actually, so I do nothing blind.” He laughs lightly about his own joke, but clears his throat when you don’t join in. “But jokes aside, it doesn’t worry me. Unfortunately, there’s really nothing we could’ve done about the lack of information Mr. Shelby had and the lack of information we found ourselves.”
A bitter pill to swallow.
“I believe that wavering confidence does nothing but destroy your will,” Lockwood continues calmly, and you find your nerves relaxed a little. “Are you worried about the case?”
There’s a look on his face that you can’t place, and it has your response dying on the tip of your tongue. You have a feeling that your answer is very important.
“No,” you say carefully, and you find yourself meaning it. “I’m not worried.”
“Good.” He finishes off his cup, and you and George do the same. “Let’s go, then. This ghost isn’t going to catch itself.”
—
Although Mr. Shelby reported the presence in the backyard, Lockwood thought it best to search the rest of the house as well. You breezed through the upper floor, noting a lack of… anything. There was a complete and total absence of the usual phenomena that usually indicated a manifestation.
Lockwood’s Sight was picking up on nothing, and George couldn’t hear anything either. You had been intermittently brushing your hand against the wall, searching for anything, but to no avail. You let your fingers dance over objects that looked significant, but they gave off no more information.
This anticipation was honestly worse than the actual thing, and you found yourself wishing that a familiar chill, or fear, or anything at all would make itself known.
Mr. Shelby’s room was very messy, and measured 19 degrees. Flicking on your torch for a few moments, you could see that canvases were propped up against every wall, each of them covered in various paintings in different stages of completion. Most looked like they had the makings of a good picture, but were sadly unfinished. You could see where his child picked up their artistic skills from. Each of them were gorgeous.
The room across the hall was a guest room that measured 19 degrees as well. There was nothing but a queen sized mattress on the floor, and it gave off the same amount of signs that Mr. Shelby’s room did: zero.
The final bedroom is much smaller, as is the bed in the center. The walls are bright pink, and toys are scattered messily in the corner. This is clearly his daughter’s room, if the princess theme tells you anything. Flashing your light around shows you crayon drawings of castles and dragons on the wall. She must’ve been the little creator of your mug. Her room measures 18 degrees — a minute drop, but not large enough for concern.
“George,” you say, once you’re out in the hallway. He’s looking at a framed photo of the father and daughter. “Did Mr. Shelby tell you anything about his personal life?”
“A little.” You move to his side to see the picture in his hands. In the darkness, you can see a distant shape — Lockwood, who’s a few feet ahead, ready to head back downstairs. “He’s an artist and lives with his daughter Laurie and their dog. He adopted her a few years ago.
“All dogs are adopted, George,” Lockwood adds helpfully.
“I meant Laurie, not the dog.”
“Right.”
George turns back at you. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.” you say. “That guest bedroom probably has seen better days. No one else lives here but them, I’m assuming?”
“Besides the Visitor, yes. It’s just the two of them.”
You move in the direction of Lockwood, and he begins leading the three of you in the direction of the patio. You aren’t sure how he so easily navigates the dark stairwell. The steps are so narrow you nearly miss a few and topple into George. Lockwood’s normal sight must be just as good as his spectral Sight, a fact you envy.
When you reach the bottom, he passes his bag over to you. It’s heavy with the weight of the chains and magnesium flares inside — they seem to have packed a lot of those, ready to lob them to their hearts’ content when you’re finally outside.
“Set up the chains a bit away from the back door,” Lockwood orders. “Me and George are going to do a quick sweep of the living room. Don’t go further than the patio until we get back.”
You really don’t think two people are needed to search the place where the Visitor was pointedly not sensed, but you bite your tongue and take the bag from him.
The back door is made entirely of glass and is covered by red curtains. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but it’s inside of the kitchen, off to the side. When you push the drapes out of the way, you can feel the chill outside through the glass. It was already pretty cold when you had come in, so you don't think much of it. It could be chill from the Visitor or chill from the season, and it’s not likely you’ll be able to guess which one is the cause without heading outside.
Before you can hesitate, you push the glass doors open and step onto the patio.
It’s quiet, of course. The entire neighbourhood is inside their homes, getting ready for bed, probably. It’s just you and the crickets out here.
And whatever that is.
You can hear it loud and clear and coming from the side of the house, so it’s likely real and not at all related to your ghost. Whatever it is is growling, a violent and steady snarl.
Chancing a look at the wooded area that the Shelby’s backyard opens up to, you decide its best to draw your rapier. You aren’t an animal expert, but have a good idea of what sorts of animals can come from trees like those.
You wonder if it’d be possible to charge Mr. Shelby even more for this job. You’re a psychical field operative for crying out loud, not Animal Control.
You glance back into the house. You can’t see anything, not even a flicker of torchlight. Lockwood and George must be deeper into the first floor. You know that Lockwood said not to leave the patio, but he’ll be thanking you when ‘death by coyote’ isn’t carved onto his headstone.
As quietly as you can, you drop the bag of supplies by the glass doors and inch towards the side of the house. There’s no way it’s an animal larger than a wolf, but even small animals come with their own dangers. You adjust your grip on your rapier as you slowly round the corner, eyes darting quickly as you steady your ground.
You see it — a moving shape next to the bush. You don’t advance, letting it make the first move. Obviously, you don’t want to hurt an innocent animal. There’s always a chance it’ll be scared enough to run back into the woods, which is what you’re hoping for. The growling has stopped, oddly enough, and the sounds of the crickets seems unbearably louder.
Quicker than you anticipated, the animal darts out of the darkness and in your direction. You wince. You don’t want to hurt it, but your panic response has your rapier moving, ready to defend.
Now out of the shadows, the light of the moon illuminates the animal. Your entire body freezes up, your swing coming to an abrupt halt.
It’s not a wolf at all.
But there’s no time to process the brief flurry of golden fur before a force is pressing hard against your shoulders and you’re shoved onto your back.
It knocks the wind out of you, but you don’t cry out for help. It’s only the Shelbys’ golden retriever. Your good arm pulls back, getting momentum to push the dog off of you, but you can feel your limbs tingling as they lose sensation.
Ah.
Your eyes slide shut, and then your mind is dragged through a flicker of psychic echoes.
Usually, coming into contact with a related object will have small physical effects, like your heart skipping a beat. Sometimes it will make you freeze in place, but both are nothing more than a small shock to the system. You’ve grown to learn how to ignore it.
This one has your stomach rolling, but you push past the physical nausea to feel.
And feel you do.
The overwhelming emotion of irritation rolls over you. The kind that comes with bared teeth and possesses you, makes you angry enough you’re not like yourself. And there’s exhaustion, too, debilitating fatigue that warps your vision. Distantly, you can hear something. Low snarling, in the back of your head.
You choke on air, but you can’t tell if it’s real or fake. Then there’s a searing pain in your chest, one so real you know it’s nothing but an echo. After another second your chest is tearing open, the pain so blinding you can’t help but feel bad for the ghost. There’s another noise now, the sound of something flapping back and forth. It’s loud enough to be heard over the growling, and you wish you could clamp your hands over your ears.
Flip. Flap.
Loud and annoying, right in your ear.
There’s the feeling of wood underneath your fingertips, rough and coarse. But then there’s a bright flash of light, like somebody’s yanking a blanket off of your head.
Before you know it, oxygen is returning to your body as you sit up in shock.
The Shelby’s golden retriever topples off you, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. There’s drool covering the side of your face, and you wipe it away in a daze. This is the first time an animal has triggered your Talent, and you’re still reeling from her jump at you and the echoes you had witnessed. You had thought you were about to get mauled by a wolf.
She’s running in circles around you, eager to play, but you’re still coming back to yourself after your brief moments floating in Psychical Outer Space.
After mere seconds, she gets bored and bounds off somewhere behind you. You blink hard, feeling sluggish. You’re still seated on the grass, for some reason.
Get up, you tell yourself. But your limbs still aren’t working. You shake your head hard, as if it will get rid of the drowsiness. It never takes this long for you to come back to yourself after using your Talent. You feel heavy, like fifty pound weights are attached to your wrists and ankles.
Distantly, you think you can hear someone saying something, but you can’t understand it through the brain fog. A few taps to the side of your head does the trick like always, and you gain some sense of hearing back.
It’s just in time to hear the sound of a salt bomb exploding over your head.
It burns red hot, and you’re lucky you wore a thicker jacket today. Your arms are snapping free of whatever invisible forces were holding them back, and you shield your head from the burst. Instinct has your fingers tightening around your rapier, and you launch yourself forward, away from the direction of the blast. The burning salt lands around you like a flurry of snow.
Ghost-lock. It was ghost-lock that was stopping you from moving. And if someone hadn’t lobbed the salt bomb at you, you would’ve died. You hadn’t recognized the familiar sensation, thinking it still a side effect from your Talent. But you whirl back around in the direction of the ghost, and feel malaise set in. You’re steady on your feet now, your rapier at the ready.
The salt bomb might’ve deterred the ghost long enough for you to get away, but it was not strong enough to disippate it completely. The apparition is already reformed, the Visitor looking solid and real before your eyes. Your eyes lock with the ghostly figure across from you, and you pause, waiting to see if it’ll attack first. You take this time to study whatever your Sight allows you to see.
She’s taken the form of a girl. Her face is nothing more than a trick of the light to you, features fading in and out. Lockwood may be able to see her better, but it’s all a hit or miss for you. She’s clearly not of this time, her dress stylish but from years long past.
Where’s your Source? you want to ask. Show me.
It’s useless to try communicating with a ghost, of course. But it doesn’t stop you from searching your brain for any scrap of information the Shelby dog had given you. The flapping noise and the feeling of your chest erupting wasn’t exactly enough.
“O—er here!” one of the watery voices yells.
Your eyes dart over to the left. It’s Lockwood, waving in your direction. You shake your head at him, hoping he gives you a second. The ghost girl hasn’t made any sudden movements, just stood opposite of you with the solidity of any other Spectre.
“That’s an ugly dress you’ve got on there!” he yells again. George is kneeling down, making sure the chains are secured.
With a start, you realize Lockwood isn’t calling for you… he’s taunting the ghost.
How bright of him.
But it works. Her head turns in the direction of the two boys, and you shiver. Your thermometer vibrates slightly where it’s hung on your belt.
The weather outside has dropped to zero degrees.
“What are you doing, you idiot?” you mumble, your mind racing for ways to help them. The Spectre hadn’t seemed violent until Lockwood decided to insult her, and she’s beginning to float in their direction much quicker.
“Secure the Source,” George yells. “We’ll hold her off!”
He must be kidding.
You had gotten some echoes from the dog, sure, but enough to find the location of the Source? It could be two meters under your feet and you would have no idea.
The golden retriever, who had been play bowing at Lockwood’s feet, springs back up. She’s growling, now, you can hear it loud and clear. You aren’t sure whether animals can see ghosts, but the approaching presence has her retreating. She tears across the green grass, darting straight to a small building near the tree line.
The doggy door shuts loudly behind her as she disappears into a wooden shed. You can hear the now familiar flapping sound from across the yard.
Oh. You hadn’t even noticed that.
You sprint across the grass, the ground wet from a light drizzle earlier. The sound of a rapier slash cuts the air in two, and you can see Lockwood keeping her at bay with his sword. Your Listening is usually weak, but when she lets out a blood-curdling screech, even you can hear it.
You reach for the shed handle, and move to pull the door open. It doesn’t budge. The handle doesn’t turn, and you are effectively locked out of the Shelbys’ shed.
Well, shit.
There’s another burst of light, what must’ve been George’s salt bomb. You hear Lockwood’s voice again, probably another jeer at the ghost, and a familiar panic rises in your chest. You have to help them.
You hope Mr. Shelby doesn’t charge you for damages, because you’re about to break this door down. The wood is flimsy with age, so it shouldn’t be too hard. You throw your body weight against it once, and the door bends slightly. You try again, and the entire shed shakes.
Not enough.
You take a few steps back. A running start, you need a running start.
Pacing back, you try not to focus on Lockwood and George’s attempts at fighting off the Visitor. There’s not much they can do if you don’t secure the Source, so you need to work quickly.
Bracing yourself, you run forward and throw yourself at the door. The hinges protest the whole way, but the door gives under your weight and slams against the wall.
Holy shit. You hadn’t expected that to work like in the movies.
Your momentum carries you forward, and you trip a little, catching yourself on your forearms. The bruises are already starting to form, but you shake the pain away. You need the Source. You need to help them.
The inside of the shed is messy, and shelves used as storage take up most of the space. There’s a light switch by the door, but you decide to leave it off. If the Shelby dog won’t lead you to the Source herself, you’ll have to try sensing for it yourself. The light will only get in your way.
You whistle lowly, patting the tops of your thighs. “Hey, girl, where are you?”
There is instant movement, the sound of her feet against the wood. You make a beeline in her direction, the noise coming from the big workbench on the edge of the room. It’s pressed between the wall and a tall shelf, piled high with paint supplies and unlabeled cardboard boxes.
Something soft brushes against your leg, and you nearly sigh in relief.
“Hi, honey,” you say softly, crouching down. It’s dark in here, so you flick on your torch to the lowest setting and shine it around the bottom of the table. She’s curled up, resting her head on her front legs. “You have something for me?”
She rolls onto her stomach, and you give her a few belly rubs. “My coworkers are about to die, so I’m going to need you to show me where the Source is. Is it in one of these boxes?”
She must take your sign of affection as a sign that you want to play, because she grabs something into her mouth and darts away before you can process it all. The space she has just vacated is empty.
Or, almost empty.
Piled into a corner is a small mountain of random objects with all of the order of a lost and found bin. There’s a pink jelly sandal that looks gnawed on, and paintbrushes you’re sure she’s stolen from her owners. And there’s other things, too, like a massive stick and a teddy bear that’s ripped in half. You turn back to her, and realize she’s holding her prized possession in her teeth.
A bone.
“I’m not even getting paid for this,” you lament.
She bows down, clearly ready to play.
“Honey, give it to me, please.” You beckon her closer.
On fast legs, she dances around you, clearly used to navigating the mess of the shed. You’re seriously going to have to wrestle a human bone away from a dog to save your colleagues.
Alright.
She jumps around you, gets close before she pulls away, her tail wagging in excitement. The bone isn’t too long, and if you had to guess, probably from the ghost girl’s ribcage. You’ll wrap it in the net. It’s too big to be secured with anything else you carry on your person.
You let the dog do her little dance as you unravel the chainlink net. She’s excited to play, and you wait for her to get a little too close. After a couple seconds, she jumps close enough to touch your shoe, and you strike. You close a hand over a part of the bone her mouth isn’t covering, and jolt.
You know it’s the Source immediately. It’s ice cold to the touch, and you steel your mind, put up any internal defense you can against the incoming psychic echoes. There’s no time.
You tug.
The bone is slippery with slobber, and she has a good grip on it. You try not recoiling when you remember this bone had been in someone’s body once. You don’t even want to question how this dog came into possession of this.
She’s growling playfully, and you adjust your stance, getting ready to play tug-of-war with the bone. You yank as hard as you can, and her paws slip, losing traction against the floor. Her abrupt release has you falling backward, and you slam hard into the shelf behind you.
This injury in particular has you groaning in pain. Another bruise for the collection.
The Shelby dog rolls around on the ground in front of you, clearly happy.
“Thanks a lot,” you snap, your hands fumbling to wrap up the Source. The muffled noises you could hear outside go silent, and you know it’s over. “I hope you’re pleased.”
The quiet you had been oh-so-glad to hear is interrupted by the sound of a metallic screeching. You freeze, looking down at the Source. Was the net not strong enough? Did you need something else?
Panic is clouding your senses, and you don’t notice the open paint can that’s sliding off the shelf behind you. One moment, you are worrying over the human bone in your hands, and the next, you are drenched in red paint.
The metal can rolls away, now empty. Your head is soaked, and the red runs down your shoulders like a second coat of skin. You look and feel fresh from a blood bath, and you groan in discomfort.
You wipe away the red on your face, allowing yourself to open your eyes again. “I know you planned this,” you snap at the Shelby dog. She doesn’t understand, just continues to wag her tail at you.
The coloring stains the wood red beneath you, making the area look awfully like a crime scene. You mumble obscenities under your breath the entire way out of the shed, and if you nearly slip on a puddle of paint, it is between you and the dog.
The door is ruined, and you leave its broken pieces behind you. You’re stumbling almost blindly across the grass when you spot George and Lockwood. The former is wrapping up the chains while Lockwood chews thoughtfully on a biscuit it looks like he got from his front pocket. He’s scanning the yard, his gaze stopping when it lands on you.
“George,” you hear him say. “Is it possible we missed one?”
“I’m not a ghost, you pompous ass!”
George turns around, and when he spots you, he flinches.
You must look great.
“Woah,” he manages. “What happened to you?”
You get close enough to shove the Source into his hands. The net is stained red, too, and you know what it must look like to them. But you’re too exhausted to explain. You just want to go back to the house and shower.
“You look like a giant moth attacked you,” you say, gesturing to his jacket. There are holes all throughout the sleeves, probably burned through by plasm.
“You look… red,” Lockwood says, for a lack of better description. He’s looking generally undisturbed by his confrontation with the ghost, and this pisses you off even more.
“No shit,” you snap. Without the presence of the ghost, it has no doubt gotten significantly warmer out, but it is still uncomfortably cold. “Can we just go?”
“Not so fast.” He drops a firm hand on your shoulder when you try to move back to the house. “We can get the rest of our things in a second. I need to talk to you about your performance today.”
“What about it?” you ask tersely. A shiver wracks your body. “I secured the Source. We’re all fine.”
“I told you not to leave the patio before we got out there, but when we got outside, you were sitting in the grass with the dog. You didn’t even notice when the Visitor had manifested.” He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed. “It was nearly about to touch you before I threw my salt-bomb at it.”
You roll your eyes before you can stop yourself. The adrenaline crash is making you snippish, it always does. “I don’t even know where to start with how wrong your accusations are,” you snap. George watches wide eyed as you step closer to Lockwood. You jab your finger into his chest. “First of all, I wasn’t just playing with the dog!” You say that last part in a mockery of his voice, and he scoffs. “I left the patio because I heard a noise, and went to check it out. And then the dog jumped at me, and it’s not my fault my Talent got triggered! And from what I remember, the information I got from that saved your asses, so.”
If you were less tired, you probably wouldn’t be speaking to him like this. You were supposed to be aiming for amicable, but you think you’re far past it now.
“Your sense of Touch worked on the dog?” George interjects. “A living thing?”
“Yes.” It’s clipped, and a strong gust of wind has your teeth chattering. “It’s not the first time. I get them from people, too, sometimes.”
George’s eyes widen. “That’s incredible. Would you be willing to—”
“As interesting as it is, that doesn’t change the facts,” comes Lockwood’s voice again. You groan involuntarily at the sound. “You still went against what I had asked of you, and it nearly got you killed. You would have gotten touched if me and George took a second longer! It may not be permanent, but we’re a team right now. Your behavior affects all of us, and you were being reckless.”
Reckless.
Of all words to describe you, he chooses reckless?
“At least I wasn’t off taunting the ghost!” You hope your voice is able to get across how ridiculous you think he’s sounding. “I get what you were trying to do, but putting a target on you and George was just about as ‘dangerous’ as what I did!”
He puts his hands on his hips, looking like the definition of an irritated teacher. “That’s not—”
“And are you not going to explain why you sent me outside, alone, in the direction we knew the ghost was going to be in?” There must be steam coming out of your ears right now. “While you and George were off cozy in the living room, I had to go fight off what I thought was a wild animal!”
“I was testing you!” he exclaims, voice raised. “And you failed, spectacularly. You immediately disobeyed the one and only set of orders I gave you. And no one told you to go and fight off a wild animal, you decided to do that all on your own. You’re lucky that I’m letting you still assist us on jobs after this—“
“I’m lucky?” You laugh loudly. “You sound insane! Who unknowingly tests someone in a real life or death situation? You’re lucky that I’m not skewering you with my rapier—”
“We get it!” George snaps. You don’t blame him. You’re actually surprised it had taken him this long to butt in. “You were both in the wrong and both in the right. Now can we please just save this conversation for an environment warmer than ten degrees? It’s almost eleven at night.”
You cross your arms, still heated over the argument. Lockwood doesn’t look happy about not getting the last word, but he nods. “Fine. We’ll just have to hope there’s a taxi willing to let Red here sit inside it.”
“Ha ha,” you say sarcastically, obviously unamused. How could one person be both extremely annoying and unfunny? “I wrestled with a literal dog for that Source, so I hope you’re happy.”
You push past him, heading back inside the warm house. The relief is instant, and the three of you pack up your things in tense silence. Lockwood washes out the mugs while you put the light sources away, and neither of you say anything about how harsh you’re being with the flashlights.
The cab ride is equally as quiet, and Lockwood gives you a smug grin when the driver gives you a weird look for your appearance.
George sits next to Lockwood (probably so he’ll notice if you try to strangle Lockwood while he’s asleep) and you sit across from them, trying not to let the undried paint get on everything. Lucky for the cab driver, the majority of it has frozen with the weather and sticks well to your hair and skin.
George falls asleep quickly, but Lockwood is still awake next to him, staring out the window. The case has left you exhausted and jittery, but your temper has now cooled down. Lockwood catches your eye briefly before he looks away, and your argument plays in your head again.
Should you have yelled at him? Probably not. But he had come for you first, and you were rightfully defensive. But you also know that your anger was disproportionate to Lockwood’s words. He had scolded you like a child, sure, but he’s your temporary boss, and was in every position to do so.
Deep down, you know what had sparked some of that anger. It was the recklessness, and the confidence, and the cocky grins. It was familiar. All too familiar for you, and you had lashed out at Lockwood as if you were lashing out at… Him.
Lockwood’s face starts turning in your direction and you snap your gaze away. You can feel him staring at you, and you wonder if he’s going to say something.
Instead, he stays quiet. You sigh, letting yourself relax against the vinyl.
When you fall asleep in your new bed an hour later, you know two things for sure.
You’re tired, and you do not like Anthony Lockwood.
notes: omg. its finally posted ! i hope u guys enjoyed despite how long it was LOL i am so excited to write the rest of this series :) lmk ur thoughts
lockwood: @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @a-candle-maker @2guysonascooter @amo-a-los-postres @cassiopeiia24
bwtb: @ourgoddessathena @bookflowersnerd @straykiss-hoo (just lmk if u want to be added/removed!)
