I love fics where the reader is Latina, but I have only seen one that the reader is Brazilian (I'm Brazilian myself so I loooooved it). And it might sound very silly but it felt really nice reading it and actually relating to a character for the first time. So if anyone has more fic rec where the reader is either Brazilian or doesn't have her Latin origins predefined, please recommend me !!!
Hi hi hi!! I saw your post about Anthony Lockwood dating head cannons and I was wondering if you could do one like that for George!?!
a/n: sorry this took an eternity but I hope you like them 😓😓
george karim dating hcs:
when you first start dating your phone line is always busy, he’s rambling about everything and anything just to hear you laugh at something he said.
he’s insecure about the relationship at first :( takes him a while to digest how such an amazing person like you could go for him. Thankfully, he gets used to you being a constant in his life.
you’re the first person to hold hands with him, his first kiss, first relationship and even though he’s not a very physical person, he doesn’t push you away (but he’s not one to enjoy PDA).
he likes having you around him when he’s researching so going to the archives is a more common “date” activity than going to a cafe.
george is very comfortable around you, so he’s very quick to fall asleep around you BUT his sleep schedule is so baddd you have to force him to take naps.
when the two of you disagree about something his stubborn side can get in the way of apologising but he can’t give you the silent treatment so he caves and treats you to donuts and tea and maybe a nice meal all while rambling about how he’s such an idiot until you cut him off with a kiss.
you have to carry a wipe for his glasses around since he always forgets. He blushes when you take the glasses off of his face and wipe them for him.
summary: a case that takes longer than expected, an unrequited crush, and the hardest decision you ever had to make
a/n: after an entire 9.5 months (and literal years since the first part) I can finally bring you the 10th and final part of this series. I have struggled a lot with it, particularly with the ending, but I'm pretty happy with it now and hope you will be too. Thank you for everyone who read the other parts, and especially those who left comments! They made me very happy and were great motivation. It may be hard to believe with how long it's taken me, but this fic is one of my favourite things I have ever written and I really hope you will enioy this last part.
You spent the entirety of the bus ride home staring at the back of the seat in front of you. Someone had placed a sticker there, someone else had tried to remove it, but only got half of it. You wouldn’t have been able to recall its colour if someone had asked you afterwards. You weren’t looking at it anyways, not really, because in your mind you were still at the Archives, replaying that moment you hid from George over and over again. Should you have revealed yourself? You could have apologised. You could have attempted to explain why you had to go. But maybe it was better you didn’t. Maybe -
Harry’s fingers were digging into your shoulder, ready to shake you as you realised that he was talking to you. You turned to him, eyes wide in confusion as the bus came to an abrupt halt, bringing you back to reality.
“This is our stop”, Harry repeated.
You shuffled out of the seat and followed him.
As the bus drove off, he looked at you, shaking his head. “Are you okay? You didn’t listen to a single word I was saying in there.”
You grimaced. Had he been talking to you the entire time?
“Sorry”, you mumbled, giving him what you hoped was a convincing smile. “Just a little tired I guess.”
You walked home in silence, and you tried your best to not let your thoughts stray back to George.
Hannah was waiting in the flat with lunch already on the table, and while you didn’t feel like you could stomach much right now, the smell made your stomach grumble nonetheless. After you had all sat down, Hannah reached over to the counter and grabbed a thick envelope.
“Lucy came by while you were gone”, she said, and you involuntarily dug your nails into the fabric of your jeans. That couldn’t be good.
“She said to give you this. It’s really important.”
Your hand was trembling the slightest bit as you reached over and took the envelope from her. What could it possibly be? You turned it over, and saw that it was addressed to ‘Lockwood and Company’. In the top left corner was an emblem you couldn’t quite place. The swirling of anxiety in your stomach calmed down somewhat – this wasn’t likely to be a personal letter then.
When you went to open it, you realised someone had taped it shut with some clear tape. So it had to have been opened before. You were intrigued now, the anxiety replaced with curiosity. Carefully, you peeled off the tape and pulled out the paper inside.
You could feel the eyes of both Harry and Hannah on you as you unfolded it, the paper rustling in the tense quiet of the kitchen.
Your mouth went dry as you skimmed over the first few lines of the letter, the knots of anxiety returning to your stomach. You hadn’t expected this at all.
“What is it?”, Hannah finally asked after you hadn’t said anything in a while. Your eyes were stuck on the page, reading the words over and over again until they blurred.
Wordlessly, you handed her the paper.
“Oh shit. I don’t think you can get out of that”, she said after a few moments.
“What are we talking about?”, Harry asked, impatiently.
Hannah held out the letter for him to take. “It’s a citation. They’ve been summoned to court. As witnesses –“
“To testify against Lady Genevieve Blackwood and Mr Philip Sterling that are charged with the murder of Lord Edmund Blackwood” Harry finished the sentence for her, looking up from the letters with wide eyes..
Your sat frozen in place, your ears ringing. You were aware that you were overreacting, but you almost felt sick from anxiety. Never mind that this letter meant you had to go back and face George, no, you also had to face Genevieve and her murderous butler-boyfriend. It sent a shiver down your spine to think about seeing them again, after everything that happened in Abbey House.
Hannah reached out for your hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll come with you if you want”, she offered. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
You managed to smile at her, blinking away the tears that were already blurring your vision again. How you still had tears left in your body, you’d never know.
The court date was four days from now. Only three days to mentally prepare yourself, which felt like such little time. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess the entire day, and after you tossed and turned for hours, unable to sleep, it was long past midnight when you finally dozed off.
You were sat in a room that vaguely reminded you of the study in the Abbey Estate. Heavy, deep red curtains that were drawn closed over ceiling high windows, walls covered with bookshelves that were filled to the brim. The room was dimly lit, a warm glow like from candlelight, but there were no candles in sight. You were sat on a chair, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t move a single muscle. You blinked a few times and suddenly there was George, looking straight at you from across the room. He held crumpled pieces of papers – letters? He seemed to be talking to you, you could see his lips moving – but the silence was deafening. You couldn’t hear anything but your own pounding heartbeat. And when you tried to speak, call, no scream out to him, you didn’t manage a single sound. He had stopped talking now and was looking at you with a cold, disengaged expression, as if he couldn’t care less about the way you were struggling. Panic was closing in on you as your desperation rose, only to suddenly have your airways cut off. The rough cord of a rope was digging into your neck as it was pulled back ruthlessly and your vision started to blur -
You jolted awake, your heart beating erratically and your sleep shirt stuck to your back, cold with sweat. You were gasping for air, your hand flying to your neck to pull away the rope, but nothing was there. You scanned the room around you as you pulled your crumpled blanket up to your chest, scared someone would step out of the dark corners. After you calmed down somewhat, you reached for the glass of water on your nightstand. Your hands were still trembling as brought it to your lips, the feeling of the cold drink easily making its way down your throat reminding you that you were indeed awake, and safe.
Usually, if you even had any recollection of your dreams, those memories would fade away quickly as soon as you were awake, but not this time. The horrible scene was stuck in your head, practically burned to the back of your eyelids. A cold shiver ran down your back as you recalled the woman’s voice that had accompanied the rope. Just thinking about the fact that you had to see her in person in just a few days made bile rise in your throat.
You did not manage to go back to sleep after that. Instead you laid on your back and stared at the dark ceiling with your blanket pulled up to your chin until the sun came up.
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The next two days dragged on. You were back to just going through the motions, trying to keep it together and to distract yourself so that you didn’t have to think about what was ahead of you. One morning you got comfortable on the couch after you had grabbed a few books from the living room bookshelf. But where you would normally be glued to the pages, this time around you gave up and put every single one on the ‘Not interested’ pile after only a few minutes each. No matter which book it was, even ones you would have been jumping to read just a few days earlier. The words on the page meant nothing, sentences didn’t make sense even after rereading them for the fifth time, and you couldn’t remember what you had read half a page ago. But maybe that shouldn’t be too surprising. Books reminded you of George, after all.
Actually, everything reminded you of George. When you made yourself tea, you thought back to how he’d always bring you a cup or ask if you wanted one whenever he made one for himself. When Hannah and Harry bickered over which egg cups to use, you thought about how often you had had that exact, completely irrelevant discussion with George in the past.
While you felt your sanity slipping away with every hour that passed, you pretended to not notice the pitying glances both your new roommates sent your way every time you put aside a book unread. Or whenever you dumped out a cup of tea because you had stared at it long enough for the steaming liquid to turn cold and stale without even taking a sip. You also ignored the worried looks they’d exchange between each other and just hoped neither would say anything to you about it.
You felt hollow and low-spirited, and you were starting to hate yourself for it. How pathetic were you, acting like you were going through a terrible heartbreak when you had never come close to something that could even just potentially be classified as a date. Or indeed something as laughably simple as holding hands – in a romantic sense at least. Of course George had regularly reached for your hand during cases or dangerous situations in the past, but even you were not delusional enough to think that could mean anything. You had gotten to see Lockwood’s behaviour towards Lucy ever since she joined the agency, you were aware of what a guy in love looked like. And that was precisely how you knew there was nothing for you to mourn, because there had never been anything. Nothing except the foolish fantasies you had built up in your head during the time you had known George.
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When you woke up on the morning of the dreaded day, the sunlight was streaming through the window onto the lower half of your blanket and the foot of your bed. The floor length white curtains were billowing in a slight breeze and giving way to look out at a clear blue sky. It was a lovely day, but you had no regard for any of it. You felt sick and nauseous with anxiety the moment you opened your eyes, and your breakfast remained entirely untouched.
Hannah had woken up with a migraine, so it was just Harry who accompanied you. He insisted on dropping you off at the courthouse, and even though you attempted to protest – quite feebly to be fair – you were secretly glad that he was there for you in this way. It wasn’t too far from where you lived, and since you were early because of the missed breakfast, you decided to walk. You were glad of it, maybe the sun and fresh air would calm your nerves a bit.
It didn’t, and the closer you got to your destination, the more you steps involuntarily slowed down. Harry noticed, and offered you his arm with a small smile. You looped your arm around his, your fingers immediately gripping the fabric of his coat. It steadied you somewhat, and you took a few deep breaths, trying to give yourself an internal pep talk. Really, what were you so afraid of? Sure, you’d see George again, but Lucy and Lockwood would be there too. You’d just latch onto Lucy, get it all over with and then leave as soon as possible. And then someday, when you were over your silly little crush, you’d come back, apologise and explain and everything would be just like it always had been between you.
You grimaced. Not even you were naïve enough to believe that.
You were deep in your thoughts, staring down at the sidewalk as you walked, so you didn’t even notice that you had arrived at your destination until Harry slowed down to a halt.
“There they are”, he quietly said, and your head shot up.
He was right. Over there, on the first few steps leading up to the imposing building in front of you, stood Lockwood, Lucy – and George. Lucy was the only one facing you as they stood huddled together, and as she noticed you her face lit up and she waved. You felt frozen, as if your feet had grown roots all of sudden, and everything in you just wanted to run away. George turned around, trying to see who Lucy was so happy to see. Lockwood did too, but you couldn’t care less about him. Your eyes were glued to George. His gaze instantly fell to your arm that was still closely intertwined with Harry’s and his neutral expression changed at once, his mouth now set in a hard line. Without thinking, you immediately disentangled yourself from Harry, taking a small step away. You didn’t miss the way Harry’s lips curved with the hint of smile as he leaned down to you, his hands on your shoulders.
“You can do this” he said. “We believe in you”.
He pulled you into a tight hug and you allowed yourself a moment of melting into his warmth. You’ve never been more glad for this friendship that started back when you were little kids just learning how to properly hold a rapier.
You didn’t see the way George huffed at Harry’s actions, his jaw clenched as he turned his back to you again. Neither Lockwood or Lucy knew, but he had laid awake for hours every night since you had gone, clutching to his chest that stupid note you had left him because apparently he wasn’t even worth a simple goodbye. He would have never expected you’d show up here like you did just now, practically hanging onto some guy he’d never seen before.
Seemed like you had already found someone to replace him with. Though who was he kidding - for all he knew you had never even considered him.
Harry released you from the hug and gave you one last pat on the back, his smile encouraging. It didn’t do much as you walked over to your friends, your palms sweaty. What would you say? Luckily, Lucy seemed to sense your discomfort and pulled you into a side hug as you reached the group.
“Thank god you’re here”, she said cheerfully. “I was scared you might not make it.”
If she was still angry at you, she seemed to have put that on the backburner, which you were eternally grateful for. Lockwood greeted you with his usual grin, and it helped you relax somewhat – neither of them seemed to hold a grudge. Finally you looked at George, and your knees almost buckled under the intense wave of emotion that rolled over you. He looked tired, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans and even more hunched over than usual. Lockwood gave him a jab with his elbow and he briefly looked up, mumbling a quiet hello before averting his eyes again. But just the second of eye contact was enough for your throat to close up from the overwhelming guilt that suddenly consumed you. You wanted to say something, anything, but you were unable to form even a single word and so you just weakly raised your hand, just to immediately drop it to your side again.
Lockwood cleared his throat. “Let’s get inside, now that everyone is here”, he said, and you cringed at the attempt to end the awkward silence that had ensued.
Right after you entered, Lockwood handed the citation to the man behind the reception desk. He checked the letter and then waved you to follow a court officer, that escorted you through the long corridors. Lucy stayed close by you, and you did your best to keep your gaze from drifting over to George who was walking a few steps ahead of you.
The room where the hearing was to be held had high ceilings that made you crane your neck as you walked in, but other than that it was rather plain. In the front people in black robes hurried back and forth, and in the last several rows were people that you assumed were journalists. Intense murmuring broke out among them and you could hear the hectic clicking of several cameras as you entered the room. This was the first time it hit that you were here to play a rather important part in a probably quite high profile murder trial, and your mouth went dry. You had spent the entirety of the last few days stressing about your stupid crush instead of worrying about the fact that you had to sit in front of a judge and a horde of sensationalist journalists to recount the events of the night you spent in Abbey House. A night that you since had done your very best to force into the deepest corners of your mind, because it as well as the surrounding days were just too painful to think about in detail.
You were lead to four seats in the second row on the left side by another court officer who couldn’t have been much older than the four of you. A few seats down sat a woman in her late twenties, an elderly woman next to her. She was dressed in black with a few rows of pearls around her neck and you immediately recognised her as the woman that burst into the hall back at Abbey House and that had been so rudely dismissed by Genevieve Blackwood. That must be Agatha Blackwood then, the late Lord’s sister.
Lucy was still by your side, but all hopes of it staying that way were crushed when you spotted the little name placards that were placed on the narrow desk that ran along the back of the chairs in the row in front. You kept your gaze trained on the black outline of your name as you sat down, George to your left. The seat to your right remained vacant.
With every minute that passed, you grew more nervous. You fought the urge to look around, to look at George, to look at the reporters, to fix your hair, to fix your outfit. Instead you sat, your hands balled to fists in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You were sure that Lockwood was loving all the attention. It was almost a miracle he wasn’t amidst the reporters right now, giving lofty statements for their notebooks and dazzling smiles for their cameras.
A few minutes later, Genevieve Blackwood and the Butler – you had forgotten his name again - were brought in, accompanied by two guards each. They were sat on the opposite side of the room, near the judge and next to their defence counsel. You tried your best to not look over to them, but you thought you could feel her stare burning into the side of your head, suddenly feeling very small.
George glanced over to you. He could easily tell that you were terribly nervous, from the way your shoulders were tensed to how your eyes were darting around the room. Looking everywhere but at him. Every fibre of his being was screaming to reach out for your hand, to try and give you comfort like he had done before so many times. But hadn’t you made it clear that you didn’t want that from him anymore?
The judge rose from his seat and opened the hearing. You had difficulty following her speech, and so it caught you off guard when after a few minutes, a court official called you to the front to give your statement. You could feel your heart in your throat as you walked up to the witness box, hyper aware of every single pair of eyes in the room on you. The judge, a woman in her fifties, smiled warmly at you as you sat down and you could feel yourself relaxing somewhat. To your great relief, she took the time to again go over what was expected of you now. Your voice was trembling as you repeated the oath to tell the truth after her.
The judge then asked you to recount all events after you had first arrived at Abbey House. You took a deep breath, taking your hands off the table to hide the fidgeting fingers. You glanced over to George, who was now sitting up straight, looking at you. You locked eyes for a moment before you quickly looked away, scared of the feelings that might bubble up if you kept your gaze on him any longer. You had to stay focused. But just knowing he was there, even with everything that had happened and the fact that he might never talk to you again after this, gave you strength, and so you started talking.
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Your throat hurt and your voice was hoarse by the time you were done. You had talked yourself in such a rage, that it was almost like coming out of a trance after the judge thanked you for your statement and dismissed you from the witness box. You staggered back to your seat, all too aware of all the cameras aimed directly at you, and the scowl on Genevieve Blackwood’s face as she stared daggers at your back. You collapsed onto the uncomfortable wooden bench, and Lucy immediately reached for your hand, squeezing it.
“You did so well!”, she whispered, and you gave her a thankful smile.
In leaning over like she did, she had forced George to shift closer to you, your upper arm now pressed against his. Having him in such close proximity all of sudden made your head spin and you expected him to immediately scoot back over towards Lucy, but he didn’t. You squeezed your eyes shut, sucking in deep breaths like you had just come up from under water. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. It all felt like too much, the witness statement, the presence of Genevieve Blackwood and all the memories that forced to the forefront of your mind, and most of all the closeness to George – the room felt suffocating despite its vastness.
You couldn’t see the way George glanced over at you again, eyebrows scrunched together, and you had no idea about the internal battle he was fighting. He hated seeing you in this state, and he had to shift around again, this time to physically sit on his hands just to stop himself from reaching out to you. But even that didn’t help. While Lockwood’s name was called, and he strode confidently to the front with his coat swishing around his legs and no signs of nervousness at all, George had now turned his head fully towards you. The sight of the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead and your slightly trembling lips together with your foot that tapped nervously against the wooden flooring tugged at something in his chest and as if it was moving on its own accord, he pulled his right hand out from under him and gently placed it on top of yours.
The warmth and weight of his hand pulled you out of your beginning panic spiral immediately and you let out a small gasp, eyes dropping to your lap and then over to him. He was staring straight ahead to where Lockwood was talking, with his jaw tensed and his lips pressed together. You had no idea what he was thinking. But maybe you should just be grateful that he didn’t seem to completely despise you. You willed your hands to release the tension they were holding and stretched out your fingers that were aching from being clenched in a fist for so long. You half expected George to pull his hand back, but instead he moved it so that your fingers slipped between his.
The longer you sat like this, the more you managed to come down from the panic and overwhelm you had felt before, your intertwined fingers grounding you. All you were left with now was a slight blush on your cheeks that refused to die down and a fluttering in your stomach every time you glanced down.
Both Lockwood and after him Lucy giving their statements went by you in a blur. It was only when George’s name was called that you were pulled out of your thoughts and dropped back into the reality of sitting on the uncomfortable court room bench. George gave your hand a slight, almost imperceptible squeeze before he got up, pulling away with no resistance from you. You were left with tingling skin and a feeling of careful hope. Maybe you could fix this.
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But that small flicker of hope was extinguished quickly when you returned to the hallway in front of the courtroom. Lockwood was eyeing the reporters that were still inside, trying to get some shots of Genevieve Blackwood and her butler, and you could tell that he was dying to have them approach him for an interview.
“Lockwood, can we leave?”
By his tone, you could tell that George was dying to leave.
“We’ve been here long enough, they know how to approach us when they want to know something. Let’s just go home.”
George sounded almost pleading, and the mention of home stung in your chest. Was it still your home?
Lockwood glanced over at you for a brief moment, then nodded. “Let’s go then.”
You were surprised that he would give up so easily, but George almost bolted away at his words. Lucy, who had held onto your arm, gave you no time to feel hurt about how George seemingly couldn’t wait to get away from you, as she dragged you after him. Lockwood followed behind you.
The sun was blinding when you stepped out onto the steps, where George was already waiting.
“I called us a cab”, he said curtly. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
The way he avoided your gaze, and instead looked everywhere but at you, confirmed what you had already guessed as soon as he had uttered the words: you weren’t included in ‘us’.
The silence that came down on your group was heavy and slightly awkward, and you tried to think of a way to leave, when you spotted Harry waving at you from the bottom of the stairs.
You breathed a sigh of relief, mumbling a quick goodbye before you darted past George down the stairs.
He couldn’t help but turn to look after you, hands flexing at his side as he could feel a flush creeping up his neck at the sight of Harry throwing is arm over your shoulder and pulling you into his side.
“Cab is here.” Lucy elbowed him in the side, and only then he managed to drag his gaze away from you. The entire way home he was staring out of the window absentmindedly, jumping between cursing himself for taking your hand and trying to convince himself that maybe you were better off without each other. He didn’t notice the worried glances between Lucy and Lockwood, that could both see right through his stoic expression. Not to mention, Lucy hadn’t missed your intertwined fingers back in the courtroom, even though neither one of you seemed willing to acknowledge it during or after the fact.
Back at Portland Row, George was just about hurry up the stairs to his room after he had kicked off his shoes and thrown his jacket on the hanger without much care, when Lockwood stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Go over to Arif’s and get some doughnuts, will you? We’re all out I think.”
He would have done it himself, but George could probably use the fresh air. And he wouldn’t immediately disappear to his room like he did the last few days, only coming out occasionally to get some food and a fresh glass of water.
George rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to give a snappy retort, but Lockwood had already vanished into the kitchen, so he just huffed as he somewhat reluctantly picked his jacket from the hanger again.
He just wanted to go back to his room and bury himself in some of the books on the history of the problem, just so that he could keep his mind busy and occupied and stop it from wandering back to you like it so often did. He knew it was stupid, but a small part of him had hoped that you would explain yourself and apologise for the way you had hurt him. But no, you clearly didn’t seem to care much about clearing the air. The way you had clutched onto that … guy – it seemed like you were done with all of them. Him most of all.
He walked faster than normal, hurried to get back home again. Thankfully Arif’s store was empty save for one elderly lady that was in the middle of her grocery shopping, so he was in and out in a few minutes. At the next street crossing he briefly hesitated, then turned left to take the short way through the park. The weather was nice, maybe he’d sit down for a moment.
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“- and that’s when I saw you and left.”
You breathed out, feeling relieved now that you had told Harry about everything that had happened. You were still walking, because he insisted on treating you to your favourite doughnut from Arif’s after ‘all you’ve been through today’. His words, not yours. In your opinion, you really didn’t deserve it. On the other hand, the coldness George had shown towards you was exactly what you deserved. Then again, if he hated you now, why had he taken your hand?
“You know –“ Harry’s voice pulled you out of the thought spiral you were about to go down.
“What I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did Lockwood react to you leaving?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what was his reaction?”
You hesitated, and motioned for him to turn into the park that would save you a few minutes of walking time before you answered. “He was sad to see me go but told me he wished me the best and would not hold me back.”
“And how did he treat you today?”
Where was he going with this? “He… was normal. I think. And Lucy was too.”
“And why do you think that is?”
You sighed. “Probably because I told them before I left. Why are we talking about this? I know -”
“No, I don’t think you know”, Harry interrupted you. He turned to you, hands gripping your shoulders as if he was about to shake some sense into you.
“You’ve been going on and on about how George couldn’t care less about whether you’re around or not, meanwhile he seems to be an absolute mess precisely because you’re not around anymore. You’re so sure he hates you now, yet you tell me he held your hand through a panic attack even though he really didn’t have to. Also, don’t think I didn’t see the way he reacted when he saw you with me earlier. And most importantly, even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself, he would not have let you go as easily as Lockwood or Lucy did. You hide behind the excuse that it would have been hard for you to say goodbye, but do you want to know what I think? I think you knew that his reaction would be different. Because he cares about you differently, and you know it, but for some reason you’re scared of it.”
You just stared at him.
Harry took a step back and continued walking like he didn’t just drop that massive bomb on you. For a second you stared into nothingness, then managed to gather yourself enough to hurry after him. The birds were chirping in the trees around you, and the park looked beautiful in the sun, but you had no ear or eye for any of it.
His words were swirling around your head, and even though you tried your best, you could not come up with anything to counter him.
“I-“
Harry linked his arm with yours. “Just think about it, okay? I don’t like to see you hurt yourself like this. Especially when it’s so obvious that your feelings are anything but unrequited.”
You nodded. You weren’t sure you agreed, but you were glad that he didn’t seem interested in continuing the conversation.
“Do you think we can take the bus back to your flat? I think I’ve walked enough for today”, you said after a short silence, hoping he’d take the offer of a change of topic.
Your eyes were trained on the ground, following the small stone that you had kicked out of the way as you waited for his answer, but it didn’t come. Instead, he stopped walking again.
“I might, but you won’t.”
You looked up at him, confused as to what he meant, but when your eyes followed to where he was looking, you knew at once.
There on a park bench, just a bit down the walkway, sat George. Your stomach lurched, and your first instinct was to turn around, but you couldn’t because Harry had your arm in a tight grip.
You grew more desperate, looking up at him with pleading eyes, mouthing ‘please’ as you motioned back to where you came from. George hadn’t noticed you yet, there was still time to turn around.
“Absolutely not. (name), this is your chance to talk it out. You’re on neutral ground, if it goes badly –“
“(name)?”
You cringed. Shit.
You looked over to George, who was now turned to you. His eyes fell on your interlinked arms - why again? - and though you could not read his expression, you felt the strong urge to push Harry away from you.
But you didn’t even have to, because he had already disentangled himself from you and pushed you gently in George’s direction.
“I’ll go get some doughnuts and then drive home. I’m sure Hannah’s already wondering where we are. I’ll tell her you’ll be home late, so you don’t need to hurry!”
With that he gave George a nod, and walked away. Oh, you would kill him.
For a moment you contemplated turning and running, but you knew that Harry was right. It was now or never.
So you forced yourself to walk over and sit down, a considerable distance between you and George. Only when you were sitting, you realised that this wasn’t just any random park bench. it was your park bench. You had sat here with George countless times after a shopping trip to Arif’s to talk and share a doughnut just between the two of you before you returned to the chaos of 35 Portland Row. Would this also be where you’d lose him forever? Sometimes you felt like the universe was laughing at you.
The silence between you felt suffocating as you desperately searched for something to say. How did one start such a conversation?
“Who’s Hannah?”
Your head snapped over to George. Of all the things you thought have would started with, that wasn’t it.
“Hannah? She’s… his girlfriend.”
You tried to read George’s expression, who looked like you just told him something very unexpected.
“They have a flat together. I’ve been living with them”, you tried to explain further. Why was he so confused?
“So he’s not –“ George cut himself off. “Nevermind”, he said quietly, eyes fixed on his shoes.
He didn’t continue after this, so you both sat in silence again, looking anywhere but at each other.
Just like you, George was fighting with himself. He still hadn’t overcome the shock of having you suddenly sit next to him – he cursed himself for not just walking home without taking a break – and now he also felt stupid.
The silence was growing suffocating rapidly, until you both spoke out at the same time.
“I’m sorry for the way I left.”
“Why couldn’t you at least say goodbye?”
You flushed. “You go first”, you mumbled, but George shook his head.
“No. Please just tell me why you left. And why you felt like you could talk to Lockwood and Lucy, but all I got was piece of paper.”
His voice cracked, and it made your chest feel impossibly tight. You knew you had hurt him, but seeing him sitting there looking dejected, with his head down and his shoulders hunched forward, made it feel even more real than it had until now.
You turned your face away to hide the fact that you were already tearing up and took a deep breath.
“I’m really-”, you started, but the words got stuck in your throat. You tried again. “I’m so sorry for everything. I know I should have talked to you, and I wanted to, I swear, but I just – I just couldn’t do it. I tried to explain myself in the letter I wrote you but the cab was waiting and –“
“Calling it a letter is a bit much, don’t you think?”, he interrupted you, his voice a terrible mix of sadness and bitterness. “And you didn’t do much explaining either.” He reached up and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from the chest pocket of his flannel shirt, then smoothed it against his leg.
“You wrote, and I quote, ‘Hi George, I thought a while about this, and have decided to leave the agency. I’m sorry, but I think it’s better for everyone involved. I wish you the best’.”
You cringed as he read your own hastily written words back to you. It was worse than you remembered.
“You kept the letter?” The question was out before you could stop yourself.
George straightened up, and looked at you like you had grown a second head.
“Did I keep it? Yes I kept it! I read it a million times, I could recite it forward and backwards and in my sleep at this point, (name)! Do you have any idea how much I thought about you and what I possibly could have done to make you care for me as little as you clearly do? I went over every single interaction we had, several times. Did I make you uncomfortable? Did I bore you? What is it that makes me worth less than Lockwood and Lucy in your eyes? I knew it was stupid to hope, but all of my foolishness aside, I thought we were at least friends!”
His voice got louder as he talked himself into a rage, while you shrunk more into yourself with every word of his.
“What do you mean, ‘at least friends’?”, you whispered, your voice just a fragile as you felt, ready to shatter at any moment. “Of course we’re friends, George.”
He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right. If we’re friends, why didn’t you come and talk to me? Instead you went to Lockwood.” He waved around with the piece of paper. “You say here that you thought about it for a long time. Did you talk to Lockwood about that too? Or Lucy? Because you sure as hell didn’t think it was important enough to bring up to me!”
He was breathing heavily now, but the sight of your trembling lips and your eyes glazed over with tears that were just about to spill out immediately made him regret raising his voice. He grasped at the iron armrest of the bench, trying to fight the urge to either reach out to comfort you or run away because he had just said way too much. Running was probably the better option, he wasn’t sure if having him close to you would provide any comfort for you at all right now. The thought made his stomach turn.
You felt nauseous. How could you have misjudged everything so terribly? Lucy had been right, Harry had been right, they all had been right. You had tried to save your friendship, but all you had accomplished was making the person you cared most about in the world doubt himself and his worth in your eyes.
“I don’t know how to tell you, George. I wish I did, but I –“ You desperately tried to blink away the tears, but to no avail. “I care about you so much, and when you read the letters, it was–“ You buried your face in your hands, choking back a sob. How could you tell him now, like this? When he was angry at you and you were a crying mess? You had never felt more stupid in your entire life.
George sat and helplessly watched your shoulders shake with the sobs you tried to suppress. Just like a couple of hours ago in the courtroom, the urge to reach out towards you was overwhelming. He could only fight himself so much, and with his resolve already weakened he hesitated for just a few seconds before he quickly scooted across the bench towards you. He wasn’t quite sure what the right thing to do was, but after a split-second of thinking he settled with gently putting a hand on your back. He half-expected you to jump up and away from but instead you immediately folded into him, your fingers grasping at his shirt desperately.
You felt his arms wrap around you and pull you closer against him as you buried your face in his shoulder, the tears now flowing freely as his warmth enveloped you.
At some point, he had started rubbing little circles on your back with his thumb, and the knot of anxiety that had sat in his chest since you sat down next to him had started to unravel somewhat. He still didn’t quite understand what all of this was about, but at least it seemed like you hadn’t acted out of a lack of care for him.
You sat on the bench together for a long time and his hold on you never wavered, even after your sobs had died down. But no matter how much you enjoyed being held by him like this, it couldn’t last forever. With a deep breath you gathered all the courage you had left for what you were finally about to tell him, and gently pushed against his chest to move yourself out of his arms. You sat back up and he reluctantly released you, his arms slowly falling back to his side. But he didn’t move away further, and his right hand remained on your knee.
You used your sleeves to dry off the last tears from your cheeks, trying not to think about how you probably looked like a total mess.
“I’m sorry about your shirt”, you said and sniffled.
“I really couldn’t care less about that right now, (name)”, George said, and though he looked calm and collected, his shaky voice betrayed him and gave you a glimpse into how he was really feeling – just as fragile as you. “Just talk to me. Please.”
When he could sense your hesitation, he gathered all his courage and took your hand. “Whatever it is, I promise I won’t be angry. Or laugh at you. Or run away. Or do whatever you think I might do that makes you not want to talk to me.”
“I missed you”, you whispered. Your throat hurt from all the crying. “I’m sorry about everything.”
He squeezed your hand. “I missed you too.”
You fixed your intertwined hands with your eyes. “I couldn’t talk to you because you were the reason I felt like I needed to leave”, you began, not daring to look at him while you spoke.
He faltered. So you did leave because of him.
But you didn’t notice the way his face fell, and so you continued. “It’s true that I felt like that for a long time, but I promise I didn’t talk to Lockwood and Lucy about it either. Or at least not about me wanting to leave. Lucy knew about my… feelings, but that was just because she figured it out herself.”
“Your feelings?” His voice sounded strained.
“My – my feelings for you”, you mumbled, your heart hammering out of your chest now. “I thought I could get over it eventually, and then I wouldn’t have to leave, but when you read the letter to me –“ You swallowed heavily. “Hearing those words in your voice was just painful. And it made me realise that I could never get over you while I-“
The words got stuck in your throat.
George had raised his free hand up towards your face and very gently, with slightly trembling hands, pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. You looked up at him, and your mouth went dry.
“But why would you want to get over me?” There was a hint of sadness in his voice.
Your head went completely empty.
“I- because, well- I-“ you stammered, desperately trying to think of something to say. That was not how you thought this conversation would go.
George looked at you intently, as if he was searching for something in your expression. His gaze wandered over your face, to your lips, back up until your eyes met again.
He shifted his hand until he was cupping your cheek, very slowly to give you the chance to pull away. But you couldn’t move, and you didn’t want to either. Instead, as if an invisible force pulled you towards him, you leaned in closer. George could feel his heartbeat in his throat as he watched your eyes flutter shut, fighting the urge to do the same because he didn’t want to take his eyes off you for even a second. But when you’re close enough that he could feel your breath gently fan his face and your heartbeat quickening under his fingertips, he couldn’t fight it any longer, closed his eyes and then the gap between your lips.
You let go of his hand, not breaking the kiss as you moved your hand to bury in his hair, which made him sigh against your lips. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer, his thumb caressing your cheek.
You would have stayed like this forever, if it weren’t for the need to breathe eventually. You pulled away from him, taking a few moments before you opened your eyes to gather yourself.
“What just happened?”, you whispered, breathless.
George straightened back up, taking his hand away from your cheek. He looked flushed, and just like you he was breathing heavier than usual. “Did I misinterpret anything?”
You shook your head, and you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped you. It was like a giant weight had been lifted from your shoulders and your heart, and you felt lighter than you had in weeks. Not to mention the butterflies in your stomach that hadn’t yet settled again, though you doubted they would anytime soon. Not with George looking at you like that and the feeling of his lips still fresh on yours.
“You didn’t, but I think I did”, you said, and took his hand. “I am so sorry for what I put you through. If I had known –“
“I thought you did. I really thought I had made it clear, you know?” There was no accusation in his tone, but you still grimaced.
“Maybe you did. But I think I was just hell-bent on denying it because I didn’t want to get my hopes up. It would have crushed me to lose your friendship.”
He looked down at your intertwined hands.
“I thought I had lost your friendship”, he said quietly. “And it did crush me.”
Your chest tightened. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, George, truly. I wish I could go back and change how things went, but I can’t. I can only hope that you can forgive me, eventually.”
“Just promise me you’ll never run away again. That’s enough for me.”
“I promise I will never run away again.” In a moment of bravery, you leaned forward and pressed another kiss on his lips. When you pulled away, he was smiling.
“Then let’s go home, shall we?” He grabbed the paper bag that lay forgotten on the bench on the other side of him. “The doughnuts are probably cold by now, but I have a feeling that’s not going to be of much concern when we get back.”
You groaned, letting yourself fall forward to hide your face against his shoulder. “Lucy is never going to let me live this down. Ever.”
He laughed, a sound that made your heart jump in your chest. Then he pressed a kiss onto the top of your head. “I hope you forgive me that I don’t really feel sorry for you, (name).”
PAIRING ⊱ a. lockwood × mentor!reader
WORD COUNT ⊱ 3.8k
SUMMARY ⊱ as a skilled but no-nonsense dueling expert, inspector barnes sends you to 35 portland row to whip lockwood & co. into shape. with this comes butting heads with anthony lockwood, who challenges you at every turn. the stakes are rising every passing session, and so does the simmering tension between the two of you.
The Fittes coat lay folded in the back of your wardrobe, an artifact of a life you hadn’t quite been ready to discard—an emblem of duty and responsibility you had chosen to leave behind. At first, you had worn it proudly, thinking that the prestige and responsibility it brought would fulfill you. But soon, its weight became suffocating, the starched fabric a constant reminder of how you were being held back. The assignments you were given were tame—routine, less dangerous, and in a way, dull. You dealt with Type Ones, haunted buildings that were more nuisance than danger. The other agents, the ones with real experience, were sent to face the actual threats—the buildings crawling with dangerous Type Twos, violent and unpredictable. You couldn’t stomach the disparity anymore. You needed more than this, more than these carefully contained hauntings that didn’t challenge you, that didn’t make you feel alive. You were stuck in a box, kept back by bureaucracy. So, you left.
“Thank you for your service,” was all they said. You filled out the paperwork, your signature sharp and resolute, and shook hands with your supervisor. His gaze lingered on you, a mixture of disappointment and concern, as if you were stepping off a precipice. But you didn’t look back. Not once. Regret was a stranger to you now.
Yet your name still echoed in certain circles, trailing behind you like a phantom.
Among the younger agents, there were whispers—stories of the girl who had once parried a Type Two blindfolded during a training demo, her concentration unwavering, blade glinting with fierce determination. As a child, you had tackled opponents twice your size in tournaments while many of your peers were still mastering sticks in the playground. You weren’t famous—far from it. But you were known. Not for your charm or the knack for theatrics, but for the hard-hitting results that spoke volumes.
That reputation was why Inspector Barnes sought you out.
You hadn’t anticipated his visit. It was a chilling Tuesday afternoon, the kind that sent a shiver through your bones, as you were rummaging through a cramped rented cupboard in an apartment above a bakery. The warm, inviting scent of rising dough mingled oddly with the memories of your recent case. A lingering apparition had drifted through a family’s home in Highgate—a Type One spirit, nothing you couldn’t handle. You were bruised and weary, flecks of salt still clinging to your boots from your late-night escapade, when the knock echoed through your solitary refuge.
You opened the door, your rapier still securely buckled at your side, instinctively prepared for whatever lay beyond.
Barnes stood there, more worn than you remembered. His trench coat was rumpled, as if he’d been caught in a storm—both literal and metaphorical. The lines etched on his stern face spoke of late nights and worry, of battles fought and losses accepted.
“You’re hard to find,” he said, his voice steady but edged with urgency.
You raised an eyebrow, letting a smirk tease the corners of your lips. “Maybe I prefer it that way.”
His gaze softened for the briefest moment before resolute resolve returned. “I need a favor.”
This stilled you. Barnes was not the type to ask for favors lightly; his reputation was built on self-sufficiency and an uncompromising attitude.
You stepped aside, allowing him entry into your world—one you had fought so hard to escape.
He didn’t sit, didn’t bother to shake off the city’s chill as he remained rooted in the middle of the room, an immovable sentinel. His words spilled forth, crisp and clear: “Certain independent companies have been drawing attention—smaller ones that are reckless in their pursuits. Lockwood & Co., in particular.”
With each word, a knot grew tighter in your stomach. “They’ve made quite the name for themselves,” he continued, his tone flat but heavy with implication. “More successes in the field than some Fittes teams, apparently. But they’re unorthodox. Undisciplined.”
You nodded slowly, piecing together the fragments of his request. “You want me to whip them into shape.”
“I want you to refine them. Teach them the proper way to handle a rapier before someone gets killed—especially that boy, Lockwood.”
Your breath caught for a moment. “You want me to teach Anthony Lockwood?” The disbelief clawed at you, caught between reluctant excitement and a deep-seated wariness.
A flicker passed across Barnes’s mouth—maybe it was a grimace, maybe a hint of smugness. “The boy has exceptional talent, but he’s cocky. Doesn’t think he needs help. He won’t respect just anyone.”
You crossed your arms, the weight of his expectation pressing against you. “And you think he’ll respect me?”
“I think you’re the only one who won’t fall for the show,” he replied smoothly.
That almost elicited a smile, a ghost of your old self surfacing momentarily.
“Alright,” you said the words slowly with renewed conviction. “I’ll do it. But on my terms.”
“Of course.”
He handed you a simple slip of paper, his neat, clipped handwriting marking the address: 35 Portland Row. No files, no dossiers, just a name laden with untold stories and the promise of a turbulent future.
And just like that, he was gone, leaving only the echo of his presence behind—a mixture of duty and dread lingering in the room, as you contemplated the path ahead.
The townhouse looked.. alright.
Your knock at the door was sharp and businesslike, cutting through the cozy atmosphere like a well-placed dagger. Lucy, nestled comfortably on the worn sofa with a tattered novel in her hands, looked up to meet George's gaze. He was half-buried under a mountain of disheveled newspaper clippings and biscuit crumbs.
"That'll be her," Lucy said, a note of anticipation lacing her voice as she rose from her perch and moved toward the door.
George smirked, a teasing glint in his eye. "I bet she’ll stride in with a clipboard and superiority complex."
Lucy shot him a brief glare, but amusement danced in her expression as she pulled open the door. There, framed by the drizzle of a damp London morning, stood a figure who seemed to embody the very spirit of practicality. The young woman, perhaps only a few years older than themselves, was clad in a thick coat that looked as though it had seen many dreary days. A worn satchel hung heavy across one shoulder, and her eyes held a no-nonsense glint that reminded Lucy of freshly sharpened blades—uncompromising and keen.
You.
"Ah yes," Lucy beamed, her voice steady despite the brisk chill in the air. “You’re the one Barnes called about?”
You nodded, expression bordering on grave. "Lockwood & Co.? If the address I got was correct."
Lucy nodded and stepped aside, inviting you in. "Come in."
Without so much as a beat, she entered the cluttered room. George stood awkwardly, brushing crumbs off his shirt in a vain attempt to appear composed. The girl’s eyes flicked over the chaos that cluttered the coffee table—the remnants of their current case and remnants of George's snacking habits—the faint iron scorch marks on the carpet from earlier mishaps, and the sheathed rapiers mounted proudly on the wall. She took it all in with a discerning glance but offered no comment, her features betraying nothing.
"He didn’t mention a name," Lucy added, trying to offer a friendly overture by extending her hand.
"Just call me whatever makes this faster," you replied, tone flat—a monotone that signaled an impatience with social niceties. Your handshake was brief and firm, quickly turning your gaze around the room again. "Where’s Anthony Lockwood?"
A voice drifted down from the staircase, resonant and reassuring. "I’m here."
Lockwood descended with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to authority, his tall frame striking at the base of the stairs. He folded his arms, a slight smirk playing at his lips as he regarded their new guest with a calculating gaze.
He looked like some posh schoolboy who got lost on their way home.
"You’re the one Barnes sent?" he asked, a playful edge in his voice.
"Yes," you replied flatly, devoid of any hint of deference.
Lockwood’s jaw tensed slightly, his brows knitting together. "You’re barely older than we are."
Your eyebrow arched ever so slightly, challenging him. "You’re welcome to call DEPRAC and argue."
George coughed to suppress a laugh, while Lucy couldn’t help but grin. The atmosphere brimmed with the electric thrill of their dubious expectations being upended.
Lockwood’s expression smoothed out, but a flicker of surprise crossed his face. He hadn’t anticipated this: a young individual such as you exuding seriousness and strength, unapologetically confident. There was an air about you—calm yet resolute—suggesting that you were the kind of person who didn’t trip over stray ghost nets or misplace iron chains, not ever.
"And what exactly are you here to do again?" he pressed, curiosity mingling with skepticism.
You dropped your satchel by the armchair with a subtle thud. "I’m here to observe your technique and correct it."
"Our technique?" George echoed, glancing up from one of the clippings, intrigued.
"Yes."
Lockwood’s eyes glimmered with a mix of intrigue and amusement. "Barnes thinks we need correcting?"
"He’s gotten complaints."
"We’re still alive, aren’t we?"
"That isn’t the metric he’s going for." Your voice was steady, unwavering.
A heavy silence settled in, the tension palpable in the atmosphere.
"Well then," Lucy said brightly, rubbing her hands together in mock glee, "this should be fun!"
The first training session took place that very afternoon in the basement. Lockwood leaned against one of the desks, his arms crossed, exuding an air of authority that was both natural and practiced. Lucy stood poised, her blade drawn, as she eyed you with a mix of wariness and determination.
"You’re leading this, then?" Lockwood asked, gesturing vaguely toward the ad hoc training area they had set up—a patch of damp grass laden with iron bells and assorted gear.
You didn’t respond with words, simply drawing your own rapier—a simple but well-worn piece that seemed almost an extension of you—it glinted dully in the softened light as you faced Lucy.
"Show me your guard."
Lucy obliged, gripping her weapon with a mix of eagerness and trepidation. You corrected her foot placement with a nudge, guiding Lucy's boot into a more stable stance before tapping her shoulder lightly, a subtle cue that spoke without words.
"You drop your elbow. If a ghost came in fast, you’d be wide open,"
Lucy adjusted as instructed, her heartbeat quickening as she sought to prove herself.
"Again," you insisted, albeit gently.
The two of you went through the motions for ten minutes, the girl’s tone unwavering and laser-focused. There was no dramatics, no embellishment—just straightforward corrections that pierced through Lucy’s insecurities like sunlight breaking through clouds.
George, watching from the sidelines, muttered something about feeling like he was back in primary school PE. When his turn finally came, he stepped forward with visible reluctance; his movements were hesitant, lacking the fluidity of someone used to physical combat—more flail than finesse. Still, he made the effort, face screwed in concentration.
Lockwood observed intently, biting the inside of his cheek as a mix of annoyance and admiration flooded him. You didn’t seem to seek the spotlight, and that irked him—your skill spoke volumes without needing a showmanship he reveled in. Your skill in the field was much evident in the fluidity of your movements, how you wielded the rapier with the kind of finesse that spoke of endless practice and inherent skill, and the way you delivered instruction with a no-nonsense precision. A part of him, the competitive edge, bristled.
When it was finally his turn, Lockwood stepped forward smoothly, drawing his blade with an exaggerated flourish—an unspoken challenge hanging in the air between them.
"Let’s see how much there is to ‘fix’," he smiled, confidence thrumming in his chest.
Your silence was electric, almost defiant, as though you welcomed the challenge. You began.
His movements were sharp, tinged with the arrogance that often accompanied mastery. He’d practiced for years, sparred with peers and inspectors, and faced genuine threats; he was good—no, he was amazing.
But you were better. Of course.
You parried every swing with effortless grace, reading his intentions like a well-thumbed book. When you stepped in, twisting your body with precision, you knocked the blade from his hand. He stood there blinking, the tip of your rapier hovering just shy of his collarbone, his heart racing as the reality of the moment settled in.
Recognition flickered in your eyes, perhaps a hint of satisfaction, but it was fleeting—a controlled acknowledgment of her victory. Lockwood’s composure faltered for a heartbeat, a mix of irritation and admiration swirling within him, igniting a steely determination to rise to the challenge you presented.
The others were silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. You lowered your sword, eyes narrowing with keen observation. "You leave your left side exposed when you recover,” you pointed out, your voice steady, though sweat laced your forehead.
He didn’t move, his expression unreadable. "That’s not a mistake," he replied, his tone a defiance cloaked in calm.
"No?" You raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet doubtful.
"It’s bait," he asserted, a trace of a smirk dancing on his lips.
"Sloppy, if you ask me," you countered, dismissing his bravado with a flick of your wrist.
He stepped back, tension coiling through him. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and he shot a brief glance at George, who met his eyes with a knowing gaze. George scribbled something into a notepad, oblivious to the immediate drama unfolding.
"Are you betting on us now?" Lockwood raised a brow, irritation creeping into his voice, a protective instinct flaring in response to any possible teasing.
"No," George replied, his tone light and teasing. "Just documenting the courtship ritual. For science, of course."
Lucy snorted, unable to contain her amusement, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she caught the undertones of their tension.
The next few days dragged on like an unending storm, filled with grueling drills that were strangely invigorating. Mornings began with warm-ups and stretches, followed by footwork drills. They partnered up, rotating every fifteen minutes, as you provided notes and pushed them until their shirts were drenched with sweat. Lucy improved quickly, becoming steadier, faster, and more confident in her movements. George struggled but kept listening, gradually taming his chaotic footwork. You adjusted their grips, pointed out their mistakes, and corrected their instincts as they trained.
You led them relentlessly, pushing them to rise with the sun, stretch until their muscles screamed, and repeat patterns until their wrists ached with fatigue. Yet, your approach seemed fair; after all, you didn’t mock or lord your skill over them. Instead, you tried to inspire them through unwavering determination, making their struggles feel almost noble.
In contrast, Lockwood refused to improve quietly. He fought you at every turn during sparring matches, challenged your comments, and pushed himself harder with each session. Yet, beneath the defiance and dramatics, he was paid attention. He always did.
And he watched you more than he should’ve.
It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone else. He’d mastered the art of indifference years ago—glances that slid off like water, expressions held just long enough to feign casual interest. But when you moved, blade in hand and posture exact, something about it hooked into him.
You didn’t show off. You didn’t gloat when you landed a hit. You corrected him with a calm, even tone, sometimes with a faint smile like you already knew he’d argue it. Your hands were practiced, movements deliberate. There was no ego in it, no need to prove yourself. And maybe that’s what got to him.
You didn’t need to win the room. You were already comfortable in it.
He hated that he noticed it. Even more, he despised the tightness in his chest, a feeling he couldn't identify and didn't want to confront.
He tried to convince himself it was just respect, a simple acknowledgment of your exceptional talent. You were good—very good—and that was all there was to it.
Yet, the more time he spent around you, the more that comforting lie unraveled, exposing a deeper truth he wasn’t ready to face.
Amidst the chaos of the sessions, George took to brewing tea and cooking up his delicious Iranian meals in the corner of the kitchen, his presence an anchor in the rising tension. Lucy held up numbered cards like a judge presiding over an absurd fencing tournament, while he added his playful commentary every now and then, narrating your and Lockwood’s every move as if the two of you were the stars of a grand soap opera.
"He’s pretending he doesn’t care," she whispered, casting a conspiratorial glance their way.
"She’s pretending she doesn’t notice," George replied, barely suppressing a grin.
"Five quid says someone gets disarmed and someone else gets emotionally repressed," Lucy smirked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Lockwood ignored them, of course. Or at least, pretended to.
One night, after George and Lucy retreated upstairs, he found solace in the stillness of the basement. The rhythmic sound of steel against cloth filled the air as you quietly cleaned the edge of your blade, the faint scent of oil lingering in the cool space.
He lingered in the doorway longer than he meant to.
The others had retreated upstairs—George muttering about burnt lemongrass and Lucy rolling her eyes as she dragged her notepad with her. The quiet that settled in their absence was almost too heavy, too clear.
You were still there, sitting cross-legged on the floor near the shelves, a blade in your lap. The cloth moved in slow, practiced strokes down the length of your rapier. Your posture was relaxed but not careless—like even now, even in stillness, you were prepared for something. For anything.
Lockwood watched you in silence, noticing again what he shouldn't: how your hands, calloused and sure, treated the weapon like a part of you. He observed the way the curve of your shoulders shifted slightly with each pass of the cloth: focused and controlled.
Lockwood should have gone to bed. You were only here to train them, after all—just another mentor brought in by DEPRAC, someone sharper and steadier, older by barely a year but years ahead in experience. You weren’t here to make friends, certainly not to get close.
And yet, he crossed the room before he could talk himself out of it and sat down beside you, close but not quite touching yet. Close enough to feel the warmth of you in the air between.
You glanced at him, not at all annoyed nor surprised. Instead, you had that unreadable flicker of an expression, as if you already knew he’d follow.
Without a word, he grabbed a cleaner rag from the counter and held it out. You hesitated, then took it without a word. No thanks, no comment, but your fingers brushed his as you did.
Something sparked—fleeting, immediate, too much. The room held still.
“I could’ve gone for the hit,” he said, breaking the silence.
You didn’t look at him. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” he admitted. “I didn’t.”
You nodded once. The new cloth shifted in your hands as you ran it along the edge of the blade, slow and deliberate again—but this time, he noticed the tension behind it, something simmering just beneath your calm surface. It mirrored the thing rattling around in his chest—too loud in the silence.
“You’re not from Fittes, aren't you?”
“No.”
Lockwood looked down at the floor between them, then back at the blade in your hands. There was a knick near the guard—almost invisible, but he saw it.
“You missed one,” he said softly, pointing.
Your fingers followed his gaze, and your hands brushed his once more—just for a moment, just long enough to feel the heat of skin against skin.
He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
You focused back on the blade, but Lockwood noticed the difference now—the way your jaw had set, just slightly, as if you were holding something down. He knew that feeling.
This was supposed to be a job. You were supposed to be an instructor, and he was supposed to be just another student you passed through, taught a few things, then left behind. But that wasn’t how it felt.
When your hands stilled and your gaze lifted, Lockwood looked up too. And you locked eyes.
The tension coiled, unrelenting—no banter, no mask. Just something real and unsettling pressing between you. The air pulled tight like a held breath.
Whatever this was—whatever it had grown into—neither of you were meant to feel it. Not here, not now. And yet the draw was impossible to ignore, living in the space between your knees almost touching, the silence too loud to be casual, the flicker of something restrained in your eyes.
He should have looked away. He didn’t. Not until you broke eye contact as your fingers returned to the cloth like nothing had happened. But he saw the way your hands hesitated and how your shoulders tensed just slightly beneath your calm exterior.
He stood slowly. The floor creaked beneath his weight. You didn’t look up again, and that should have been the end of it.
As he turned to leave, he glanced back once. “Same time tomorrow?” he asked, a smooth polish and half a grin crawling back to his face.
You let out a small, amused laugh, your eyes twinkling. “Only if you try not to forget your footwork this time.”
It was the first time he had heard you laugh. Or at least, when it was directed towards him.
With the smile still on his face, he climbed the stairs slower than usual that night, each step feeling heavier than the last. And when he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he knew that whatever line had been drawn between you, he had already stepped dangerously close to it.
Maybe you had too. And neither of you knew what would happen if you crossed it.
George and Lucy noticed the shift; they always did.
They picked up on the subtleties. The way Lockwood stopped interrupting you mid-sentence, finally listening. The way he nodded in agreement as you shared your insights, a newfound respect blooming between them. The way he lingered in the basement after their sessions, a reluctance to leave the space that had become charged with something more than mere practice.
One evening, Lucy leaned against the banister, arms crossed, and whispered, "He’s softening," a sly smirk lighting her face.
George nudged her, a smirk gracing his lips. "You better have that five quid ready."
the way how this has been sitting in my docs for a little over a month now.. i could feel it stare into my soul judgingly every time I posted a different fic instead 😭 might make a part two, buuuuuut who knows?
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Lockwood & Co. headcannon where everytime DEPRAC shows up at 35 Portland Row there’s a neighbor across the street that calls to their family “Hey! Weird kid’s getting raided again.”
