Work Text:
i.
recipient: Lucy Carlyle
Lockwood [16:33] Hey, Luce. This is my number. Use it whenever you need to contact me
Lucy [16:35] Will do. Should we add George to a group chat?
Lockwood [16:36] I’ve already got one set up. I’ll add you to it
Lucy [16:36] You know, he is going to be really mad that we’re not using the Thinking Cloth right now
Lockwood [16:38] This is practically the same
Lockwood [16:38] Look at the name he’s given it
Anthony Lockwood added Lucy Carlyle to LOCKWOOD IS A DICK.
Lucy [16:42] Ah. I see
ii.
There’s a moment, sometime after, when Lockwood realises; if he opens up his mouth to speak the words, to spill the sickening truth of his existence out into the open, there would be no going back. There would be before, and there would be after, and there would be Lucy, and she would know.
It scares him, in that moment. He’s lying stiffly on his back, still wrapped in the damn sling from when he was shot, staring blankly at the ceiling and feeling a sort of sickness rise up in his chest like a tidal wave. His bedsheets are cold. The air, chilly with mist from the darkness of the street below him, hangs around the bedframe, thick, suffocating. Lockwood runs a hand over his face, through damp, unkempt curls. He breathes, and his chest constricts. Another breath, and its like someone’s twisting a knife deep into the very bone of his rib cage.
fuck, fuck. His shoulder throbs painfully. He’s not had a night like this in a long time. Of course he had nightmares; almost every night, now- he’s Anthony Lockwood, sick and arrogant and keeper of secrets, and ghosts, and memories that haunt him as easily as falling asleep. But he was okay, for a while. Until Lucy came.
It’s not that he blames her. God, he doesn’t blame her. He thinks about it every night, how the day she walked into their shitty little living room with her big eyes and shaky hands and bright warm smile was the day Anthony Lockwood became something other than a shell of whatever still haunted that old house on Portland row. It’s not her fault, except now he can’t stop thinking about her, and the before, and what would be if there was an after; if he told her, all the things he wants to say, and the things he doesn’t, and the things he knows he should.
His breathing gets stuck halfway through an inhale, and he bolts upright, ignoring the sharp pain his shoulder gives him in return. Struggling out from underneath his sheets, it’s not long before his feet hit the cold floor and he’s practically barrelling through his bedroom door and into the bathroom- as quiet as he possibly can, because there’s no way in hell he’s waking either of them up for this. It happens enough times, anyway, for him to deal with it alone.
When Lockwood gets back into his room he’s thrown up twice, and the air still hasn’t returned to his lungs enough to think straight. He pulls open his bedside drawer and grabs the last couple of painkillers, swallowing them dry. It’s kind of messed up, how easy it is to pretend nothing has happened. Lockwood likes it that way. He doesn’t like to remember.
iii.
recipient Lucy Carlyle
Lucy [3:07] Are you awake?
Lockwood [3:11] I am
Lockwood [3:12] Are you alright?
Lucy [3:13] I thought I heard a noise
Lucy [3:13] Were you in the bathroom just now
Lockwood [3:15] Yes. Sorry if I woke you. You know how the floorboards can be. George says he’s going to repair some of them but I think he’s just lying to get me to shut up about it
Lucy is typing…
Lucy [3:18] It sounded like the auction. In the lift
Lucy [3:25] Lockwood? Are you still there
Lockwood [3:26] I think you might just be hearing things. Or maybe it’s George talking in his sleep. He says the weirdest things, sometimes I think we need to hire an exorcist
Lucy is typing…
Lucy [DELETED MESSAGE.]
iv.
There’s another night, sometime later, when he’s abandoned the sling and his shoulder is almost healed. They’ve just come back from a job; simple, a Type one, not much needed save from a few flares and a quick location of the source- which, of course, Lucy figures out almost straight away. Lockwood never doubted her for a second. They had come home, early: one o’clock, or there about; and now, as he’s lying staring at the same ceiling he stares at every night, listening to the silence and feeling suffocated by it, he thinks about the message she sent those nights ago.
It sounded like the auction. In the lift.
He should have told her. He should have. But he couldn’t. It was second nature to him now, an unconscious decision to cover up whatever miserable and inconsolable type of mess his mind had decided to become. He was cocky, and he was arrogant, and he knew all of this, but it was instinctive, now; intrinsic, part of himself he wasn’t sure he could dig out again. It had been there far too long, and it wasn’t like a she could take that away from him with just one look. Lockwood turns his head, staring at his phone on the bedside table. He could pick it up and message her, though part of him hopes she’s asleep; God knows she needs it, they all do. He could go upstairs, tomorrow morning, and he could talk to her, about everything. But it’s hard. And then what, if he really did tell her. Then what?
Lockwood sits up, slowly. His eyes have started to water, and he coughs, swallowing the hard lump in his throat. He hasn’t cried since Jessica, not properly, and it’s starting to scare him, really scare him. It’s been coming on for a long time now, and he can’t make it stop.
Suddenly Lockwood’s breath hitches, and there are tears coming, and they won’t stop. He’s crying. Sobbing quietly, chest heaving up and down as he buries his face in his hands, curling up on himself in his sheets. He’s not supposed to let her in. Letting her in will only make it worse, make it harder for him to let her go when inevitably the time comes; because whether he fails to protect her on a job, or he pushes her so far away that he loses his grip on her and she never comes back- it will happen. He’s Anthony Lockwood. He can’t hold onto anyone.
He cries for a ridiculously long time, until he’s burnt out dry. He lays down on his back again and looks over. Reaches for his phone, even though he knows tomorrow morning he will regret this, that by the time Lucy wakes up she’ll only see deleted messages on her phone screen. He sends them anyway.
v.
recipient Lucy Carlyle
Lockwood [2:12] I should have told you what happened that night
Lockwood [2:12] There’s so many things I want to tell you
Lockwood [2:12] I don’t know how
Lockwood [2:15] I don’t want to lose you
Lockwood [2:15] I don’t know what to do luce
Lucy [2:16] you won’t lose me
Lucy [2:25] are you still awake
Lockwood is typing…
Lockwood is typing…
Lucy [2:32] i’m coming down stay there
vi.
Three minutes after Lucy’s message and she’s standing in front of his cracked open door, pushing it all the way and snaking her way inside. Her hair is loose, strands falling in front of her bleary, sleep-filled eyes, and she’s wearing a grey hoodie- his, he realises, that’s so big its almost burying her. It hangs down almost to her knees. Her bare feet pad softly across the carpet where Lockwood is staring fixedly at one particular spot, because he can’t look away- if he looks away, he might cry again, and he can’t let her see him like this. She wasn’t even supposed to come downstairs.
Lucy doesn’t say anything. She just sits on the edge of the bed, and he can feel her gaze burning right into his skin even as he sits and tries so hard not to look at her. Carefully, she pulls back the sheets, and climbs underneath. He’s grateful she’s not pushing him, because he’s terrified that if she starts to say something he’ll retreat right back into his godforsaken shell and never talk to her again. And that’s not what he wants to do.
Slowly- so slowly, Lockwood unfurls himself. He shifts onto his back and lays down, hands shaking. This is not how he imagined Lucy being in his bed for the first time. He feels sick. Lucy’s breathing is slow, and even, and soft as it moves closer towards the crook of his neck, and then suddenly she’s motioning for him to turn over, and he does so, rolling onto his side to face the window and the silent, blackness of the London street below them. Her arm comes up to drape around his torso and she pulls him in gently, his back pressed to her chest. She’s humming something over the sound of Lockwood’s erratic breathing. It’s a song he hears her listening to all the time from the attic, though he never quite catches the name of the singer. It’s a good song. Sad, but good.
Lockwood wants to say something now, but nothing seems good enough. He just listens, as she hums, his breathing slowing down, muscles relaxing, eyelids growing heavy. Lucy shifts her foot and it bumps against his- and suddenly their legs are twisted together, heavy under the sheets. His stupid pink socks poke out from underneath the blanket. Lucy got mad at him the other week, for changing her underwear pink in the washing machine. He just laughed, told her to wash them in the sink next time.
Not long after, he falls asleep, Lucy’s song playing on a loop inside his head.
Can the killer in me tame the fire in you?
I know there's something waiting for us
I am sick of the chase but I'm stupid in love
And there's nothing I can do
And there's nothing I can do.
vii.
recipient: Luce
Luce [20:39] you were singing phoebe bridgers this morning
Lockwood [20:40] Who?
Luce [20:40] https://open.spotify.com/search/killer%20pho#login
Lockwood [20:41] Oh, I like that one.
Lockwood [20:41] Do you have any others of hers you like?
Luce [20:45] anthony john lockwood are you asking me for phoebe bridgers music recs right now
Lockwood [20:45] Maybe. Don’t tell George. He’ll tease me.
Luce [20: 46] he already teases you
Luce [20:48] Luce sent a playlist: PHOEBE SONGS FOR LOCKWOOD
viii.
It becomes a routine. They go back to normal, during the day. Lockwood says something reckless, and George comments on his recklessness, and Lucy tells them both off over a cup of hot tea and a frustrated frown furrowed in her brows. They attend jobs, and they try not to get hurt, and they hurl themselves up the stairs after a long night of fixing other people’s ghost messes in an attempt to get some remnants of sleep before they start again tomorrow.
Except now, instead of going to the attic, Lucy comes into his room. They don’t talk about it, don’t even acknowledge the change that has been made. Instead they talk about the job, or tea, or the shopping list or how George needs to stop doing naked yoga otherwise one day one of them is going to walk in on something that will scar them for the rest of their lives. They make it light-hearted, Lucy padding around the room in Lockwood’s shirts, sweaters, anything from his drawer- sometimes even those damn pink socks. Sometimes they read, sitting next to each other with their legs stretched out under a blanket. Sometimes they listen to music. Sometimes they just talk- not about Lockwood, because for all his progression, the sickness is still there. He doesn’t think it will ever go away. Maybe Lucy won’t ever know. Maybe he won’t tell her.
It's a night when it’s there more than ever, and Lucy can tell, he knows, because she’s got her arm wrapped around his middle so tightly, as if she’s worried he might slip away entirely. She’s wearing his shirt, the black one with his name printed on the back. She smells like sea salt and vanilla, and Lockwood breathes it in like a dying man.
“You can go back upstairs if you like, Luce.”
“Hmm.” Lucy mumbles against the back of his neck, her breath warm and comforting. “No thanks.” He feels her tense up, then, before she says: “Why, do you want me to?’
“No.” It’s the first time he’s not hesitated before answering a question of hers. Usually he has to dodge whatever interrogation her and George throw his way; usually he has to lie. Yes, you can leave if you want. No, I don’t care. No, I don’t want your help, I’m fine on my own. It surprises him, how he’s so truthful, how easy it is to be this time.
“Okay.” Lucy lays her head back down and burrows further under the covers.
When he wakes, Lockwood’s lying on his stomach, arm slung under the pillow. Lucy lays soundly by the side of him, breathing by his neck, hand resting on his bare back, humming Phoebe Bridgers in her sleep. He watches the sun come up over the horizon.
ix.
recipient Luce
Lockwood [10:08] Luce I’ really soryr
Lockwood [10: 09] I’m really sorry can you come to the bathroom
Luce [10:10] is it happening again?
Lockwood [10:10] yes
Lockwood [10:10] im sorry
Luce [10:10] i’ll be thirty seconds, hang on
x.
It’s late. Hazy purple, soft light with violent edges, reflecting over Lockwood’s frame as he sits, clutching his mug of tea with two hands as tightly as he possibly can like a lifeline.
“Anthony.” The use of his name sends a shiver down his spine. “Anthony, look at me.”
Lockwood shakes his head. “I can’t.” He says. “I can’t.” He’s not supposed to be doing this. He’s going to tell her, really tell her, and then that’s when he’ll lose her.
“You won’t lose me.”
“I will.”
“You won’t.”
“I can’t do this, Luce. I’ll make it worse.”
Everything is coming back to him, now, so fast, like a tidal wave hurtling past, threatening to swallow him whole. He can’t breathe. He’s choking on it, on the water, on the wave, and it’s drowning him, and he’s dropped the mug of tea and he’s pretty sure he’s smashed it onto the bedroom floor but he doesn’t care because nothing feels real anyway and he doesn’t even hear it break, only now he’s grabbing hold of Lucy’s hands instead of the mug and he can hear the blood rushing through his ears and her voice and the smell of vanilla and it’s making him sick, because how is he supposed to do this?
“Anthony, Anthony…shh…” She’s saying his name like a chant, like a song, over and over. He listens to it, hanging onto every syllable, every note, like it’s the air he needs to breathe. Lucy, lucy, lucy. It’s driving him mad. “Lucy.” He says. “I love you. I love you.” And she nods, because, yes, of course she knows. Of course she does.
“I love you. I love you, Anthony.”
It’s a song, a melody in the air. It’s everything and nothing, all at once. And he’s said it, and he’s not lost her, because she’s still there, with his face cupped in her hands and his forehead touching hers and the air between them full of the dying air of dusk.
He’s not lost her. He’s Anthony Lockwood, and he’s not lost her.
xi.
They wake up next to each other in the haze of morning light. Anthony watches as Lucy blinks her eyes open, slowly, foggy with the remnants of a long-forgotten dream. She smiles. Reaches out, cups his cheek and presses a long kiss against his mouth. His lips part, and he deepens the kiss, hand tangling in her hair, sighing into her mouth as she pulls him closer.
The air is still, and quiet. Time stops.
fin.