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“heaven knows, i’ve come near it often enough. scrambling down a crack is nothing... hey, look at you now, you’re shaking. put my coat on. come on, i insist.”
hands down my favorite line in the series - here’s some wholesome locklyle!
“oh, come on. you love all that mystery about him. just like you love that pensive, far-off look he does sometimes, as if he’s brooding about important matters, or contemplating a tricky bowel movement. don’t try to deny it.”
‘even in the glare of a summer noon, when the sidewalk bakes and iron fences are hot to the touch, the shadows are still with us. they congregate in doorways and porches, and under bridges, and beneath the brims of gentlemen’s hats so you cannot see their eyes. there is darkness in our mouths and ears; in our bags and wallets; within the swing of men’s jackets and beneath the flare of women’s skirts. we carry it around with us, the dark, and its influence stains us deep.’
“‘you’ll have to write a book about it,’ lockwood said. ‘if you do it quick, and publish it when the problem’s fixed, lots of people will buy it and we can make money.’”
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👻 pairing: anthony lockwood x lucy carlyle, eventual implied holly munro x lucy carlyle
👻 genre: angst, post-series au
👻 words: 1.2k
👻 tags: ANGST like goddamn this hurts a lot, mentions of alcohol & purposeful intoxication, talks of trauma, implied depression, pretty graphic meltdowns i am Sorry, ~metaphors~
👻 what to expect: “It was the bitter aftertaste of truth that always stung him in the end.”
👻 a/n: so i Actually Exist! this was written actual months ago (see: may) and as my summer courses have ended, i’m posting this! special thanks to @toishi for beta-reading this!! i hope you guys enjoy :>
👻 inspired by: my love, i still by i’ll ; a few years later by block b ; stay here by gaho
"You'll stay with me?"
"Always. No matter what it is, my heart will always choose you, Luce."
It had been years. Lucy could no longer hear ghosts, and nor did she want to. Her head was sick and the voices kept echoing in her ears - a reminder of the suffering, the pain, the resentment. She and Lockwood no longer had things in common besides the trauma. The relationship grew tiring, like a repeated day of chores. Regardless, even if she couldn't see ghosts, her ghosts of the past haunted her in every waking moment.
Lockwood wasn't doing any better. She knew that much from George, who seemed to be the somewhat most sane out of the original Lockwood & Co. trio. Holly was thriving, Kipps was alright. How Lucy envied Holly. There was no hate toward Holly Munro; no, no, no, rather, hopeless longing replaced that anger. If only Lucy was perfect like Holly....
"You're sure you'll be alright without me?"
"I'll be fine, don't worry about me." Lockwood had restrained himself from calling her 'baby'.
If he was honest, Lockwood still loved Lucy. it was a plain fact; a parasite plaguing the back of his mind. He knew she was the one for him, but he had to respect her decision.
It was nights like these that he drank. The alcohol was his poison, and he'd hope to make it his cause of death. He couldn't go on without her, it hurt too much. These thoughts weighed his heart like the weight of the world on Atlas's shoulders. His heart was so, so weak.
Where had he gone wrong? What had he done? He was so, so sure Lucy had been his. He would always be hers. She'd left him once before, and the months proceeding were hell. At least he'd gotten an excuse to see her then. Now, there was none. Memories haunted him worse than any Type 3, and as much as he drank, he could not forget.
He couldn't forget the way she left, the way he let her, or the way he'd cried for the first time in a long, long time, slouched against the kitchen cabinets. The way he completely broke down, knees cuddled to his chest and head bowed down. The way his hands shook and the tears he tried to wipe away only kept pouring down his face. The way he blamed himself, yelled, screamed and almost punched a wall. No one was there for him now.
Because he was stupid. He just lied, brushed her off like dust. Lucy was more than that - but he still lied to her, pretended to be fine for her sake. But he knew - he could never brush it off - the fact that he'd always love her, even if the slippery words sugarcoated in strawberry syrup told him he didn't. It was the bitter aftertaste of truth that always stung him in the end.
How could he have let this happen?
"Come off it Lucy, you know I'd die for you."
Somehow, Lucy found herself knocking on Holly Munro's door. Somehow. Holly lived alone, being single. Holly was always there for Lucy; she'd know what to do.
"Lucy! What a pleasant surprise." Holly was, as always, dressed casually yet somehow managing to make it look gorgeous. A cherry red apron was tied around her waist.
"Is this a bad time?" Lucy asked.
"Of course not! I'm just baking. The cookies are almost done. Why don't you step inside?"
Upon doing so, the scent of said cookies greeted her, warm and inviting.
"So, what brings you here?" Holly asked, untying her apron and hanging it on a hook. She gestured for Lucy to sit on the couch, which Lucy did. "Have you been alright?"
"I want to move on over Lockwood."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is that so?"
"Just... I feel like moping about it weighs me down. I want... I want to feel happy again."
Holly sat down next to Lucy. "That's understandable. How do you want to go about doing that?"
"That's the thing. I dunno. Everything feels.... pointless. I want to date more, but I don't know many people - and besides, I'm afraid it won't be the same as before."
Holly nodded, listening patiently. You could really tell she was listening, making proper eye contact and following everything Lucy said. That was the thing about Holly: she was so caring, thoughtful, and patient. She never made it feel like you were bothering her.
Ding. Her oven timer sounded.
"Where d'you think we'll be a few years from now?"
"Together. Happy."
The pain was always immense. It twisted and turned, coiling itself around Lockwood's heart or even himself - it was too hard to tell. It suffocated him, made it impossible to breathe. The pain was a snake, constricting around his heart until the feeling was gone but still ever-present, until sadness was the only thing Lockwood knew, and tears were the only thing he could produce. A crying Lockwood was far from a pretty sight.
He wanted to scream, but his throat always seemed too dry. He wanted to go numb, feel nothing, but his eyes always seemed too wet, his heart's bleeding incessant. He drank, but the alcohol could not cure the wound inside him. It closed him up for a night, but the morning after was always shittier than the night previous. It was a failed strategy, but it was a routine, and a strategy, to the very least. Something he could do, and pretend it worked.
"I want to live my entire life with you."
"Is that so? I want to live the entire afterlife with you."
The more they spent time together, the more Lucy fell for Holly. The more dates she'd set up that felt entirely meaningless. With Holly, she needn't worry. Everything drifted away when it was only Lucy and Holly. She was always so considerate and caring, and her laugh sent butterflies rushing to the pit of Lucy's stomach. Lucy hadn't felt this way in years. Holly Munro was perfect, but not the jealousy-invoking kind of perfect. She was the kind of perfect that made you want to kiss her.
Months passed with failed date after failed date. Holly was ever-patient, but Lucy new she couldn't wait. She'd confess, she could totally do it! Well... What if...? Holly wouldn't... But how would...?
"Penny for your thoughts? You've been staring at a wall for 5 minutes, Lucy."
"Why do you love me, Lockwood?"
"There isn't a reason not to."
Lucy and Holly Munro were dating. Lockwood couldn't remember exactly how he found out, but he did. They looked so happy together, just as he and Lucy had years back. Maybe they were happier. After all those years, Lucy had been the better one out of the relationship. Lockwood felt like he did nothing in that time after the breakup, wasting it, even though the initial hurt and pain had never numbed truly. He felt worthless. Like he could do nothing. Everyone around him was happy, so why couldn't he be like them? What had he been doing wrong? Tears ran dry but his heart cried blood and liquid pain that could only be described as a mixture of regret and agony. He screamed. The walls echoed, then everything fell silent. Obsolete of sound, as if it was trying to erase his feelings. Devoid of anything, but he could still feel the pain. His hands trembled, shook, and he grasped one hand with the other but the shaking was ceaseless and he could only drape a shaky arm over his eyes. He couldn't bare see the light, shining and blinding him, obliterating his senses. When would he be okay?
🌂 pairing: anthony lockwood x lucy carlyle (mention of flo bones x george cubbins)
🌂 genre: hanahaki!au, could take place anytime during l&c or after teg if the necklace thing hadn’t happened?, angst, idiots to lovers
🌂 words: 1.1k
🌂 tags: yes hanahaki disease iS explained in here don’t worry, angsty stuff, lots of rain, mentions of blood and violent coughing, there’s tension, quill being in l&c is completely disregarded, once again i wrote this at 12 am, there IS a happy ending
🌂 what to expect: “Well? Spit it out, then.”
🌂 author’s note: i keep writing these drabbles at midnight but whateVer and also i haven’t read tcs or teg in a while sO most likely this could take place before that ! this is supposed to take place in the morning, but i kinDa imagined it at night bUT it is in the morning, so no ghosts or anything are out. i hope you enjoy! as always, feedback is always appreciated.
"Well? Spit it out, then."
The rain poured down impatiently, like the ticking of dozens of clock hands. Rivulets of water dripped down Lockwood’s umbrella like tears. He stared at Lucy intensely, attempting to decipher her odd behaviour. Her hair was wet, though now she was shielded from the rain by the protection of Lockwood’s umbrella. Her shivering had stopped, and she pulled the trench coat he gave her closer. It would've been an endearing sight, if he weren't so frustrated with her.
Lucy had been acting strange for months, now. Wheezing, coughing when she thought he was gone. At first it was small - he dismissed it as a cold, encouraging her to drink tea and not overexert herself on missions.
However, a month was a long time for a cold. The coughing progressed as months passed; it'd been up to half a year now, and she was coughing so violently it was concerning. She’d dismiss the topic, leading to arguments which gained heat over time, resulting in this. A fight had flared up again, the tension between them both creating fiery sparks that only got worse. Holly and George had given up talking sense into them, but it was Lucy who'd lost her mind. Lockwood knew this couldn't go on; it'd effect their teamwork and business in the long run. Still, he was sick of Lucy’s attitude and mysteriousness. Why wouldn't she let him care for her? Why did she have to be so goddamn stubborn? They were a team, and more importantly, friends. Had she lost trust in them? Had he done something wrong? Again? No. He couldn't let her leave again, let her risk her life without him by her side to protect her. She was his anchor, and now, it seemed she was floating away.
He’d left in the heat of the argument. Her nonsense bickering drove him mad. He wasn't sure where he was headed, but Lucy had caught up to him, running on the pavement and splashing through puddles.
First, he'd given her his coat and umbrella. She was shivering, rain soaking her hair and clothes, water droplets lacing her eyelashes. She was still beautiful to him even just standing completely doused as the rain beat down on her. Then, once he was sure she was okay, he demanded an explanation.
"I can explain, Lockwood, j-just please listen... and don't be mad..."
She mumbled something quietly.
"What? Speak up, I can't hear you."
More mumbling. "Sorry."
"Well? Spit it out, then."
"D’you... remember the disease that George was telling you about? Back during the Silvershore case?"
Lockwood slowly nodded. It was the Hanahaki disease, a new discovery - and cause of death. Cases of flower-vomiting ghosts had gone up in London. It all started with unreciprocated love. One-sided. The victim would start having seeds in their lungs, flower seeds. It was unknown how they got there, but they'd grow their roots down in the early stages. It was hard to detect, with minor symptons of chest tightening and trouble breathing. It could’ve been passed as heartburn. As the disease progressed, flowers would grow, and bloom. The victim would cough buds, but they still had time to get over their love. It wasn't enough to die; no, it wasn't until the victim started coughing up entire flowers with the stem that the disease had hit the final stage. There were only two ways to cure it, or you'd face certain death. You either had the love reciprocated, or got the flowers surgically removed, and risked losing the ability to love. By then, the love would be too deep to get over.
"It made headlines over the newspapers, the medical discovery... but of course, the disease made no logical sense."
She coughed, leaning down and almost retching onto the pavement as Lockwood held her umbrella.
She produced a single lavender flower, blood staining some delicate petals. It couldn’t be real.
"I have it," she rasped, throat still raw. She looked at him weakly, so vulnerable. "I s'pose i should tell you now. I’m-" her voice caught in her throat, "-scheduled for surgery next Sunday morning." Were those tears in her eyes? "I love you, Lockwood." A tear rolled down her cheek, and she was quick to wipe it away.
Lockwood stood in half-shock. Why hadn’t she told him earlier? It would’ve saved a lot suffering for the both of them. He loved her; he was sure. Hadn’t it been obvious?
"Luce, you're going to regret paying for that surgery."
"I know-" Her voice cracked, fresh tears streamed down her face.
He couldn't even say the next line, pulling her close and encapsulating her lips into a kiss.
Her lips were soft, tasting of tears and strawberries. He didn't mind. His hand found her jawline, thumbing at the bend of it near her ear. She fell apart against him, tears falling anew, and he pulled her closer until he was out of breath.
"Luce," he wiped her tears away and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I love you too."
Her eyes widened, then she turned to the side and lurched forward to cough. He held her. She coughed violently once more - it sounded more painful - and wilted lavenders imbrued in blood fell on the ground. Roots and all. Wasn’t this how the disease ended?
She coughed a little more, getting the taste of blood out of her mouth. She smiled. "I think I’ve gotta call the clinic now," she joked, voice weak. "Have to cancel that surgery."
"Not the time for jokes now, let's head back. You’re still cold and wet. C’mon." He grasped her hand, which fit snug in his, much to his delight. She leaned on his shoulder as they walked back.
"You’re wet too, Lockwood."
He hadn't noticed. "Am I?"
She pecked his cheek. "I’ll make tea for the both of us."
"Not you; Holly."
"Right. You think George’ll be okay?"
"He’ll be fine."
"But he'll be third-wheeling, won't he?"
"Eh, he's got Flo."
Lucy laughed. It was a pretty laugh, and it suited her. "They’re ought to get together soon."
"Enough about them." Lockwood waved the subject away. "Why didn't you tell me that you had the disease earlier?"
"I..." Lucy paused. "I didn't want to ruin our relationship. We work well together, and I didn't want my feelings to get in the way of that."
"You should've told me," Lockwood said softly. "We could've gotten through it together. We’re a team, and I want us to have that trust and honesty."
Lucy nodded as they neared 35 Portland Row.
"Change into something warm, alright?" Lockwood said.
pairing: light florence bonnard x anthony lockwood
genre: fencing(?)ish!au and also maybe straying away from canon bc what iS canon at this point, fluff, platonic main relationship, eventual angst, pre-canon??? aka beFore the series takes place
words: 3.8k
tags: fluffy!!, young lockwood nd flo, fencing stuff, apologies for the french (literally lol), i wrote this like half a year ago i’M SORRY-
what to expect: “’Why else would I be here? Tea time?’”
a/n: so this was beta-read and edited by two lovely people! i appreciate their help so much, as they’ve made this story what it is now. thank you so much @piratekingimogen and @willowwisk for your help! is this canon-compliant? someone ask jonathan stroud. this will be my last fic for a while, unless i have a spontaneous bout (pun intended) of inspiration. thank you all for your support!
translation: en garde, prets, allez = on guard, ready, go (used to start a fencing bout) / en garde, prets, aimer = on guard, ready, love (used to start this story)
The train ride from London to Paris is a particularly long, arduous journey. There's not much to see; reading a book 50 times or twiddling your thumbs is perhaps the most productive thing one can do. However, though a subjective opinion, it's a great deal less dull when in the company of a pretty girl whose name you learn through one piece of black licorice.
Florence Bonnard. It was elegant and flowed off the tip of your tongue. She was pretty; her teeth shining white and her long, blonde hair practically another shade of gold, shimmering in the sunlight. Anthony Lockwood could only stare at her.
To Anthony, Paris was a dream of any fencer. It was hailed as the fencing capital of the world, home to countless famed swordsmen and agents. He could merely wish to be like them. He was sure he was on his way, however. He'd been invited to a DEPRAC-sponsored competition in France, and of course, he absolutely had to go. His supervisor, Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, forced him anyways.
He made the acquaintance of Florence Bonnard only a few minutes ago, when she huffed into the train compartment that was otherwise empty except for Anthony's doe-eyed presence. Looking upset, she plopped herself down diagonal from him. She didn't even acknowledge his existence.
"Hi?" he squeaked out. His voice was a little scratchy. He coughed, then repeated the word in a much more confident tone.
"Well? What are you?" This was the first he'd heard the girl speak.
She spared a glance at Anthony.
"I'm, uh..." He thought fast. She didn't
know him; no one on the train, as far as he knew, knew his name. He could reinvent himself, banish the name used so fondly by his parents and sister. He could be...
"I'm, uh... Lockwood. Just Lockwood. Yes. That's me."
"Lockwood... classy," she commented. She paused, in thought. "Though... I think I'll call you Locky."
"L-Locky?" Lockwood stuttered. This was not how she was supposed to react to his name.
"Locky. It practically rolls off the tongue, don't you think?" She smiled, slightly exposing her white teeth. It was a pretty sight. He could've stared at her for a second or an hour before he registered her answer.
Lockwood was caught off guard. "W-well, what's your name, then?"
She smiled a pearly white smile. "Wouldn't you like to find out," she said slyly.
A sweets trolley rolled down the aisle, pushed by a plump old woman. "Anything you'd like to buy?" She popped her head in the compartment.
The girl scanned the trolley, then made up her mind. She turned to Lockwood. "You'll have to buy me a liquorice to find out my name."
"I'll have a bag of liquorice, please," Lockwood immediately said to the lady, pulling out two pounds and exchanging it for a bag. He didn't know why he complied so easily - maybe he'd fallen under a trance for her.
He handed one to the girl, who looked momentarily startled before recomposing herself. "So, what's your name?" Lockwood asked.
"Florence Bonnard," she simply replied. It matched her, Lockwood thought. Prim and proper, it matched her perfect posture and neatly combed hair.
"You fence?"
"Why else would I be here? Tea time?"
"O-of course not, but you're just so pretty-"
Oh no. He'd let it slip.
Florence Bonnard's lips curled upward. "Thanks, Locky. I'll remember that on the piste."
He was suddenly scared to imagine Florence Bonnard on the piste, with her blonde hair tied up and her body in first position, sword ready to attack. With her confidence, double of his, how good could she be? Lockwood felt his stomach turn queasy. How good were the others on the train?
She poked Lockwood lightly. "Worried?" she teased. "En-garde," she mimicked a referee, "prets-" she made a face, "allez!" She pretended to poke Lockwood with her rapier, then laughed.
Lockwood couldn't help but laugh with her at her imitation.
"What's your agency?" Lockwood asked.
"That'll cost you a liquorice," she stated.
He handed her one.
"Sinclair & Saones. 'm an apprentice for 'em. You?"
"Nigel Sykes."
"Really?" she drawled. "You seem like the Rotwell type - well, then again, you weren't sitting with the lot in the first place."
"Rotwell and Fittes agents always win, don't they?"
"I'll give 'em a run for their money. How old are you?"
"Ten."
She looked up and down. "Alright then."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She smirked. "Nothing... When's your birthday, then?"
He told her.
"I'm older than you."
"So what? That doesn't mean you'll be better!"
Florence Bonnard smiled. "We'll see about that."
Nigel 'Gravedigger' Sykes, or just Sykes, was Lockwood's mentor. He was a bit scraggly, but not enough to make him incompetent with a sword. He was on the slightly mad side, yes, but was an extremely skilled swordsman. Lockwood was constantly amazed by his ability.
"You rely on remises too much. Practice on your footwork, you're doubting yourself too much.”
They'd been practicing for two hours - maybe more. Lockwood didn't even bother trying to count the bouts. His hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, his breaths hot in the mask. Lockwood's legs were sore and his arms hurt from all the attack, parry, and riposting he'd done.
The competition started in three days - Sykes had decided Lockwood needed to cram in as much practice as he could. On and off the piste, Lockwood could hear Sykes' voice in his head, telling him to Parry quarte or Eat your breakfast, it's free food! Food was accommodated at the hotel which sponsored DEPRAC for the competition. The rooming was nice as well, Lockwood being lucky enough to get a room to himself rather than most participants in the tournament who had to share a room.
When the competition finally rolled around, he'd won the first bout easily - almost too easily. Regardless, a win was a win, even against some Bunchurch agent with half a brain.
The real competition - or so he'd heard from rumours - was Quill Kipps of Fittes. He was apparently a prodigy fencing-god in his mid-teens, favoured by the majority of the crowd. He was tall and ginger, from what people had been telling him. Easy to spot in crowds. Lockwood was curious to see the famous Kipps in practice - rather, he was curious to see what any Fittes or Rotwell agent could bring to the table.
Lockwood had yet to see the mysterious Florence Bonnard do her bout. He was eager to do so after showering and slipping into the stands to watch the next bouts. After a win from Alexander Fawley, and another from Emily Schreiber, Quill Kipps was up. The teen was fast, and his every move was clearly calculated. It was everything Lockwood could aspire to be.
Florence Bonnard was fast as well, to Lockwood's surprise. She was extremely quick on her feet and could get a touch faster than the referee could blink after saying allez. It was impressive, being younger than a lot of contestants- and she wasn't even a Fittes or Rotwell agent.
Lockwood considered what he'd do if he was ever tasked with being her opponent, but only for a split second. It was too unrealistic he'd make it that far. But still, he had a vivid image of her lunging, ponytail swaying and rapier thrust as the tip of her blade touched his side. Now was not the time to daydream.
The second bout passed, 14-15. Lockwood had won in a landslide, attacking the split second his opponent hesitated.
After, as Lockwood chugged a bottle of water on the side, still sweaty and clad in his fencing gear, Florence Bonnard approached him. "Good bout, Locky," she said in her sly way. "Although, your footwork could be better." His gaze was stuck on her, even as she stalked off in true Florence fashion.
"Th-thanks?" It was already too late; Lockwood just watched her straw-colored hair swish away. She was one interesting girl. He sighed, staring at her back.
Lockwood's days consisted of eating, practicing, and sleeping. He would occasionally watch other agents practice, to pick up on faults and techniques they used. That's, at least, what Sykes had told him to do. Half the time Lockwood just drifted off, staring at a wall corner or, as a current example, a blonde ponytail. ...Blonde ponytail...? It was Florence Bonnard in the flesh, practicing. Of course, Lockwood just assumed this fact, judging by the fencer's posture and hair. It was unmistakably her.
Lockwood hadn't seen her much, either because their schedules didn't match up or she barely practiced. She was very good, sharp on her feet and maneuvering like she was on ice. It was scary the way she got a touch so fast. He assumed she'd practiced a great deal privately; at least, that's how he comforted himself at the sight of her skillful rapier patterns.
Lockwood's eyes jumped to a tall ginger-haired fencer - no doubt Quill Kipps, practicing a couple metres away. He, too, was skilled. Close to Florence's level, but not quite. This could be the year someone from a small agency won - though, Lockwood couldn't keep his hopes up. Being the crowd favourite, who was to say he didn't have a couple tricks up his sleeve?
Bouts three and four passed, and just somehow, Lockwood had survived into the quarterfinals. The numbers were dwindling down; Florence Bonnard, not much to his surprise, was in strong.
The quarterfinals passed, but now that he'd won, more pressure had been draped on him. Practices stretched late into the night, leaving his muscles incredibly sore and eyelids drooping on their own accord. He almost forgot to shower one day, planning to sleep in his fencing gear. Sykes had been drilling into him much more. The lineup for the semifinals was posted; Lockwood would be fencing against Quill Kipps.
To say he was nervous was an understatement. He sweated at the thought of fencing the teen. No matter how much he analyzed Kipps' fencing, he never felt ready. Sure, he wasn't as good at Florence, but she was substantially better than Lockwood - as was Kipps. The day of the bout, Lockwood almost froze before walking in, trying not to look at the crowd. It was bigger than any he had fenced for before. He sucked in two deep breaths then pulled the mask over his face. Sykes patted him, whispered quick advice in his ear. Lockwood wasn't paying attention, more focused on the judges, rhe referee, and the feeling of his feet on the ground. He and Kipps did the salute, like any other bout.
The referee started to speak, also like any other bout. The words were muffled in Lockwood's jumbled mind. His thoughts were racing at 100 kilometers per second, tumbling around each other, unlike any other bout - but he didn't need to hear the words regardless. He knew what they were.
"En-garde."
Lockwood stared at Kipps.
"Prets."
He took a deep breath, readying himself.
"Allez!"
The bout began.
Immediately, swords clinked and clashed against each other as the agents attempted to protect themselves. Lockwood's mind went pure blank, and his body went into autopilot.
1-0. Sure, a rough start, but he could catch up.
1-1. Tied, that was okay.
2-3. Lockwood was in the lead-
5-7. Halfway there!
11-10. No, losing wasn't an option-
13-14. His sword was a blur in front of him, basically acting of its own accord. Parry, riposte, attack-! It was all too quick. Kipps had lost his balance, and Lockwood took the opportunity. He lunged, slashed with his blade just to earn a point. His blade felt something soft - he got a touch! - but then Lockwood actually looked at the tip of his blade.
Quill Kipps was stunned entirely. He'd fallen on the piste and stared up at the younger agent. The moment was silent; practically in slow motion. The crowd held their breath in disbelief.
Lockwood had struck Quill Kipps with his rapier on the bum. The judges were in shock. It was a touch, though, right? It... counted? The referee gestured, and Lockwood pulled his raper away.
The bout ended.
Lockwood won. Lockwood won, against the star of Fittes agency. Quill Kipps, meanwhile, fumed. His cheeks were redder than his hair, which was matted with sweat.
"I'll beat you next time, Anthony Lockwood..." he murmured.
The crowd was having its fun; booing in disappointment or cheering in amusement, Lockwood couldn't tell. He convinced himself it was the latter. He didn't mean to stab Kipps in the bum. It just happened. It's not like anyone ever goes into a bout thinking, "Oh, yeah, I'm going to riposte a clean one up his bum."
Sykes was impressed, though he seemed more pleased by the last touch Lockwood earned.
"You'll be going up against that Bonnard girl, so you better clean up that footwork of yours. Her bladework is quite fine, too, I'd say. Sharpen yourself up, Anthony - no pun intended."
Practice, as always, lasted to the evening - Lockwood had just gotten out of the locker room, hair wet from his shower when he heard a familiar rasping tone.
"Locky~" Florence Bonnard sing-songed, conveniently leaning on a pillar outside.
He approached her.
"Finals are tomorrow," she said, smiling. Her teeth glinted - it was charming. Her eyes shimmered a bright blue - when had he missed this feature of hers? She was breathtaking. He didn't react, dumbly nodding as he stared at her.
"Oh, and by the way? Stop staring at me sometimes, it's creepy, Locky. I know you like me, but you're too... you." She tapped his nose, ignited a blush across Lockwood's cheeks.
"Cute," she commented. "See you on the piste." She walked away in her typical manner.
Florence Bonnard beat him the next day, 13-15. It was completely fair. Her attacks were clean and precise, and she hesitated not a second. It was a blur in Lockwood's head; one second her blade was against his torso; the next, her blade had touched him 14 other times and the referee proclaimed her the winner. He wasn't disappointed, however - she, from a small agency, had won, not a Fittes or a Rotwell agent. He decided it was well-earned on her part, completely ignoring the way she had so softly put him down the day previous. She was just so attractive.
She gave him a toothy smile after the bout and patted his shoulder. "Don't be too upset, Locky." It was safe to say he wasn't.
2 years later.
It was terrible. It was one of those moments in your life where you can recount every detail of where you were and what you were doing exactly when it happened; heck, you could even recite the exact seconds.
Lockwood was reading the morning newspaper, sipping his pulp orange juice (the joys of being a blue whale!) when he read the news.
Both Sinclair and Saones (of the Sinclair & Saones agency) had died on a case, with poor Florence Bonnard being the only survivor. Florence Bonnard - the name reminded Lockwood of so much; mainly, his puppy crush on her when he was younger. He failed to see the appeal now, but platonically, she was wonderful, despite how much she demanded liquorice.
He visited her on the shorelines of the River Thames; it was mainly where she resided, to the most of Lockwood's knowledge. He slipped a bag of liquorice hidden under his coat for her.
Her appearance was slightly disheveled and a straw hat covered the half of her face.
"Locky!" she croaked, but her voice lacked its usual mirth. In fact, it was incredibly fragile; to put an exclamation mark after it would never properly do it justice. She looked cold, shivering in what appeared to be her agent clothing. Her rapier was still attached to her side.
"You're shaking." Lockwood sat beside her.
"A-am I, Locky?" she hiccupped. She took a deep, shaky breath, then laughed, an echo of bitterness and a sore throat.
"I heard what happened," he said softly. "How?"
"How else, Locky?" she said, less of a question than a horrible revelation. Her voice was terribly sad, full of pain and memories. "It was ghost-touch. I protected myself with an iron cross 'til dawn against the Limbless." Her fists clenched in her skirt. A tear dropped down her cheek - which Lockwood noticed to have fresh, small scars and what looked like to be traces of tears on her slightly muddied face. It was the exact opposite from the pristine, composed Florence he'd known for so long.
"I'm sorry."
"You needn't be."
"Did you get hurt anywhere?"
She shrugged, wincing as she touched her cheek.
"I could-"
"Don't. It'll heal on its own." He wanted to tell her to clean it as well, but he could tell she'd turn down the advice in the same manner.
"Well," Lockwood said, "what are you doing next?"
Her grip tightened on the fabric of her skirt. "I don't know."
"You could train with me," Lockwood offered gently. "I don't have an agency or anything, but-"
"I-I think I'll try that. Thank you, Lockwood."
"Also, I brought these." He handed her the bag of liquorice.
A slight smile appeared from under her hat.
Her swordsmanship was still intact. Lockwood could for sure confirm this after she'd disarmed him 5 times. She'd lost her will, though. She looked pained picking up a rapier and could barely glance at salt bombs. Lockwood didn't ask. It seemed too personal. Over the course of 3 months, nothing had changed. If anything, it seemed to be harder and harder for her to fight properly.
"Locky... I don't think I can do this."
"Do what?" Lockwood knew perfectly well what she was referring to. "You're amazing with your rapier, still."
"This whole... 'agent' thing. I-I don't think I can go back." She was incredibly vulnerable with no snarky remarks or sarcasm in her voice. It hurt him to see her like this. He'd once felt similar, in his pain-filled rage when Jessica died. He couldn't look at ghosts, couldn't bear to think of them. Unlike Florence, however, he'd had rage to direct toward ghosts; she just felt pain.
Lockwood nodded. "You're sure?"
"It's been 3 months. Every time- every time I can still see their bodies next to me. Hear the screams, see the Limbless. I can't do it."
He hesitated, then put a hand on her shoulder. "I understand. But- what will you do?"
"I'll find something, I'm sure."
"I'm always here, Florence. I've been thinking about starting an agency, so if you need anything..."
Florence Bonnard smiled her classic grin. She patted his hair - he took so long gelling it in the morning.... Her blue eyes shone like the sea. "Don't worry yourself, Locky. I've got this."
For months, Florence wandered from thing to thing in search of replacement for being an agent. She hadn't found much. With the Problem raging, agents were in the highest demand, and it was hard to ignore all of the flyers and inquiries looking for one. Lockwood had been concerned she'd find nothing, constantly reminding her of his offer. One thing was clear, though: she was never becoming an agent again. She didn't need to say the words, but it was mutually understood even as Lockwood asked her to train with him.
Slowly, she gravitated toward relic collecting. It exercised her Talent, yet comforted her. She could be free from expectations, and not have to be perfect or clean; she could collect the relics on the River Thames and sell them. It would sustain her and calm her. Most importantly, it was an environment she was comfortable in.
As time went on, her straw hat became faded of color and gained splotches of mud on them. She traded her agent fit for a padded jacket and Wellington boots. It suit the job. For once, maybe she was happy.
"So, you're sure you don't want to become an agent?"
"Locky, the only reason I came was because you said you had liquorice. I'm perfectly happy as a relic woman." She smoothed down her padded jacket and adjusted her signature straw hat.
"I have my license now. I'm recruiting-"
"I'm happy where I am, thank you very much." She took a sip of tea and plopped a liquorice in her mouth.
Lockwood sighed. Florence Bonnard, as always, was impenetrably stubborn. she'd started going by Flo Bones, which was catchy, and fit her relic woman persona. Lockwood respected this. He could see how happy it made her, though not particularly sanitary. He recalled the day she'd first told him of her new occupation. They'd been sitting on the banks of the River Thames, near where Lockwood had comforted her the morning after tragedy struck her.
"So... you're becoming a Relicwoman? Where will you get the sources?"
"The river has enough," she gestured to the muddy shore of the river. "My Sight's been getting stronger."
"Be careful, Flor-"
"Oh, and Locky, I've started going by Flo Bones - it's quite fitting, don't you think? I like it. It's catchy." She'd lifted her hat, just enough to wink at Lockwood before pulling it down again.
"Well, my offer will always stand, Flo. You're a spectacular agent - you know my address. 35 Portland Row, hasn't changed."
"You haven't an agency to work for, Locky, have you?" Flo mused bluntly.
"Working on the license. I plan to open my own agency, agent run. What d'you reckon I call it? I was thinking 'Lockwood and Company.'"
Flo gave a grunt of approval. "'Lockwood and Co.' It's decent."
"Thanks, Flo."
She'd nodded. "Now go. I can't be seen hanging about the lots of the upper class. See you, Locky."
He pushed the bag of liquorices to her, the memory making him smile sadly. "It's all yours."
Lockwood couldn't find any agents willing to work for him. Flo, being one of his main friends, was painfully aware of this fact, subject to his forever hanging offer of employment.
"Oh, cheer up. Don't be lonely. You'll find someone. Lockwood & Co.! It'll be known through all of England." She softened for a second. "Anyway, I have an auction to attend." She stood up, bits of dirt falling from her jacket. "Bye, Locky!" He reached out to her then restrained himself - but she'd already exited 35 Portland Row, shutting the door behind her.
"Bye, Flo." He stared at the closed door, at his slightly outstretched hand. He could only hope she was right, and he'd find someone soon.
